After 13 years of travelling the world, there is one question I still get asked more than any other: “Where are you from?”. My answer depends on the day. If it’s a short conversation, I simply say Argentina. But if I’m in a chatty mood, I say I’m from Quilmes, a city just south of Buenos Aires.
The further I’ve travelled, the more I’ve realised how much that place shaped me. It’s hard to explain how deeply Argentinians are connected to where they come from, but I’ll give it a try.
No matter how far I go, Quilmes always comes with me. It’s in my body, my language, my way of seeing the world and, of course, my heart. Travelling taught me many things, but perhaps the most important one was this: the more of the world I discovered, the more certain I became of where I’m from.
The first memory that comes to mind is El Club: Quilmes Atlético Club. It’s where I experienced my biggest dreams and my biggest frustrations. Our local football team, known as El Cervecero, is forever linked to my grandfather, Eduardo. We watched the team lose more matches than I can count, and somehow that’s become one of my favourite memories. Back then I hated every defeat; today I smile when I think about them.
Going to the stadium was never really about the result. It was about sitting next to my grandpa, sharing something we both loved. Looking back, I realise football was only ever the excuse. Those afternoons together are what I miss the most.
Match day has its own energy. You can feel it in the air from the moment you wake up. Everything revolves around kick-off. Someone goes out to buy fresh bread and facturas, someone else picks up the charcoal. The barbecue is lit early, and before long the smell of choripán drifts through the streets. Music pours from open windows – cumbia, Pibes Chorros, La Champions Liga, Néstor en Bloque – while somewhere a nostalgic neighbour is probably still playing old favourites Los Charros or Amar Azul.
Then comes the ritual of getting dressed. A cap. A flag tied around your shoulders. Your lucky jersey. The shirt is never optional. Have you ever met an Argentine who’s embarrassed to walk around wearing their team’s colours? Neither have I. Wearing a football jersey feels almost sacred, like putting on a magical cloak. Jerseys may fade, but passion never does.
As kick-off approaches, anxiety slowly replaces hunger. There is one last bite of choripán, one last sip of fernet and then… nothing. Your stomach locks. During the match, not even air seems to get in. 90 minutes later, depending on the result, the city either explodes in celebration or quietly mourns together.
As I was writing this, Argentina was preparing for yet another World Cup final, and the atmosphere in Quilmes was unlike anything else. An occasion like this feels like a celebration long before the match even begins. Sky-blue and white flags hang from balconies, strangers debate the starting line-up at the bakery, children kick footballs in every square, and every conversation somehow finds its way back to football.
But what strikes me most isn’t the excitement – it’s the gratitude.
Ever since lifting the World Cup in 2022, something has changed in the way Argentinians experience these moments. The pressure of having to win has given way to the joy of simply being here again. There is a collective feeling of joy, relief and gratitude. For many of us, the team had already given us more than we ever dreamed of.
If you ask an Argentine how they feel about this generation of players, you’ll probably hear the same thing: “Muchachos, gracias” – thank you, boys.
We know they’ll give absolutely everything for that shirt. Whether they win or lose, we know they’ll leave every last drop of sweat on the pitch. That creates something difficult to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it: unity, empathy and a powerful feeling of belonging.
Moments like this remind me that, in Quilmes, football has never been just a game. It’s a language, a ritual – one of the purest ways we know to love.
Sport has always been a huge part of life in Buenos Aires, and it became a huge part of mine too. I grew up playing field hockey, and almost all of my closest friends came from the club. We practically grew up there. Every Saturday followed the same routine: my parents would drop me off early in the morning with just a few pesos in my pocket, and I wouldn’t come home until late at night. We spent entire days playing, laughing, eating together and simply being kids.
The club was our safe place. Looking back, I realise how much it shaped the person I became. It taught me teamwork, loyalty, resilience and friendship – lessons that have stayed with me long after I left Quilmes.
The city is also famous for its historic brewery. Even if you’re not a beer lover, the Quilmes Brewery and the Parque Cervecero are part of the city’s identity. Families gather there to drink mate, children kick footballs across the grass, runners weave through the trees and friends meet for afternoons that somehow always stretch into the evening.
People often ask me what there is to do in Quilmes. I think they’re asking the wrong question: the real question is, “How do you experience Quilmes?”
Visitors rarely stay visitors for long. We Argentinians have a way of making people feel at home almost instantly. Don’t be surprised if someone starts chatting to you while you’re waiting for a coffwee, offers you a mate in the park or invites you to an asado to experience our unique combination of a social event and the culinary tradition of grilling. Hospitality isn’t something we put on for tourists – it’s simply who we are.
And if football is being played in a park or a public square, don’t just watch: join in. There’s a good chance someone will ask if you’d like to play anyway. All you need is a pair of trainers and a willingness to break a sweat. The same goes for hockey. Walk into a local club, introduce yourself and you’ll almost certainly be welcomed with open arms. Around here, sport isn’t something we keep to ourselves – it’s something we love sharing.
I’m incredibly proud of being from the southern hemisphere. I like to think there’s something about the people there. We’re humble, grounded and always ready to make room for one more at the table. Even when there isn’t much to share, people somehow find a way to share it anyway.
So if you ever come to Quilmes, come hungry. Come ready to drink mate. Come ready to sing. Come ready to wear a football shirt without feeling self-conscious. Come ready to celebrate a goal with people you’ve only just met. And don’t be surprised if you leave with a few new friends.
If you ask me why Quilmes is worth visiting, I won’t start with the brewery or the football stadium. I’ll tell you to come because of its people. After all these years of travelling, that’s what I’ve come to understand – home isn’t just a place you come from; sometimes it’s the place that never stops travelling with you.
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- El Cervecero: Nickname of Quilmes Atlético Club.
- Facturas: Traditional Argentine pastries, often enjoyed with coffee or mate.
- Mate: Argentina’s traditional herbal infusion.
- Choripán: A grilled chorizo sausage served in crusty bread, a match-day classic.
- Parque Cervecero: The city’s iconic beer garden and public park.
- Los quilmeños: People from Quilmes.
