We were having coffee with one of Juan’s university friends, Alejandro, and his wife, Cristina.

They took us to a little castle near Juan’s mom’s place. The kind of place you don’t really expect to find there. Quaint, tucked away, owned by a family for years, with a Swiss owner and a little B&B.

You could come in just for coffee.

Which, of course, we did.

Later, we ended up in St. Helena on a Friday night.

Cristina had told us about the empanadas.

She was not exaggerating.

The town was full. Music, food, people everywhere. Lines at the vendors. The kind of Friday night where everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Just before we got out of the car, Cristina said something to Alejandro.

They needed to bring some empanadas home for his dad.

“How many?”

I don’t remember exactly.

But I remember the line.

It had to be thirty metres long.

One woman had been making empanadas for years. Other people were helping her. Orders came in for 150, 50, 25, 30.

On a normal Friday, they could make around a thousand.

And apparently, everyone knew they were worth waiting for.

They came with aji.

And chorizo.

And then I learned about lime.

A squeeze.

A bite.

Another squeeze.

Another bite.

Who knew?

Obviously, they did.

Later that night, around eleven, Cristina remembered her parents.

So we went to meet them.

We arrived with empanadas, bread and pan de yuca.

Her mom made coffee.

We ate. Nibbled. Talked. Told stories.

Nobody seemed to be keeping track of the time.

Nobody seemed to wonder whether we were supposed to leave.

It was completely normal.

Completely welcoming.

There was room for us.

They didn’t make a big thing of it.

They just made room.

And they were people I wanted to spend more time with.

So we did.