Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires

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On learning to be the tango boy, when you are really a girl — Part 2: Energy

March 14, 2011 in Connection coaching, Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, The journey to 'be the boy' | 12 comments

Photograph courtesy of Alan Marks, UK

Absolutely the most intriguing part of learning to be the tango boy has been finding out how it feels to hold a woman in my arms for three minutes. Not just one woman, but many women. Every one of them unique in physique, unique in technique, and most of all, unique in energy.

I’ve written quite a bit about energy in the past, for example here, and indeed one of my 11 Sallycat’s Rules for Happy Tango in Buenos Aires (in my book Happy Tango) is Rule 4: Exude magnetic energy.

Perhaps it’s part of living a path of the heart, or a result of listening to my soul, or just a consequence of getting older, but with every day that I am alive I become more aware of the energy that I send out into the world and of the energy of every other person I come into contact with; sometimes I think I can even see it (sometimes faded and empty, and sometimes pulsing with life). Lately I’ve begun painting portraits and I feel that the result on the page is a pure combination of my energy and the energy of the subject combining and being revealed by my paint stokes over a period of thirty minutes or however long I allow for the paint to speak. I think it is the same for every conversation we have, every act of love we make, every tango we dance; perhaps it’s a combination of different energies to make a moment, and nothing else at all.

In 2011, after four and a half years of tango, I dance purely for the bliss, or whatever you want to call it. I long to rediscover it with men I know already, and I seek it with strangers who will create it with me for the first time. It leaves me dizzy. It leaves me with questions. It leaves music singing in my ears. It leaves my heart racing. It leaves me out of breath. It leaves me sitting out the next tanda so as to savour the rush and welcome the cool. It leaves me wanting the next opportunity to feel it all over again. It leaves a scar of desire and mystery on my soul, that can only be soothed by more of the same. And it leaves my own energy more complex, more vibrant, more magical; I think that the dancers who are meant for me find me, in part, by sensing that my energy is a match for theirs. And they are able to, when I choose to reveal and release who I really am, because, of course, it is always within my power to hide.

When I dance the tango boy (and I say ‘dance’ in the softest of ways, because I really mean when I am exploring what I can do in a practica or when I am working with a British woman to help her to focus a more confident energy into her embrace — it will probably take me years to actually ‘dance’ the boy), I have been stunned to find out very quickly who I have in my arms, sometimes even as she walks towards me: grounded and calm or nervous and flighty; present or scattered; staying with me or backing off; open (risking vulnerability) or defensive (sometimes decorated with chatter or laughter or apologies…). I have been amazed by how different each woman feels in the embrace and sometimes, within just a few seconds I feel that I know more about her than perhaps she even knows herself. Is that how men feel when they hold me? I hope so.

Some tango dancers say that for them, the music is everything, that it resonates with their every cell and creates the dance; I think that when both partners match each other in their depth of connection to a particular piece of tango music, then the possible level of connection with each other deepens too, but only when the personal energy of each partner allows it to be so.

Others seek perfection in their technique, because they believe it enables more fluent interpretation of the music they love and a physical ease that allows for deeper connection with their partner; I think that given a certain necessary level of technique, it is finding, listening to and understanding the body of their partner that can result in the richest possible tango connections; while ‘perfect technique’ (by whatever definition, as there will be many differences of opinion!) on both sides may help, it is no guarantee of a great connection. And what an audience sees on the outside may bear little resemblance to what is felt on the inside by the two dancers. Great technique can make smooth and heavenly tango, I have no doubt of it, but if either partner blocks (consciously or subconsciously) the energy flowing towards connection, then I fear the dance may have the look of a heart but will really only be the shell of one.

Saturday night, at Los Consagrados I had mixed tango experiences, it wasn’t my happiest evening on the dance floor. Why? My body was tired after dancing four days out of six. A few of my favourite dancers were missing and another left early, and though he danced one tanda with me, I felt his energy unusually distracted (as I’ve seen him at four milongas this week, perhaps he was tired too); I allowed myself to get excited by chat with a girlfriend I haven’t seen for a while and made a couple of less-brilliant partner choices because I lost my focus to enthusiasm: one man drove me with his arms and another was more interested in trying to hook my leg around his than anything else (I didn’t like his energy and so stiffened my muscles so as not to obey, which either made him think I couldn’t do what he wanted or know that I didn’t want to… at least he didn’t hiss Hook in my ear, but his energy shouted it, just the same). When I entered the milonga my own energy was sky high, up for it, excited, looking forward to moments of bliss, but when they didn’t come, it dipped fast because I was tired, and I realised the error of my ways; I’d forgotten to stick to my own damn rules.

In Happy Tango I share my own 11 Rules for Happy Tango in Buenos Aires. Here are three of them. Rule 1: Only accept or invite a person you have observed dancing (this rule I do break often, because as I say above, you can’t always tell, but you can tell things like ‘driving arms’ or ‘bouncing’ or total lack of care, and so it can pay to be vigilant and make good judgements rather than totally random choices). Rule 4: Exude magnetic energy. Rule 7: Leave your expectations behind. These are the three that slipped my mind on Saturday.

These days I spring back fast from tango disappointments. A thirty minute wait, in the sudden and unexpected chill of Buenos Aires autumn, for a bus that never came, left me alert. I sheltered in the safety of the doorway of Centro Region Leonesa. I heard English on the lips of people discussing which way to turn out onto the street. I couldn’t help but speak to them, Just walk left to the corner and taxis will be heading into town. And the man replied, We’re going to La Nacional, why don’t you come with us? I declined the milonga, but shared the taxi…  I thought I’d get out and take a bus further on. A few streets later we discovered (when I gave a few personal details in answer to his question about what I was doing in Buenos Aires) that the guy reads this blog. He said a lovely thing about it; I was quite moved that he seemed delighted to meet me. We shook hands with big smiles. They went on their way to dance, and I celebrated his comments by treating myself to the rest of the taxi trip, chatted with the driver all the way home on the subject of Argentine men and their love of women, went to sleep thinking of the generous-hearted energy in Eugene that made him offer me a ride, and the open-hearted energy in me that allowed me to accept, and the joyful moment of recognition that followed.

As it is in tango, it is in life. Confidence. Open hearts. Generous energy that reaches out. Bliss always a possibility. If I want it.

OK, that said then, I’m ready for more; day off yesterday to refresh my enthusiastic zing. Today, La Nacional, I am there.

Meanwhile, my question for you is this, How much attention do you pay to your partner’s energy when you meet them on the dance floor, and how does their energy affect the way you dance? In the interests of my ongoing fascination with connection in the social-tango embrace, do open your tango heart and share.

Interested in discovering more joy?

On 1.1.11 I founded the Happy Hearts Quest on Facebook. With daily inspirations and weekly practical tasks, the Happy Hearts Quest (HHQ) is a Quest for Joy, and you are welcome to join in. You don’t have to be a member of Facebook to access the HHQ; you can find the page at facebook.com/happyheartsquest and you can find the Task Notes (Tasks 1 to 8 have been published so far) by clicking the Notes label either on the left of the page or at the top of the page, according to the way the page is presented to you by Facebook.

You can read how the HHQ came to be, on this blog, here. 72 hearts have joined so far. Go on. Encourage your he(art). Take part!

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On learning to be the tango boy, when you are really a girl — Part 1

February 2, 2011 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Sallycat in the UK, The journey to 'be the boy' | 20 comments

I never thought I’d want to learn to be a tango boy. I mean, why (in heaven’s name) would I when I can get bliss, and feel like the most desirable woman on the planet whenever I want, in the arms of men?

But that was before I got a bee in my bonnet about passing on (to my fellow Brits who want to feel deeper connections in their tango abrazos) what I’ve learned from the milongueros I love the most, on the subject of tango heaven. I can never quite graduate to be a man, so I can never feel what a milonguero feels as he embraces a woman, but perhaps by putting myself in their steps I can glimpse a few clues to their mastery. At least, that’s my enthusiastic-Sallycat/Barbie theory.

The practice has been one month (so far) of two, hour-long, private-lessons each week with my own master-teacher, Ariel Yanovsky. He originally taught me how to be a woman in tango, clean and classy, salon-style. Then, the milongueros got their hands on me, and took the pivot out and put the could-be-termed-bad-habits-by-the-Villa-Urquiza-buffs in (‘cos the dance floors are packed in BsAs, the steps are short-ish, and the hip-wiggles feel gorgeous to both them and to me). Now, having said Extend, slide, arrive to my female-tango-dancer a zillion times, Ariel is teaching me to do something else entirely in order to ‘be the boy’.

I gave him a bit of a challenge. One month, because we’ll be in different countries for a long time after that. Teach me enough so that I can spend the months ahead practising my boy-technique and building my boy dance skills and dance-floor-navigation skills. Shall I do three classes a week? I asked. And he said, No, and explained that we’d be covering a lot of ground fast, and I’d be better to spend some time practising with a friend to allow my body to absorb and remember what I was learning in the lessons. One day you’ll ‘get’ things and the next day you’ll forget them, then one day the ‘penny will drop’ (yep, he knows that phrase in English) and your body will finally understand… might be soon but more likely it’ll be a while ahead. I knew exactly what he meant. I’m already a tango dancer, and I understand something of my process of learning to dance, where body tends to lag behind mind. I’m a hell of a lot more relaxed than I was during month one the first time round; I don’t freak out when I can’t ‘get something’ I’m being taught, I know it’s a process, just like any other learned skill or new behaviour. Plus, this time it’s more important to me to enjoy myself than anything else. “Dancing tango” and “learning new stuff” are on my Joy List, after all.

Tango mujer (foto by Helen Coyle)

Tango boy (foto by Ariel Yanovsky)

I am slightly shocked to find out how distant ‘learning to be the tango boy’ feels from ‘learning to be the tango woman’. It just doesn’t seem like the same dance at all… Thinking versus voiding the mind. The need for decisive action (even if it is a pause) versus the choice to surrender. Calculation versus invited response. I am shocked, but I rather like it. But I think my reaction is more awe and wonder than anything else. Frankly, learning to be the boy appeals to the achiever in me, the problem solver in me, the mathematical and logical and analytical mind in me, the musician in me, and it offers me exploration of opposite sides of my being, the yin yang of me. Yet, the whole experience makes me acutely aware that, as the Wikipedia entry for yin yang says, Opposites only exist in relation to each other. In this learning experience, most definitely. Knowing the girl side of the coin makes me curious about the boy side and leaves me clapping with excitement at the differences I am discovering. Had I only ever learned the boy part, perhaps I’d be giving up already at the amount of decision-making involved. Now, I’m just in awe of how my favourite male dancers do what they do. They are utter geniuses. And I am hooked. I have to know more of their secrets.

In my classes, Ariel teaches me technique, foundation steps that I can link together to build my dance, awareness of the direction of the dance and the ronda, how to stay safe and how to cope with obstacles. He checks I understand everything we do by testing me, making me say what I will do before I do it, asking me to explain what happens when things go differently to what I expect. As we work I know he sees the cogs of my mind turning and meeting and pausing and puzzling and finally dancing. I think I surprise him with my processing and implementation of all that he teaches. He says Very good! a lot (which he rarely did when I was learning to be the girl). I say, No, wait! Don’t tell me. Let me work it out! a lot. Our hands meet in ‘high fives’ at the end of each lesson and I hug him, exclaiming, Wow! It’s amazing! I can’t believe I did that… but I did.

Me and my talented teacher, Ariel

The prácticas with my girlfriends are kinda funny. I go to El Beso where there is a pillar in the centre of the dance floor. It’s a relatively calm práctica, so there is only one lane… well, one lane… and me dancing round the pillar; it seems full of magnetic energy that pillar, leastwise it seems to attract me. Still it’s helping me too, because as long as it’s drawing me in, I’m not banging into the other couples dancing outside me. Actually, at the ends of tandas, there have been a few high fives between me and my partners (one or two of which have been men; and one even said that he had rarely seen me as happy).

In the beginning of learning to dance as a woman, tango eased my then-tormented mind, gave me a safe place to become beautiful for the first time in my life, and allowed me to connect via my darker edge to release my inner glow. I’m learning to be the boy at a time when I have already connected with my spirit, so maybe it’d feel different if I hadn’t. But, my first impressions are that, in my case, since I am really a girl, being the boy is a lighter experience than being the woman was. It feels more like a game to me than a serious matter. It seems more of a mental challenge than a physical one because my body already understands the fundamentals of tango. It wakens my mind and leaves it buzzing, whereas as normally tango surges through my body and leaves my mind soothed in the wake of its rush.

As a writer, there is so much I want to share of my learning. How does the power I feel as a tango-boy differ to the power I feel as a tango-woman? What do I feel when I hold another female in my embrace? What depth of connection is possible when I, a girl, am dancing as a boy? That’s all to come in Parts 2, 3, 4 and beyond of On learning to be the tango boy, when you are really a girl.

Meanwhile I am in the UK again (supporting my Mum in her recovery from oral cancer), missing the Buenos Aires milongas where I am glam-female-with-fan-in-hand, and in a ‘tango boy’ frame of mind. Thus, I am in the mood to celebrate men! In particular, four brilliant UK-based men of tango. Each of these guys is doing a tango-something in 2011, that I want to enthuse about with Sallycat-passion. I’m very happy to know you all, however slightly or greatly, and I’m hereby awarding each of you, right here and now, an Absolutely Bloody Brilliant Barbie Award or ABBBA  (First awarded, in June 2009, to Chacho at 2×4alpie, the maker of the platinum-and-leopard practice-shoes I wear to dance ‘the boy’ today).

Andreas, David, Steve and David, congrats from me and Barbie, and a zillion thanks for having put a bit more ‘Happy Tango’ energy in my 2010/2011 UK days. Guys, you rock!

Andreas Wichter of Tangokombinat (tangokombinat.de) and Abrazos — Encuentro Milonguero UK

ABBBA awarded to Andreas for masterminding (with his wonderful woman Lynn and his Tangokombinat colleagues) the first ever “Festival of Social Tango” to be held in the UK, on 6th 7th and 8th May 2011; the website gives the following details: 3 days and 2 nights of dancing await aficionados of social tango. Over three days you can take part in workshops with some of the best salón teachers available, work with friends in guided and open prácticas, or sit, chat and dance in the Hex, our central all-day meeting place. At the milongas, you will be dancing late into the night to the best Golden Age tango music chosen by excellent DJs. Sounds super, doesn’t it? I’ve been in touch with Andreas in the lead up to the Event’s launch, and think it’s a unique and exciting happening that lovers of social tango will not want to miss; I even asked him whether girls dancing as boys will be welcome, and he says Yes, Abrazos will smile on anyone who embraces their fellow dancers with love, friendship and respect. Perfect. Book prontísimo, before places sell out!

David Venney of Vidadance (vidadance.com)

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ABBBA awarded to David for bringing to the UK (and international) market great, beautiful and worthy men’s tango shoes, a pair of which have been bought, worn and much loved by Carlos (and are shown, in the pics above, on his feet, which you can tell are Argentine because of the gaucho trousers — luverly aren’t they?). The Vidadance shoes are stylish, well-crafted, well-priced, and there is even a simple foot-sizing system available on the website which actually works for ordering online – Carlos got the right size first time, without trying on the shoes before he bought. Brilliant!

Steve Morrall of TangoUK (tangouk.co.uk)

ABBBA awarded to Steve for his exciting and original work in the field of development of musicality in tango dancers; especially, his weekly workshops in Advanced Musicality at Bramshaw Tango (which I would love to attend one day), and this brilliantly clear and effective chart of tango orchestras through time (click here and go to Page 6 for full details). Steve has always been an inspiration to me because of the strength, passion and generosity in his tango heart, the wide range and quality of the tango events that he runs with his wonderful wife Debbie, and the musical genius  that he brings to the British tango page. Have you heard the music he improvised as a theme for the Happy Hearts Quest? No? Click inside the box where it says ‘1. Pure Happy Hearts’ to listen and see how beautifully it beckons you to join The Quest for Joy that I’ve founded on Facebook for 2011. It’s fab, and so is Steve!

David Bassett of Shrewsbury Tango (shrewsburytango.com)

ABBBA awarded to David for his masterful development (together with his wonderful partner Alison, and assisted by the super teaching of his resident teacher Sharon Koch) of a thriving UK social tango community with a core of capable yet refreshingly humble male-dancers at its warm heart (and the women are fantastic too). I still have to pinch myself that a tango community of the quality and strength of Shrewsbury Tango exists in the very same town where I live when I am in the UK. It is as if someone put Dave and Alison and their Thursday practicas and Monday men’s sessions right here in Shrewsbury, just for Me and C.! I do not think any tango community could have welcomed us more warmly, and the fact that Dave is of such similar tango mind to me, is surely heaven-sent. And even better, David says the same about me (!), which makes me certain that The Universe has had a hand in our meeting and working together. I’m going to be running workshops, on the theme of connection, for David’s tango community in the summer, and I’m very excited about that.

The joy in my boy tango-embrace (Thanks G.)

Ah, how marvellous that learning to ‘be the boy’ has caused me to pause and consider then men of the tango I adore. And not just the men I dance with, but all the tango men past, present and future who add their spirit to every step I walk on the male side of the dance. Guys, by dancing in your tango shoes for a while, I wish that I may I understand you and know you better, and appreciate you even more than I already do.

The lovely trophy image above was originally on the web at dealbreaker.com

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The tango music I love – The Gift (Part 2a)

December 20, 2010 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 15 comments

When I wrote The milongueros I love – The Gift (Part 1) about the men in Buenos Aires I love to embrace and why, I received many enthusiastic comments from around the globe. People sent me their experiences, details of blissful moments on the dance floor, even poetry. And a few people asked me a simple question.

What about the music? they said.

Ah, I thought, as I read through my post. Good point. Had I focused too much on the men, and taken the music for granted?

Back then, despite having danced tango for three and a half years, and three of them in Buenos Aires, I still felt a bit uncomfortable when people asked me about tango music. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the traditional stuff. I did. I’d fallen head over stiletto heels in love with it in 2007 — and I tell that bit of my story, of how I went from pop to scratchy recordings of Pugliese and other marvellous tango-music men, in my book Happy Tango, so, I won’t repeat it here. By the time I wrote Happy T. , I had favourite tango orchestras and could reel off a few of them (D’Angelis, D’Arienzo, D’Agostino, Caló…) with honest passion in my voice.

However, I am a woman who has never won a game of Trivial Pursuit in her life, and slickly trotting out titles and dates on cue in answer to questions such as What Golden Age tangos do you like? seemed unlikely ever to be my destiny. I felt I ought to be able to do it, but I couldn’t. I knew I loved to dance to certain tunes and if they came on in the milonga I’d sit up, energise my most magnetic stare and feel frustrated if I couldn’t find a partner who loved them as much as I did; but, when a dance partner confided the name of a particular favourite, between tangos (as they often do in Buenos Aires), I wouldn’t say I exactly raced home to search for it on iTunes or write it in my notebook. I knew of some tangos by name, ones that maybe Ariel my teacher (whose tango knowledge reaches way beyond Trivial Pursuit), or Carlos, had enthused over. But, I was a person who felt the music rather than needing to register its ‘apellido and DNI number’. Or so I thought.

Then three things happened, and my musical world shifted a little on its familiar axis.

1. In the UK in July 2010, at the invitation of the social-tango-and trad-tango-music-loving organisers of Shrewsbury Tango, I began to research teaching a workshop on ‘deepening the connection in the social tango embrace’. I had to choose the music for the session. I sat at my computer listening and noting and learning… and wanting to know more, because, I realised that if I am to share anything of what I have been taught by ‘the milongueros I love the most’ about soul-to-soul connection in tango, I have to use the music to do it. In fact, I discovered, my choice of music can almost do the job for me — ladies, you try entering the embrace to a haunting introduction such as that of  Jamás Retournarás from  Al compás del corazón (Miguel Caló with vocalist Raúl Berón) without longing to be in the arms of a man who can lead you to melt.

2. On my return to Buenos Aires, a favourite milonguero broke my tango heart by abandoning me for another woman for the tanda we’d regularly danced over a period of many months, and I found I could not rest until I’d tracked the music down by name and played it over and over until it (and he) was out of my system. It may sound extreme, but I had to do this or I knew I would never be able to dance to the music again. I can’t tell you the orchestra concerned, because I think it courteous to protect the identity of the milonguero — his favourite tandas are as familiar to his dance partners past, present and future, as his dance shoes are to his feet. And I owe him courtesy. I’m sad to have lost an adored embrace, for now at least, but I will remain in the man’s debt for my whole tango life, whether  we ever dance together again or not. He placed the tracks that ‘make him tremble’ in my soul’s memory, where I will hold them as gold. My ‘milonguero I loved the most’ scarred me with tango music itself. How could I not want to know its name?

3. To discover whether it’s possible for me to pass on something inspiring and worthwhile on the subject of ‘the gift’ in the tango embrace, I’ve begun a whole new journey — learning to ‘be the boy’ as Ariel (my wonderful teacher) puts it. Last week, by the end of my first lesson, I was able to navigate him around his living room without banging into the walls or the furniture. And, to investigate the boy-part thoroughly, I’m going to have to know my tango music more intimately than ever before. I can’t help wondering if the tracks I will choose to dance when trying to help women to relax and give their gift to the real men of tango, will be the same tracks that I most readily surrender to as a woman. Can’t wait to find out.

These three music-related happenings seem to have started a bit of an avalanche… you know that thing where once you become aware of something, you see it everywhere. A favourite dance partner of mine (from Australia) and I talk in the pause between tangos of how fun (and useful for getting to know the music) it would be if the DJ had an electronic board displaying the name and orchestra of each tango as it’s played. On Thursday at Nuevo Chique the organiser enthused about D’Arienzo as if he were an old friend and tears of joy blurred my eyesight. This Saturday at Los Consagrados I found myself  surrendering to a strong milonguero from La Plata and a tanda of Láurenz and feeling quite desperate to identify the final tango that left me dizzy with release — the rather aptly named (as it turns out, in the light of point 2. above, though its lyrics convey a far deeper level of sadness), Abandono.

Yep, the signs of synchronicity are there. In wanting to know tango music more intimately to help me understand its effect on a soul with a desire to dance,  I think I am definitely on a good path. However, I’m always going to be more heart than head, so don’t be surprised when I tell you I adore Fresedo, you ask me what my favourite track is, and I just can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that I drank with way too much characteristic passion when I was young.

And as for whether my original post, The milongueros I love – The Gift (Part 1),  spoke too much of men and not enough of music. I don’t think so. In my case it was the embrace of men, and not actually the music, that got me hooked on dancing social tango. If you’d simply sat me solo, on day one, in a room with a CD player, a disc of classic tangos and a disc of Robbie Williams and told me to choose which to dance to first, I’m sure that I’d have picked the Robbie Williams, just because my British soul was well used to its sound and beat. It was men — my dream dancer of Hampshire, Ariel, Carlos, a multitude of milongueros in Buenos Aires — who taught me to love tango music through their dance. That isn’t to say that tango music isn’t the mother and father of all these fabulous-tango-dancer men, because, of course, without its existence there would be no tango embrace and none of the resulting gifts. In that sense the music always comes first. Plus, it is the music that dictates when the men in my current tango life dance, and when they don’t — for example, Carlos will be very unlikely to leave his seat for Di Sarli, whereas when D’Arienzo blasts over the pista he just can’t stop himself. And if both the man and I are jumping to our feet for the same track, I think the chances of bliss in our embrace are upped to the height of a full moon above the earth.

So… music. Music. Tango music! Yes, it matters, and the longer I dance, the more it matters to me. Abso-bloody-lutely. My favourite tango music is one of the wings on which my tango soul flies. The milongueros I described in The milongueros I love – The Gift (Part 1) are the other. To release my tango ‘gift’ with utter abandon and leave the eyes of men shining with the perfect combination of surprise, relief and desire, I need them both.

What about you?

Guys, perhaps you can substitute the word woman for man in some parts of the post above.
Anyone who wants to deepen their knowledge of tango music — the history, the personalities, the sounds, the lyrics, the lot — try the websites planet-tango.com, todotango.com and milonga.co.uk.
The photograph at the top of the post is of La Glorieta from where tango music fills a Belgrano park on Saturday and Sunday evenings from 7pm.
If you’d like the full story on how to make the most of Buenos Aires tango, why not treat yourself to my book Happy Tango: Sallycat’s Guide to Dancing in Buenos Aires?

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The essence of tango?

December 11, 2010 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 28 comments

Reading Bora’s Tango Journey from Buenos Aires, and in particular Day 8 and the comments on it, sends me reeling back through the years to 2007 and the post I wrote in December of that year called More tango lessons, the tale of a painful episode that I will never ever forget. I know the theme isn’t quite the subject of Bora’s Day 8 post, but the sum of her Buenos Aires writings (up to Day 12 so far) moves me and causes me to remember some of the pivotal steps on my own tango journey. She and the people who have commented on her post have prompted me to consider the ‘real’ tango in this city, and what it means to me, right now, in 2010. Why am I still dancing tango in Buenos Aires, three years on?

The other day I had cause to tell the following little story to a dear long-time-tango-dancing friend. She laughed and exclaimed something along the lines of, Sallycat, you have just described the essence of tango! Here’s what I told her. See what you think.

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I’m sitting in a milonga where it’s pretty quiet and it’s easy to see everyone in the room, the dancers on the dance floor and the folk sitting the tanda out. It’s the afternoon and there are people present who never frequent the late-night milongas.

I see quite a few men I wouldn’t really care to dance with. Maybe I’ve danced with them before and don’t want to repeat the experience. Maybe I haven’t danced with them, but they dance in a way that does not encourage me to want to leave my seat. Or, maybe I am repelled by the ugly and all-too-visible shapes of their egos or the fact that they are obviously only interested in dancing with the outer beauty of youth or the prospect of a quick lay, one of which I do not have at age forty-seven and the other I will never be. I will decline to embrace these guys. I let them go in my mind. These men are not for me.

I begin to look for the men who I might want to embrace. I keep my eye on one man I’ve never seen before. I do not see him dance. He sits quietly, on his own, sips from a small coffee cup.

I do leave my seat, for Fresedo, Donato, D’Angelis, Caló and the valses. The rest I sit out. It’s hot. There’s no aircon. The wall fans can’t cope. I save myself for music I love. At the start of each tanda I glance at the man again. He’s pretty old, I’m guessing eighty. He looks frail, but his fresh white cotton shirt has perfect creases ironed into the sleeves. Maybe he just dressed up to come and listen to the music and soak up the tango memories seeping from the walls of the place.

Or maybe not, because with the first few notes of the new tanda in the space between us, he is looking back at me, inclining his head and mouthing the word, Bailamos?

I decide to take a risk — well, in truth, I’d decided it an hour or so before, and he probably knows it. I dip my head in a small movement, mirroring his. He stands for the first time since he arrived in the salón.

When he embraces me I know for sure he has lived a lot of years. He holds me with a telltale combination of security and uncertainty in his physical contact. It isn’t his energy that gives him away. I feel his presence strong and proud, but there is a slight shake in his arms, a momentary tremor, the voice of his body telling its long story to mine, from the first touch.

My body reacts to reassure his. No backing off on my part, or transmitting hints of social conditioning about age or tango ability or tango technique. He may shake slightly, but I have chosen him and I will focus entirely on him and give him my all. I hold him as close as I can and breathe with him. I sense every point of connection with his body. I breathe with him again. With him again.

He breathes with me.

His first steps are relatively simple, and I know he guides me deliberately in to a place that feels good, for me, and for him. He wants us to find the common ground, somewhere where he knows I’m hearing the same music he does and can respond to it without holding back.

Once he has me there, safely on the launch pad, he begins to flex his dancing wings. I become certain that he has waited in his seat all afternoon for this particular orchestra, and now he wants to bring the music that he loves to life, through me.

And the development of his dance across our four tangos? It’s as if he begins with a pencil sketch on a single sheet of paper and ends with a power-packed painting that could fill an entire wall of the Tate. I feel every mark through his chest, and I add my own choices to his as my confidences builds. I hear the music he has selected for me. I respond to it and to him. My energy is not passive, but present and alive in his arms. He paints musical masterpieces on the floor. I feel every knot of tension leave us and I dissolve in the warm melting pot of the security of our hug, the strokes brushed into intricate spontaneous patterns by our feet, the notes written long ago and now rushing through our ears to our legs, and our clasped hands that tense and relax in a way that makes me notice how my skin is hot to his cool. We are a match. We are one.

By the final tango in the tanda, every hint of his physical tremor is completely gone. I am dancing with the spirit of a young man and with a soul that has danced for over fifty years. I become certain that we are dancing in the 1930s, that we have chosen each other in a packed tango hall where a live orchestra is playing, that I am the only woman in his world and that he is the only man in mine.

When he finally pulls away from me I see it in his eyes. I’ve surprised him, as he has surprised me.

Or maybe I haven’t surprised him at all. Maybe his eyes simply speak of triumph that he has so effortlessly extracted my ‘gift‘ and left me wanting more.

Afterwards he escorts me back to my seat and I need him to. I ask him how old he is. Only slightly breathless, he says,

Eighty-two.

I say,

Yes, but you dance like you are twenty-two.

He chuckles.

And you are twenty-two, he whispers in my ear.

I giggle. He kisses my hand.

I can’t dance the next tanda. I need to allow my heart beat to slow. I go to the bathroom to wipe a damp paper towel over my forehead, tidy my hair. When I come back the waiter is clearing the coffee cup from the man’s table. My ‘frail’ eighty-two year old has gone.

.

.

So, what do you think?

And, what do I think?

I think that what we each consider to be the ‘essence of tango’ (or the ‘real’ tango, or whatever you want to call it) and the freedom we give to others to discover and speak of and celebrate their own version of it, probably says more about us than it does about what the essence of tango truly is… will it ever look or feel exactly the same to any two of us? I don’t know, but I think not.

I do know, in my own case, that I’ll always remind myself to remain open to finding the essence of tango in Buenos Aires in the lower-key places, in the humble people, in the quiet of the afternoon, in the last hour of the late-night local milonga, in the second or third rows back in the tango salóns, in the hearts of men who dance for joy to the tango music they truly truly love. And every time I discover what I seek in the arms of those men, I will thank my own tango angel Carlos (seen in my friend Shaun’s beautiful photo at the top of this post, and described in my 2007 post mentioned earlier) for helping me along my path to discovering the intense and very precious essence of tango that I will dance in my heart till the day I die.

Sometimes I will find the bliss I seek. And sometimes I won’t. But, I believe that somewhere in this city (aka world, aka life), what my soul needs in its quest for joy of all kinds, including in tango, is probably always there, right there under my nose. Whether I find it or not is probably pretty much down to me.

That said, I’m off to Los Consagrados.

And wherever you’re dancing tonight, I wish with all my heart that you find what your tango soul is looking for.

Happy National Day of Tango to every one of you!

Buy Happy Tango: Sallycat’s Guide to Dancing in Buenos Aires, and start flying towards your own tango adventure in Buenos Aires, today!

Join the book’s Facebook page for all the Happy Tango updates from Buenos Aires; click here and then click ‘Like’.

If you’ve enjoyed reading Happy Tango, please recommend it to someone else who would enjoy it too. Thank you!

Click a link to buy Happy Tango from:
amazon.co.uk
amazon.com
amazon.ca
amazon.fr
barnesandnoble.com
BookDepository.co.uk
BookDepository.com (the Book Depository offers free shipping to many countries). If you prefer to buy from your bookstore, then you should be able to get them to order you a copy, wherever you are in the world. Ask for:

ISBN: 9780956530608
Author: Sally Blake
Published by: Pirotta Press Ltd
Publication date: 30 June 2010

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The energy on my dancing feet – Buenos Aires tango shoes 2010

December 6, 2010 in Buenos Aires Information, Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 11 comments

Silvia Alanis at workTell me what you’re looking for and how much cash you want to spend, I say, Then I can decide on our route.

My friend is a tango-shoe virgin — so far she’s been dancing in footwear that resembles ankle boots and, I imagine, must deliver very sweaty results on 35-degree, early-summer days. I say this based solely on knowledge of my own feet which, alas, do not stay muy dry after three hours of dancing, even in winter. We’re standing on the corner of Montevideo and Avenida Santa Fe in Buenos Aires, at 11 o’clock in the morning on the first Saturday in December. I’m remembering my own first tango ‘danced’ in leather-soled cowboy boots from Mongolia, and the pair of shoes that followed those boots: ugly black closed-toe affairs bought in a dance shop in Basingstoke in 2006.

I’m looking for a pair today, too, I tell my friend, I might treat myself… if I find the perfect shoe.

It’s almost eighteen months since I bought my 2×4alpie favourites, and I’ve neither bought nor worn anything else since. I’ve been waiting for the new models of 2×4s for women to be ready, but they’re not due till next year. So, I need a fresh-smelling pair of tango shoes that will feel comfortable from the moment I step into them and that can cope with a pretty intense workout on dance floors of stone (common here in BsAs) as well as of wood. I don’t really expect to find anything that fit the bill, to be honest, but introducing a girlfriend to some of the tango shoe stores in Buenos Aires is a great opportunity to see what’s on the market as we approach 2011.

In Recoleta we visit Taconeando (on Arenales), GretaFlora (the new store on Uruguay) and Comme il Faut (just off Arenales in its slightly-tricky-to find-if-you-don’t-know-it’s-down-an-alley-and-up-some-stairs location).

Taconeando has prices as low (and therefore as relatively affordable) as around $300pesos, a red and black pair that my friend loves, but not in her size, and nothing to tempt me, because I already know their styles (though I like the youthful, trendy look of some) don’t work on my feet. The shop assistant leaves us to it, but tells us the shoes available are only those on display — no other sizes — which seems a bit odd, and I can’t help wondering about the economic climate, the rampant inflation in Buenos Aires and how tango-shoe businesses are being affected by the combination of the two. The brand retains its original designs, but the shop itself does not have the up energy that it had the first time I went in there in 2008. We move on.

We are the only customers in the new GretaFlora store. The store has a classy, designed-for-Recoleta feel, but I’m a bit disappointed to realise we’re in a store selling mainly street shoes for around $700-plus pesos a pair; the tango shoes — which do have a beautifully-crafted look — are from $580pesos (I think the assistant says that) and I’m afraid I decide on the spot that I’d probably save that sort of cash for a shoe with an interchangeable sole, in other words the new models of 2×4s due in 2011. While admiring the stunning leather and stone-cluster clip-on flowers behind the counter (a relative bargain at $90pesos a pair), we learn from the friendly and kind assistant that it’s the Palermo GretaFlora store that has the full range of tango shoes… this new store is really for weddings, parties, luxury footwear for off the dance floor. No-one else comes in while we are there. We thank her and move on.

I already know I won’t be buying anything in Comme il Faut as I just don’t find their shoes flexible enough or cushioned enough for my slightly damaged left big-toe joint (I’ve got 4 pairs of CiFs in my kitchen cupboard that I never wear). However, once my bum is on that velvet couch of theirs, I can’t resist trying a pair in black patent leather … but no, I was right, the toe bar is way too hard for that left foot, so I hand them back fast. My friend, on the other hand, predictably falls in love, with a delicate design in red and black that conjures words like France and sex and goddess and daring romance. She spontaneously starts doing adornos on the carpet in front of the mirror and clapping her hands, and I see the SOLD sign reflected in the shop assistant’s eyes. But, it seems, my friend is not the impulse buyer that I myself can be. She leaves her heart’s desires in a box with her name on it and promises to call before 3 o’clock if she wants them. We’re told they’re $440pesos for cash (surprisingly similar to the 2009 price) including $10pesos to get cromo (a coarse suede suitable for the average dance floor) sole put over the standard leather (slippery on wooden floors). As we leave, two female customers come into the store to take our place. I think I count four assistants ready to serve them. A quiet Saturday or the norm these days? I seem to remember the sofas overflowing with eager punters in the past. We leave Recoleta behind and make for the scruffier Microcentro.

We walk a roundabout route up Esmeralda to take in TangoBrujo (I was once tempted by the comfort and trendy denim of a pair of shoes in there), but instead of the buzzing shop and high-energy tango school I was expecting to find, I’m confronted with the sad face of a dusty, locked building that offers only a feeble memory of tango, trapped in a few remnants of window signage. Perhaps only the ‘go’ in tango is left there, stuck in time on the glass, and we do indeed move on, with me muttering, I knew there was something up when they closed for renovations last year… hell, I’ll have to cover it again on the Happy Tango updates blog. My energy drops a notch at the loss of a place that so many of my younger friends enjoyed over the years, but I remind myself that sometimes things have to fade so that new things can grow in their space. I march my friend on.

How many more shops can we fit in before they close (3pm or even 2pm on a Saturday)? The six clustered on Suipacha? I’m thinking this, when into my mind pops the image of a metallic lime green toe-bar with an embroidered swirl — an Alanis shoe I saw in the window of Diagonal Norte 936 in 2009. I remember the shop and realise that I am almost standing outside it. The door of the tiny store is open. And inside, a smiley woman is dancing, kind of bopping actually, to tango music, as she organises the window display. Her vibrant energy reaches me before I get to the threshold. Let’s just do this one first, I say to my friend. And we go in.

Hey! How lovely to see you dancing so happily, I say aloud to the woman, in my heavily British-accented Spanish. I can’t help myself… the words tumble out to greet her.

I’m Silvia Alanis! She almost sings it, And these are my shoes. I design them!

She enthuses to us about the old models, the new models, the details that she is most proud of. She darts around the shop, touching this shoe and that. I notice the stitched signatures, the pink heart in the Alanis logo, the Alanis strapline You can fly! and the fresh leather smell of the new models for the summer season being unpacked on the floor.  Silvia Alanis proceeds to help me find exactly the style that will feel secure and strong on my feet, and as she does so, we talk about the addictive nature of tango, about the milongas, about the men in the milongas. We laugh a lot. I sense that her business is alive and kicking and, I hope, growing. I know I want to wear her energy when I dance. It shouts CREATIVITY AND PASSION! I buy two pairs of her shoes at $430 pesos each. I show her Happy Tango, and the Alanis entry in it under 10 Tango Shoe Stores, tell her how the lime-green toe bar and embroidered swirl stayed in my mind and led me back to the shop one year on.

I reckon we are with her about an hour, though we do pop round the corner to the stores on Suipacha (still there but with one or two small changes not really worth mentioning), where my friend buys a Titania-worthy pair of deep-green shoes in a packed-with-customers Flabella for less than $300pesos, while Silvia Alanis makes final adjustments to my own new shoes down the road. On our return she puts the shoes on my feet and measures exactly where the holes in the straps should go. I leave the store beaming and confident that I won’t sit in the milonga later wishing that I had a hole punch in my kit bag.

By the time we’ve trekked back to Comme il Faut for the red-and-blacks, it’s 2.55pm. Comme is about to close, but now it’s heaving with customers (so perhaps GretaFlora and Taconeando are too) and I realise that the many tango visitors who frequent the night-time milongas (and the tango shoe stores) are probably not out shopping at 11am in the morning. Unlike me who wakes at 6am to have breakfast with C. before he heads off to work, even on a Saturday, and who dances in the early-evening milongas as a result. I can choose to dance three hours at a Traditional-style** milonga and still be in bed by midnight, thank God.

My friend and I laugh our goodbyes with excited voices wishing each other well for the night’s dancing and for the new shoe try outs. I can’t wait to step into a pair of mine at Los Consagrados where I’m headed later.

But, I’m a little nervous. How will it be to be led on to the pista with an unknown quantity on my feet — brand new shoes carrying only the energy of Alanis and whoever else has touched the leather? My 2×4s may be well worn and in need of fresh air and retirement, but how many miles have they danced with my soul? They are packed with a sense of security and familiarity, memories of my tango footwork, imprints of every piece of music that has resonated through them. They’re the first dance shoes that have felt as a perfectly moulded extension of me. Can I ever get that feeling again? Should I really have trusted my heart in deciding to take Silvia Alanis into the embraces of ‘the milongueros I love the most’? Or should I have kept scrubbing the 2×4s with CIF cleaning creme for a little longer?

The night ahead holds the answers, and as I turn from waving my friend chau, I can’t help noticing the slight slink and swagger in my walk, as I stride down Corrientes towards the moment when I will take my new shoes onto the dance floor to lose their virginity…

Dammit. Who says tango isn’t about sex?

For pics of my old and new tango shoes, in all their December 2010 glory, click here.

There is a good interview with the founder of Taconeando, Marlene Heyman, in the November edition of the Cambalache magazine, which appears to be a new and topical ‘tango magazine’ first published in April 2010; the website is very informative with details of concerts and other events posted. Enjoy.

**For my definition of a Traditional-style Buenos Aires milonga, you’ll have to read a copy of Happy Tango — my book.

Buy Happy Tango: Sallycat’s Guide to Dancing in Buenos Aires, and start flying towards your own tango adventure in Buenos Aires, today!

Join the book’s Facebook page for all the Happy Tango updates from Buenos Aires; click here and then click ‘Like’.

If you’ve enjoyed reading Happy Tango, please recommend it to someone else who would enjoy it too. Thank you!

Click a link to buy Happy Tango from:
amazon.co.uk
amazon.com
amazon.ca
amazon.fr
barnesandnoble.com
BookDepository.co.uk
BookDepository.com (the Book Depository offers free shipping to many countries). If you prefer to buy from your bookstore, then you should be able to get them to order you a copy, wherever you are in the world. Ask for:

ISBN: 9780956530608
Author: Sally Blake
Published by: Pirotta Press Ltd
Publication date: 30 June 2010

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Buenos Aires, November 2010

November 26, 2010 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams | 14 comments

We spill out of La Confitería Ideal into Suipacha with the mini-dramas of our tango afternoon on our lips and with our feet aching from the combination of stiletto heels and a stone floor. I have shared tandas with a few of the milongueros I love the most. I know that by the time we’ve eaten pizza on Corrientes my wings will have folded back into their everyday shape, but that I will probably leave a few fresh, rainbow-coloured feathers in my wake for at least twenty-four hours. Osvaldo Fresedo is the music that has sent me flying today, and I know that I’ll still be hearing Después del Carnaval when I lie in bed later trying to sleep.

To get to pizzería Guerrín we have to cross Avenida 9 de Julio. Last week we dodged buses decked out in royal-blue-and-yellow flags and dangerous toppings of Boca Juniors fans presumably coming into town for their Superclásico clash with River — then, the combination of traffic lights, potential sudden stops and male bodies balanced on colectivo roofs of slippery metal sent our voices to a horrified pitch. Tonight though, the widest avenue in Buenos Aires is filled with Carmina-Burana-style music and folding chairs. A stage as huge as an office block replaces the usual traffic, and contemporary dancers give their all to an audience of thousands. We stand behind the safety barriers for a few minutes and stare. My friend has her eyes on the dancers. Mine rest on the watchers who soak in the free concert. I am sure I see a few pairs of wings unfurl in the crowd. My own wings twitch and a forgotten memory returns to me of how I saw the Ballet Rambert perform Ghost Dances set to haunting South American music when I was at University in London, and how the moving performance left me with a longing to be a dancer. It can take time to learn to fly, I think to myself and I tell my friend about the surfacing of the memory. Being with her tonight has allowed it to survive drowning in the foggy pool of years lived long ago. I thank her.

We go for the pizza. She gets two individual slices and I get the fugazza con muzzarella – chica, half for me and half to wrap and take back for Carlos. We’re midway through our meal when the man on the next table has a seizure, or is it a heart attack? For a moment I wonder if he might be dying. A woman starts shouting for a médico. He begins to vomit. Lumps leave his mouth in arcs and I am certain that he must have already consumed more than one pizza. There’s a buzz of manic action as people flock to help. Then as suddenly as it started, it all stops. He stands up, wipes himself down, sits back at his table with his friends. Only the smell of what happened remains, and soon that is masked by mops dipped in buckets of disinfectant. Let’s get the bill, I say. I turn to signal to the waiter and as I do I see that the dark energy has left the sick man and leapt elsewhere. A fight has broken out just inside the front door, where queues of people jostle to buy take-away porciones of some of the most popular pizza in town. Two women. Screaming. Fists out, I assume, though the details are hidden from me by a chaos of bodies. The violence lasts for a few minutes. La cuenta, por favor! calls my friend, and our waiter finally drags himself from oggling the aftermath of the fray.We pay up, exit and leave the uneasy spirit of the night to feast on the diners we leave behind. Or that’s the plan anyway.

On the few blocks between the restaurant and the number 60 bus stop on Callao, we trip over too many split bags and spilt rubbish, I jump as a disturbed soul yells out behind me, and we are accosted by three strangers who break the usual codes of personal space by touching the Guerrín bag in my hand and who ask us for money and Carlos’ dinner. We choose to step into the path of traffic, rather than stay on the dark stretch of pavement behind a boarded-up magazine kiosk where we can be too easily surrounded. A kind-passer-by-man-in-a-suit moves between them and us as we stand stranded on tarmac. Taxis swerve to avoid us. The possibly drugged-up threesome move on towards Congreso. The red lights of a brand new number 60 rounding the corner are a relief. With a Muchas gracias Señor we thank our guardian angel of a guy and climb on the bus.

There are ghosts on Callao and Corrientes tonight, I say to my friend.

Welcome back dear Sal, she laughs.

My heart beat begins to slow as we turn into the quieter side streets. I check my folded-away wings are undamaged. Text Carlos I’m safely on the bus. Hear an echo of Fresedo. Hug my friend goodnight. Head home.

Buy Happy Tango: Sallycat’s Guide to Dancing in Buenos Aires, and start flying towards your own tango adventure in Buenos Aires, today!

Join the book’s Facebook page for all the Happy Tango updates from Buenos Aires; click here and then click ‘Like’.

If you’ve enjoyed reading Happy Tango, please recommend it to someone else who would enjoy it too. Thank you!

Click a link to buy Happy Tango from:
amazon.co.uk
amazon.com
amazon.ca
amazon.fr
barnesandnoble.com
BookDepository.co.uk
BookDepository.com (the Book Depository offers free shipping to many countries). If you prefer to buy from your bookstore, then you should be able to get them to order you a copy, wherever you are in the world. Ask for:

ISBN: 9780956530608
Author: Sally Blake
Published by: Pirotta Press Ltd
Publication date: 30 June 2010

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The milongueros I love, the giggle, and you!

May 3, 2010 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams, The tale of my book - Happy Tango | 19 comments

One of my basic beliefs about creating art from the heart has been proved true, right here on this blog: if you do what you love and put it out in the world with good intention, you are rewarded a million times over, in ways you could never have imagined.

When I wrote the post The milongueros I love – The Gift (Part 1), a week ago, I knew that it had come from my heart. No question. It poured out in a few hours of intense (up all night writing) activity, and I was powerless to stop it. When I hit the ‘Publish’ button, I knew I’d written a cracker (cracker to me, meaning, my truth, in a language the world might understand and be entertained by). Question was though, Would people be inspired enough to comment on the post and share their experience? In my three and a half years of blogging, I have learned that it takes a fair bit to get a reader commenting on a blog for the first time. Yes, your friends and family might comment, but people you’ve never met, or people who don’t normally comment on blogs, or who don’t blog themselves? It can be a bit trickier to hook them. But, I wanted your feedback. Sallycat, be bold, I said to myself. Ask, and maybe you will receive. I did, and oh boy, I did.

In the three days after I published the post, thanks to your emailing, Twittering, Facebook-ing and posting, it was read around 1000 times, and over the period of a week I received emails, messages and comments galore. I’m not talking one liners either. You sent me essays (often extremely personal and moving), some of which I yet have to digest. Incredible. I spent hours replying to all your generous shares, and I am still doing so. Basically, I couldn’t blog until now, because I’ve been overwhelmed by feedback and I’ve ended up writing almost a book in replies, myself!

Bloggers have kindly blogged as a follow up to the post, and one was even inspired to write a poem entitled, The Older Woman (ah, I may be 47, but I can still inspire a man I’ve never met to write from his heart…). Check out Tango Beat for the poem, and Tango Commuter and Accidental Tangoiste for mentions of my post. Thank you guys and girls. And, if you blogged on the theme and linked to my post, and I didn’t spot it yet, please comment and tell me, and I’ll add you here.

If you haven’t already, do read the 67 comments (at Monday 17th May 2010) written here. There is some amazing stuff, and to be honest, I’m not yet quite sure where it is going to take me. One lovely theme that emerged was how we show to our partner (knowingly or unknowingly) that we have given or received the gift – and just to clarify, to my mind, the gift is elicited (often via the behaviours I mentioned in my post) and received by men, and given by women. Joe Tango surprised and delighted me with his knowledge of ‘the giggle’ – Where are you man? Come to Buenos Aires and dance with me! On Saturday a milonguero asked me why I was laughing as we pulled apart. I explained the word ‘giggle’ to him. After that he insisted on calling me Sally Giggle (or rather, Saleh Gigul, pronounced in lovely Castellano-style), and he giggled a lot too; see Joe Tango, you comment on some chica’s blog, and your spirit ends up with her, on the dance floor of La Leonesa, Buenos Aires, on a Saturday night… I mean to say, I’ve always giggled, and milongueros have always asked me about it, but this time, fired up by the discussions here, I was moved to pop the word ‘giggle’ into their vocabulary. Wonderful!

Another intriguing theme, and perhaps the crux of it all — in terms of whether this ability to elicit the gift and thus to experience even more bliss himself, can be taught or encouraged in a man, or whether it can only develop naturally over time — was the business of how much a woman can influence the man’s ability to receive the gift: he has so many things to think about in the early days of developing his dance, said a few folk, and yes, of course they are right. I’m interested to know, though, how many men in the very early stages of learning to dance tango have actually stopped dancing (and so removed all those distractions), in a safe environment, and simply hugged (or, OK, if hugging seems a step too far, embraced very closely) the woman in their arms, as a piece of tango music they both absolutely love, plays… and if they have, what have they felt? If they did that, could they gain a glimpse of the bliss to come further down the line, and so become more inclined to worship the Goddess of tango gifts, rather than fall at the feet of the God of tango moves? Food for my thoughts.

Then there is the all round matter of what, if anything, can be done to tear down the walls of ego and social conditioning within both men and women, in order that they can shed the blocks to giving and receiving the gift. This is the point that fascinates me. I remember how horribly awkward I felt in my first close embrace. My British reserve? Not a touchy-feely type? Not at ease in such close proximity to a man? More of a tomboy than a woman? Ego-driven anxiety about doing it wrong? I’m thinking about all that too.

The long and short of it, is that I’m not ready to write Part 2 yet, although perhaps this is a kind of Part 2 in itself. The creative process is one I am slowly getting used to, and for me, periods of ‘cooking of ideas’ are required; the cauldron has to bubble for a while.

Meanwhile, here’s a sneak preview of the magic stuff most recently conjured up by my creative process — my first book, Happy Tango: Sallycat’s Guide to Dancing in Buenos Aires. I cannot tell you how excited I am to show you this – the front cover (click here to see it)! Everyone is asking me, When can we buy it, have it, see it, read it, touch it? The answer is, I hope with all my heart,  in June. I am willing The Universe to make it so. Please help me by doing the same. I will post news, as soon as I have it! I am longing to touch it too.

Once again, I thank you for sharing your tango experiences with me. Without you lot, all the people I’ve met through tango, there’d be no book, and no tango magic at all. Here’s to us. Tango dancers who seek bliss, wherever we are in the world. People, we rock!

.

Photo of Me and C. giggling in La Glorieta, with thanks to Julie-Anne Cosgrove.

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The milongueros I love – The Gift (Part 1)

April 24, 2010 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams | 73 comments

After a two week break from the arms of my milongueros, I am pining — big time.

I miss the thrill of hooking a favourite guy with the merest glance; I dream of melting into a familiar chest; I need the moment just before the tanda ends, when I never want to leave his arms. Ah, the passion for tango has not left me, you see. No indeed.

I wish that tonight at the milonga, some of my most-desired regulars will be there. My favourite boys always sit in the same seats, and lately I’ve noticed how when one of the seats stays empty, I feel a little pang of sadness. I’ve been asking myself why. What is it about those particular guys that makes me want them more than the others? What makes them the milongueros I love?

I have a theory that the milongueros I love the most of all, share a secret. And, it is the secret of how to obtain the gift. The gift is unbelievably precious, is given by women in the tango embrace, and once tasted by a man, cannot be resisted: it will keep him dancing tango, in pursuit of bliss, until the day he dies.

What is the gift? If you dance tango, you’ll probably know what I mean, or maybe you will by the time you’ve finished reading this post. Let me describe the 6 classic bliss-seeking behaviours of all the milongueros I love the most: various combinations of these things guarantee that I will give the gift to them, and these guys know it, the clever devils.

  1. The mystery. He’s that tiny bit aloof. I know him; we dance together every week, maybe one or two tandas. But, he often makes me wait a while for his cabeceo. And, although once we are dancing, he might chat to me between the tangos (like most Argentines do), his first cabeceo in my direction will probably bear no hint of a smile, and sometimes neither will the moment before the embrace, when we stand facing each other on the dance floor. He plays the seductive ‘tango-strangers game’, you see. And, he does it knowingly, because he is a master in the art of tango foreplay; he knows I’m longing for his embrace, and he’s holding every hint of warmth back for the bliss of the hug.
  2. The hug. Others may love the tango embrace. I am a hug girl. I want to snuggle in. I want to feel him shift to fit me, and I want him to let me shift to fit him. When it’s perfect, I call this meeting ‘the melt’, and after it’s done, we are one. I remember one of the first lessons I had with an Argentine, long ago. He made me dance with my arms around his neck. Hug me, he said, and then, No, I mean really hug me. I’m British, was a beginner and was definitely most comfortable in an open hold: I blushed bright red and giggled too much. But, I hugged him anyway. He was probably my first tango crush. Why? Easy. He let me fold into him, breathe with him, become one with him — sometimes I describe it as ‘getting into him’ because I just can’t say it a better way. If you’ve seen the movie Avatar, just think of the thrill of the tails fusing. In tango, unless this fusion (for want of a better word) happens, for me, there will be something missing. If you dance with me, and your embrace offers me the possibility of the hug, then for the three minutes of the tango that follows, I will be completely and utterly yours. But, for the most exquisite execution, the hug requires the pause.
  3. The pause. This is obvious isn’t it? If I am to feel his heart beat, he must give me a moment to find it. If I am to breathe with him, then I need time to tune in. When the guy gives me space to adjust to him before we move an inch, he’s telling me that I am worth finding and that so is he. He’s telling me that he is unafraid to be discovered — exciting, no? He’s also prolonging that foreplay I mentioned earlier, and it’s tantalising. With the achingly lingering drag of the pause, he is also letting me know (so that I’m smiling inside, even before we dance a step) that he understands the art of perhaps the most crucial behaviour of all, the slow reveal.
  4. The slow reveal. The first time I dance with someone new, this is what seals the deal for me. If he’s been dancing a while and he still hasn’t mastered this one, I probably won’t want to dance with him again. If he has mastered it, in short, he knows how to listen. To me. He starts simple and he finds out what I can do. He listens to my body, my degree of relaxation, my level of confidence, my ability, and then, he makes me feel like a Goddess — regardless of what I might appear to be able to offer him. As he works out who I am, and feels me relax in his arms, he gradually reveals his dance, his ability, his character, his little musical tricks and treats; as he does so, I can’t help smiling. It’s like his soul starts chatting to me, or loving me, or soothing me, or celebrating me, or calming me… depending on the music, his mood (and mine), and on how I respond to every tiny thing he does. He knows there will never be a moment when I don’t understand what he asks of me, because he only ever dances what he knows I can handle, and if he is really clever, what he knows I desire. He never allows me to feel that I made a mistake, he is far too wise. The smart milonguero knows that the slow reveal can get him straight to the soft heart of the gift, fast, and so it would never occur to him not to use it. He knows it is the certain route to tango gold. It is also part of the courtesy.
  5. The courtesy. He treats me like the precious jewel that he knows I long to be. From the moment he first looks my way, he has eyes for no-one else. He makes certain there are no cabeceo cock ups and that I am not stranded on the dance floor without a partner (and I help him by staying in my seat until there can be no doubt). He keeps me out of danger at all times; if there is even a hint of a collision, he checks I am OK. He asks me if I’m comfortable between tangos. He knows I might be disorientated at the end of the tanda (a direct consequence of having given him the gift), and he always escorts me back to my table. He tells me that dancing with me was a pleasure, because it was. If he’s an especially crafty character he also delivers the punch line (and leaves me smiling, for a bonus point).
  6. The punch line. Him: How long is  a tango? Me: Um, about three minutes? Him, almost whispering, so that I have to lean in a bit and his mouth breathes close to my ear: Let me tell you something. For three minutes you are in my arms, and you are completely and utterly mine, no? Me, laughing, but feeling like the most irresistible tango dancer on the planet: Tenés razon (You’re right, but said with the tone of You might just have a point there, you wicked old tango wizard you!). OK guys, I’ll be honest, you’ll probably only be able to pull this sort of thing off if you can do it without sounding like you say it to everyone, even if you do. A few of my boys can deliver these entertaining (and I admit it, slightly smarmy) lines as if they have heaven on their tongues, and they know that I will love them for that final smile they put on my face. With these remarks they are saying, You’re a beautiful woman. Or they might choose to compliment my dance as a safer option: my musicality, my walk, my lightness in their arms. And just to be clear, I’m not talking about annoying, phoney remarks here. I know when the compliment is genuine, even when it’s delivered in Castellano, and so will most women.

You might be wondering how I presume to know about the intoxicating nature of the gift. After all, I’m not a male milonguero, am I? And I’ve never danced a tango leading a woman in my arms either. No. But the proof of the gift’s existence is in the sparkle in the eyes of my guys, when they reluctantly pull away from me, as the final notes of music die. They cannot hide the truth from me. I know their bliss exists, and that the gift of it comes from me (though, oh so masterfully conjured by them).

I’m becoming fascinated by the behaviours that prove to me that the milongueros I love know the secret to getting exactly what they long for in their tango — something that I am absolutely certain includes the captured heart and soul and longing of the woman in their arms, the gift itself.

Now, I’m doing a spot of research on the matter, for a future project, and I need your help. Even if you’ve never commented here before, go on, be brave!

Tango dancing guys reading this, have you experienced the gift that I speak of, for yourselves? Do you understand the secret to getting it and would your behaviour show me that you do?

Tango dancing girls, do you know when you have given the gift? And what, in your favourite dance partners, ensures that you can — any of the behaviours I’ve listed above ring luscious-sounding bells?

I’d love to hear what you think. And if your tango dancing friends would be interested to read and comment too, please pass on the link to this post, with my love from Buenos Aires: you can use the Share/Save button, below, to wing the link around the globe: blog it, Twitter it, Facebook it, email it, tango-forum it, help it fly far and wide. I’d love as many of your thoughts as possible, and when I’ve got a few of them, I’ll write something more on the subject if I can, in The milongueros I love  - The Gift (Part 2). Thank you, my friends with generous hearts and great connections. Gracias.

And, in the interests of passing on good things myself, in case you want a little more inspiration before you comment… in a synchronistic twist (so marvellously common in my life these days), my attention this morning was drawn to this wonderful post, by Mari at My Tango Diaries. Cool.

Meanwhile, all this talk of milongueros, secrets and gifts is too much damn foreplay, even for me.

I can hold back no longer. What time does La Milonga de Los Consagrados start? Look out boys, here I come.

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The wait state

April 5, 2010 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams, The tale of my book - Happy Tango | 11 comments

How do you cope with waiting?

In April 2007 I moved out of a hostel and into my first apartment in Buenos Aires. I went to the supermarket, and found myself standing, for what seemed like hours, in a checkout line (I mentioned it here). How can they be so slow? I thought. I got agitated, tutted, hissed complaints under my breath in English (couldn’t do it in Spanish back then, you understand). I ended up abandoning the trolley and heading home minus the food I’d just spent an hour choosing; I stopped off at the instant service 24/7 kiosko for a couple of yoghurts instead. I announced to C. later, Well, I’m not bloody-well going to Supermarket-X again. Their service is soooo slow! He laughed at me. He knew what I didn’t, that there was nothing special and different about Supermarket-X. Oh no, nothing at all. Supermarket-X and Y and Z and every letter you can possibly think of, are the same. Fast-track and self-scan have not quite arrived in Argentina, you see. Not even three years on, in 2010. Add to that the facts that no-one ever has change or coins, people forget to weigh their fruit and veg and we all have to wait while they go back and do it, everyone wants their stuff delivered, credit cards need id… blah, blah, blah. Now, I never leave home for even the flashiest and priciest of Jumbos or Carrefours without a book in my bag and a healthy dose of patience, tolerance and acceptance in my attitude. And I must be changing because I can even manage to get home with a smile on my face — sometimes.

Last night while watching a fairly daft film about Noah’s Ark on cable (though I confess I found it terribly funny and sweet), I was reminded that when we ask God for something (or maybe when he knows we need the thing), he won’t give it to us directly, but he’ll give us a way to get the thing we ask for, and it’s up to us to take the opportunity. I don’t actually remember asking for patience…  In 2010, my life has been a series of waits. I’m forced to conclude that God and his Universe know best.

I am delighted to report that one of my waits is over: I got the go ahead for printing my book. Pirotta Press Ltd (mine) is now a client of the fabulous Lightning Source with the capability to arrange for Happy Tango to be printed either in the USA or in the UK according to the order point’s location; I’m hoping that this will mean that my book can be listed on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk and thus, be easily accessible to you guys all over the world; it still has to be set up of course, but I’m optimistic — other clever people have achieved it, and I am determined to follow in their footsteps! Now though, my book is in someone else’s capable hands, and I am waiting for a cover design before I can start the next phase, the marketing. I’ve got a bit of work to finish too: the 100ish words to go on the back cover. I’ve written them, but am still sweating on whether they truly convey the content and voice of the book. Aargh! It’s that horribly painful and pointless affliction, perfectionism, all over again.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a bit of time and so the question is how to use it wisely, and avoid any unnecessary fretting. Here’s five things I’m doing to make the most of my life situation, right now. If you feel like you’re waiting on something in your life today, perhaps they might help you too.

  1. Resting. I’ve worked hard on the book and I’m shattered. I’ve at last had the healing Chinese massage that I’ve been promising myself for months, and I’m plotting a trip into the Sierras of Córdoba. I’ve got space in my life for a short while and I feel like I want to expand it and luxuriate in it.
  2. Dancing. It’s why I came to Buenos Aires, and somehow, with Happy Tango in the bag (sort of) I feel the pressure is off on all things tango… I no longer have to think about what I’m going to say about it, I can just concentrate on enjoying it! I actually accepted a milonga tanda with a stranger at La Nacional on Saturday night, and it was the best milonga I have ever danced in my life: I think both our hearts were thumping afterwards. The music was electronic (and super-fun), my body was unbelievably relaxed (maybe it was the Chinese massage), and I think my friend TangoCherie might have been a bit concerned that I was going to explode with excitement. I confess I’m not the discreetest of people to share a table with at times — when it comes to celebrating great tandas, I do tend to bubble over like a cauldron of freshly-mixed magic.
  3. Exploring the city I’m in, all over again. The early autumn weather is crisp; Feria de Mataderos started up again after its summer break; the Rosedal park is full of roses in bloom… there is much to be re-discovered and discovered, and I have only two months before I will be in England for a while. Gotta make the most of it then, yeah?
  4. Doing at least one action from my ‘things I love list’, every day: coffee and yummy cake in Baraka, writing a blog post or writing anything at all, vacuuming the flat, riding on a colectivo, touching the plants on my balcony, buying a bargain dress or a flower to decorate a dress in the local markets… small is beautiful in every one of these special pleasures.
  5. Clarifying and growing my list of the things I want in my life (and I use the word things very loosely in this case). It’s over three years since I chose to live a path of the heart, and over a year since I chose to live. Bloody hell. Doesn’t time zoom when you are having fun? On my journey I’ve learned to dance, to speak a foreign tongue, to love two lands equally, to love. I’ve kept this blog going, met kindred creative spirits all over the world, written a book. I’ve found out that I can live in one room with another person and very few possessions and rarely have a cross word, sleep without a soft toy (sometimes), do absolutely anything. I’ve experienced much, but I want to adventure more. That’s why I have a dream list, an intention list, a ‘build the life I want’ list: ever changing, ever growing, full of passion, and these days, without limits.

This morning, feeling slightly impatient and wanting to find a way out of that, I started writing about ‘the wait state’, but I now realise, that it is not a wait state at all… just time. I can choose to endure it, or I can choose to enjoy it. A no-brainer I reckon. This afternoon then. The milonga of Alicia “La Turca” in La Ideal, my loyal milongueros who treat me like a princess, my friends, pizza after. Can waiting get any better? I reckon, no.

Then there’s the fact that I sometimes feel I waited 43 years for the moment that changed my life and gave me the chance to try this one. And in this life therefore, there can be no waiting, only living. I don’t think God is trying to teach me patience at all. I think he’s trying to show me how to enjoy the now.

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From La Viruta to Montevideo

March 3, 2010 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 15 comments

Sallycat I’m in Uruguay. And I’m eating sugary, made in the moment churros (long, thin, yummy donuts covered in sugar) by the Montevideo ocean. Well, not quite the ocean. The water looks vast from here, but it’s really still the Rio de la Plata. At least, it is according to the fishermen casting off from the rocks beneath La Rambla, the wide promenade that hugs the rio’s edge in front of our hotel. And these boys should know about the water, right? The fact that it’s muddy when it shouldn’t be. The fact that the fish aren’t biting like they should be. The fishermen chat with us and share the thought that Mother Earth seems to have new plans of late. I can’t help agreeing with them. Those rivers in Buenos Aires a couple of weeks back were nothing compared to what she was just about to do on the other side of the South American continent, were they?

I didn’t feel tremors in Buenos Aires at the moment of the earthquake (though in the highest buildings some did, I understand), but I did feel a bit unsettled at what is going on with our planet and as the aftershocks continue, I still do. I also feel very very sad for the people in Chile.

I remember when I was about eight years old, I’d lie awake and worry about what would happen if I got separated from my Mum and Dad in the event of a nuclear attack; I pictured myself shutting all the windows then hiding under the dining room table. Maybe if I was a kid right now, I’d be having nightmares about the end of the world. Instead, I’m forty seven and doing my best not to go there; my own time-up is certain to come, whichever way, and I suppose I think that until it does, I must concentrate on living.

We already had our tickets for the overnight Buquebus on Sunday 28th February, so we tried to get our body clocks ready to stay up all night with a medialunas breakfast at La Viruta. I haven’t been there for a while, but needed to pass by and check my facts one last time before sending the finished Happy Tango manuscript to the book designers, so we set our alarm for 4am and managed to crawl out of bed and taxi it down there. We were too late for the breakfast (already sold out) but the dance floor was calm-ish by then and the surround-sound-effect acoustics were all-encompassing; the minute I got into C.’s arms and closed my eyes… well, the world outside, good or sad, was gone.

Some do not like La Viruta: more of  a ‘pick-up joint’ than a milonga; long tandas (on weekends) of six – an endurance test (if you find yourself with a partner who can’t dance); the blackout, for the penultimate tango, that leaves the wary (of being snogged by a stranger?) scuttling from the dance floor. I know, I know… there are downsides. Yet I, safely accompanied by my love, can’t help adoring something about the place, even in all its scruffiness. And C., though he complains the crowd is getting younger and younger (and it is), still smiles at the fact that it seems to be the only milonga (or baile as La Viruta calls it on its paper programme) in town that plays one of his favourite tangos, La Bruja. On Sunday in any case, we left all gripes at home and surrendered to the happy memories that the place holds for us. We stayed to kiss in the dark ourselves, watched the younger generation hit the floor for the brightly lit rock n roll, cumbia and salsa at 6am, and I stumbled out into calle Armenia and daylight saying, Oh I am sooooo happy I did that.

It’s good to reconnect with your passions (for tango or for whatever). Mine had got lost somewhere in the cross checks, fact checks, spell checks, proofreadings, publishing company start-ups, ISBN applications, permissions emails…  not to mention the fears that I’ve left something out, put too much in, pissed someone off, done it wrong, not done a good enough job… ah, the overwhelming, spiralling out of control VOD, letting rip on the subject of my first book.

In the face of all that nonsense, what was the effect of one night dancing in La Viruta till dawn with the man I love? Hellooo beautiful Barbie! Our taxi sped away down Cordoba towards home and she whispered to me,

Just one more week of fact checks, dear Sallycat, and then let’s set this bloody brilliant book on its way to do its job helping people from all over the world to find their own Happy Tango in Buenos Aires!

And I replied,

Yes Barbie, let’s. But first, how about we go to Montevideo to fix our need of a valid visa, hire bicycles to explore an unfamiliar city, and eat churros in the sun. When we’ve relaxed a bit, we can read the manuscript one last time with fresh eyes and plan our final weekend of milonga trekking and reccy-ing: Villa Malcolm, La Glorieta, Milonga10… how does that sound? We’d better hope Carlos is on for it all though? Shall we ask him?

We did. And he was.

So, that’s what we’re up to this week. Me, C., and the little voices in my head. We’re in Montevideo. Keeping one beady eye on the next milestone along the bumpy road to the publication of our book. Recovering our balance. And life adventuring, as usual.

And here are the pics to prove it.

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