The goddess within

Forgot to mention in the whirl of bliss that was Los Consagrados last Saturday, that I stumbled upon a well cool chica from Inglaterra who’s been in town far longer than me. Poor woman probably wondered what the hell had hit her as yours truly accompanied by friend descended on the calm of her table,

“Heard so much about you. Delighted to meet you at last. You don’t know me but so and so knows you and I know them… blah blah blah.”

I’m well aware how alarming this can be. Oh my God who are these nutters? What do they want? If I give them my number will they be calling at all hours of the night and day? Truth is when I’m excited my voice finds fever pitch, I laugh far too much and I suspect I can sound slightly unhinged: yet another middle aged ‘locita’ who came to Buenos Aires on the run from England type thing.

However despite being hijacked during the milonga tanda, she bravely held out the hand of trust and so did we and the result was that my adventures took a turn I could never have predicted.

By the time Tuesday came around I recalled that she’d said she was running some workshops for women, we were  invited and I would be learning something that could help me to discover and celebrate my female energy. Now I am not one to balk at discovering anything, but I have to confess that when the calm, meditative Tao-focused section of the afternoon came to a close and she announced that after the tea break we would each put on one of those hip belts with tinkling coins that belly dancers flaunt, I wanted to invent an excuse to leave fast. My mate on the other hand was exclaiming brightly, ‘Oh bloody brilliant, I’ve always wanted to wear one of those!’ ‘Me too.’ I copied. Fake it to make it right?

Honestly, I am as unlikely a Belly Dancer as you will ever meet: skinny as a bean pole without a curve in sight, more tom boy than Barbie since birth, just getting used to allowing my reluctant woman inside to breathe in the arms of tango but when it comes to revealing her on the outside in pelvic rolls and hip shimmies, in an open space under the watchful eyes of anyone else, be they male or female… Er forget it.

So how was it that after an hour with virtual strangers in the cocoon of a studio in Congreso, I was ready to undulate my belly all the way back to Las Cañitas?

Number one. Maggie is a fab teacher, and somehow she managed to weave a safety net into which I was unafraid to fall. To watch her belly dance is to see how beautiful a woman at complete ease with herself can be. She led me from terror to the point of letting go without me even realising it and she didn’t mind my nervous giggles along the way. Number two. ‘Musica Arabe’ seemed to be able to get under my skin even though I was giving it the cold shoulder and yell, ‘Hey Sal, you CAN’T resist me can you, you sexy beast?’ And three, once I let go enough to wind my hips in the most voluptuous figure of eight I could manage, my goddess inside had danced out into the Buenos Aires afternoon all by herself and I couldn’t hold her back.

When I dance tango I sometimes feel sensual. I feel beautiful, and the male presence helps me. I am woman to his man.  I can let go on the inside but there’s a structure, rules, confines on the outside. That’s in part why I like it. I know where I am. I feel safe.  People watching on the sidelines probably won’t even notice that my woman within  flies.

She soars when home alone too: Dead or Alive, You Spin Me Round on the headphones at top volume, and I strut my stuff around the apartment like the sexy vixen that I know I am. I once did it on a hill in Mongolia too, with iPod earplugs, goats and Busted, Year 3000 for company… although I was wearing several layers of clothes on that occasion, you will be relieved to know.

However, in a room of women who to my eyes are always far more womanly than me, in a skirt purpose built for shimmying and the words belly dancing ringing in my ears? Until Tuesday, no.

Now I suspect that I was a bit more stick than rubber at the beginning but I soon stopped worrying about how I looked because once we’d learned a few moves we closed our eyes and danced for ourselves. Then to my utter amazement, I was transformed, as the energy of the music melted my inhibitions into something white hot… my goddess within had arrived on the outside and before I knew it, we were belly rolling together like the best of the Arabian queens.

Lying on the cool wooden floor afterwards attempting to calm down, I found myself spontaneously giggling with her. “Please let out to me play more often,” she laughed. She wasn’t keen to remove the golden yellow skirt of tinkling coins either. What she did want to do was run home and ravish ‘mi amor’, and neither I or he was complaining about that. No indeed.

Hell, I’ve spent the rest of the week shamelessly fantasising about what colour belly dancing outfit would suit me best and wondering if I could be rubbery enough and woman enough to perform a belly dance as well as a tango at my parents’ Great Golden Wedding Anniversary Party in the UK in August…

Oh my God Maggie, what have you unleashed?