Staying in the centre means I can walk from place to place. But, on Sunday especially, it means I'm walking through a ghost town. The streets are deserted, every door and window shuttered and shut. Even the poor have deserted the centre.

Signs on ancient stone walls ask rather politely that they be not graffiti'd, as they are part of the country's heritage. It's an optimistic request from authorities that not so long ago were herding up political opponents and throwing them, still alive, out of helicopters. However, it works. The graffiti is limited to modern buildings.

The street that leads me back to Boca was the site in 1806 of a momentous popular uprising that saw off British forces. (Yes, we tried to invade here too). As the road threaded between squeezed-up wooden houses, locals poured oil over the soldiers from on high. Today, the windows are closed, the road widened and the welcome for foreigners warm rather than boiling.

I bought coffee and read the Sunday papers. Perfect way to try and learn the language and try to understand more of the country. Not that anybody at that time could make head or tail of what was happening financially or politically, but at least I was trying. Argentina publishes as many papers as any country in South America, the best by far being Pagina/12 which spearheaded opposition to the military junta and to this day carries daily remembrances of the 'disappeared', on the anniversary of the day they were taken away by the dictatorship. It's compelling, morbid, evocative. Lest we ever forget.

(In Buenos Aires I was also reading the English-language Herald which hardly helped me to blend seamlessly into the fabric of local life, even though so many locals read it - it was another bastion of free-speech when governments clamped down on the press).

In the cafe a couple of the tables were English-speaking. I'd landed in Touristland. Round the corner was the San Telmo market. Now I live in the middle of Portobello Market, so naturally I get defensive about how ours is the best street market in the world.

Similarities: stall-holders are the same the world over, sitting bored on a stool behind racks of nonsense reading a paper or smoking a cigarette, either forcefully ignoring the potential customer or scaring them off through overeagerness. Some of the tat on sale is the same, too. Young Japanese couples film everything. Italians walk slowly in the middle of the lane causing hold-ups. A man walks through the crowd selling cheap cigarettes. Pricier antiques attract ritzier clientele to side-street boutiques.

Differences: I've never seen a tango demonstration on Portobello, nor even -- thankfully -- the local equivalent, which would be a gaggle of bearded Morris Dancers - and their male partners. Off the main street I wandered into an 18th century courtyard with balconied stalls set in creaking recesses in the walls. These would have been houses or shops for 200 years. Portobello, by contrast, is a few decades old. Old World? New World? Pah!

Beyond the market and past the City Museum (shut on Sundays) I finally reach La Bombonera, home of Boca Juniors. Yesterday's homenaje to Maradona was a sign of how important the past is to Argentine football supporters. As for the present - well, football's pretty much the only thing some people have going for them.

Two scallywags dart about the street outside the low row of ticket windows. They have the irrepressible cheekiness of young boys everywhere and perma-grins when confronting this Alien From Overseas. Hours before kick-off a small group of men -- all men -- stand in a loose knot waiting to buy tickets.

An American tourist button-holes me thinking I'm an approachable local. Half right. He's fallen in love with the game on TV and is ready for his first ever live match. I buy a ticket for myself, and then show Herb, or Hank, or Hal how to buy his (he speaks no Spanish). Somehow we manage this piece of business without it becoming embarrassing that I don't want to watch the game with him, let alone spend too long chatting. Maybe he's the same. I don't want or need the company, least of all that of a football ingenue, thank you very much.

Instead I walk away, and walk, and walk, and walk. It's good for the weary biking body. Across town from working-class Boca to posh Recoleta, all swanky apartments and chi-chi boutiques and just-so face lifts. Across the great divide in less than an hour. Quite a slog but as always a long city walk is the ideal way to take the temperature of a place and see how the various pieces of the jigsaw fit together.

Buenos Aires itself is promenading, which makes people-watching fun.

Recoleta is best known for one of the Continent's most lavish cemeteries -- you have to be rich and 'someone' to get in here. Evita certainly fits the bill, though she didn't arrive for many years after her death. Her body was spirited away by political enemies who feared a cult would grow up around her. Perhaps they gave up hiding the body when they realised it was a losing battle, I don't know. I picture these grumpy conspirators hearing that Andrew Lloyd bloody Webber song on the radio and throwing their hands up in the air: "We're never going to win, now!"

Eva Peron lies in her family's mausoleum, so if you're heading off to have a look you need to search for 'Duarte'. And it's hard to find, amongst row upon row of Hellenic temples, minimalist towers, steel and glass, rotting door frames, dead flowers: lots of dead people. You have to be rich to get in, but once you're there it's a toss-up how long your descendants can be bothered to look after things. A couple of ancient handymen busy themselves with repairs to one ornate crypt. A whole row is cordoned off following what looks like subsidence. Uncomfortable for the longterm residents, I guess.

The cemetery is a landmark and high on the list of tourist destinations without feeling overrun. Even Evita's final resting place is unsullied in a way that Jim Morrison must dream of. Her husband, meanwhile, lies in Chacarita, a second celebrity cemetery, where tango king Carlos Gardel gets top billing (and a kitsch statue).

Maradona yesterday, Evita today. In this country, there's no getting away from the icons.

***

Back to the stadium: Boca Juniors versus Estudiantes. The last time I found myself laughing to myself like this at a football match was about 1987, when I saw Maradona playing in a pre-season friendly in Naples. He handballed it. Being English, I noticed, but as I was surrounded by adoring Napoli fans then I found it hard to kick up a fuss.

And why am I laughing to myself today? Because of what the visiting side are wearing - not skirts, not Margaret Thatcher masks or Kiss Me Quick hats. I'm laughing because they're wearing striped shirts and black panties.

Still confused? I am without question the only person in Boca - and probably on the planet, who spends this afternoon singing a Frank Sidebottom song to myself. I can happily report that the seminal 'Estudiantes (Striped Shirts / Black Panties)' from the 'World Cup '90 Record' is entirely accurate: Estudiantes really do wear striped shirts and black panties!

And yes, that was enough to make me laugh.

Estudiantes take the lead -- they've brought a couple of thousand fans with them up the coast from Mar del Plata, one of a handful of sides that don't come from Buenos Aires itself -- but Boca wake up after a sluggish start to win 4-2. Riquelme scores twice, wearing the No.10 shirt for Boca that once belonged to Maradona. He is the hero of the terraces - in that shirt, he has to be - and the massed choir sings to him for most of the game. (As opposed to, say, actually watching the game). Riquelme isn't getting into the national side; instead, a player from River is. The old rivalry. More songs.

It's a good game but the difference with Brazilian club football is instantly noticeable. There's less freedom and no improvisation. These are hard men following team orders. The crowd, though, are amazing. In full voice, with tattooed ringmasters controlling the ebb and flow of song, they continue to celebrate Maradoo while paying scant attention to the game and absolutely none to the oppoaition. It's a stinging insult: Estudiantes are so unworthy as to be off the radar, even though they're standing at the other end of the stadium.

And... I'm waffling. Bear in mind these words are here for my memories. If you aren't me (check to see the name tag sewn in to the collar of your shirt) and you've got this far, Congratulations. I'll hurry through the rest of my rest in Buenos Aires:

* another night in the hostel, hiding from the kids
* next day: a task! Buying insurance for the bike (less than useless getting it in Brazil, I was told)...
* ... which involved chatting up a couple of motorbike couriers...
* ... getting details of their insurance broker, in an office just across the Avenida del Liberdador (via a hairy pedestrian crossing)...
* ... taking said broker completely by surprise with my insurance request...
* ... and waiting 24 hours for confirmation that someone would take me, risky as I am**...
* ... meaning that, by Tuesday lunchtime I'm pretty much ready to move on.

(**I have no doubt that I would have got absolutely nowhere had I ever needed to claim on the insurance. If you're thinking of trying a trip like this, talk to someone before you go.)