The contrast was stark. We crossed the border and changed buses. Instead of a truck converted into a bus, with rain leaking through the roof, we had a decent Marcopolo with AC. Instead of a dirt road, there was pavement.
We arrived in Asunción late at night and grabbed a hotel not too far from the bus station. The woman at the front desk treated us like crap. So rude. We were exhausted and honestly didn’t care much, but man, I still remember that lady’s butt face. But then we handed over our burgundy passports.
Her face changed; from what seemed like barely contained rage to instant guilt. “I’m so, so, so sorry, I thought you were Argentinean. I didn’t know.” She showed us the rooms and even had someone help us with our bags.
Seems like the War of the Triple Alliance is still a source of hurt.
We didn’t stay long in Asunción; we took the bus to Iguazú the next morning. The little we saw, we liked. It seemed to be moving in a better direction than La Paz, Bolivia. And while still a bit underdeveloped, it felt like a nice, welcoming city. Unless, of course, you happened to be Argentinean.