The Christmas post

Christmas already? I shrieked to my mum in the Debenhams department store of the Bullring Shopping Centre, Birmingham, England. It was the first week in September 2009. I made Carlos line up with the Santas for a laugh and to capture absolute proof that, in the country of my birth, the commercial powers that be seem to want our lives to be nothing more than chapters of shopping (and, dare I say it, looking ever forward to some future event): early September to December 24th – Christmas paraphanalia in the shops; from December 25th to end January – ads on the TV for summer holidays, monthly magazines (encouraging us to take up knitting, painting plates or collecting china), and cut-price leather sofas; February to Easter Sunday – chocolate eggs on supermarket shelves; from the first sign of sun, even though it might still be barely below freezing – BBQs, BBQ coals and garden furniture on service station forecourts; from the moment the schools break up in July for the summer break – Back to School clothes in shop windows; and that takes us neatly back to bumping into Father Christmas in Debenhams all over again. Plus of course we’re encouraged to give plenty of cards, costing a packet and a few trees, for all manner of random occasions. Bah humbug! And, yes, I guess I am. As my years have advanced I confess I’ve edged towards being anti the celebrating of events (even the ones I believe in) with things. It wasn’t always that way though. I mean, I do remember the first Christmas I spent with my ex-husband, back in the early 1990s, when I sulked for hours (or was it days) because he hadn’t got me a Christmas card. Blimey, was that really me? Sorry Mike.

Last night, just a few days before Christmas Eve (which is the big date in Argentina), I crossed the city on the 29 bus from Palermo to San Telmo on my way to and from dancing with my love at the relaxed and warm-vibed La Milonga del Indio in Plaza Dorrego. OK, Avenida Santa Fe was chocca, especially around the Alto Palermo Shopping Mall, and I saw a big Christmas tree with lights on it near the Obelisco, where a very non-Christmassy car event (according to a taxi driver I spoke to later) was taking place. In Argentina, I have noticed, Chrimbo passes in thirty minutes of fireworks at midnight on the 24th, rather than in months of carol singing – or indeed, in any rendition of my old favourites, like Once in Royal David’s City, at all.

So, in the absence of the Queen’s speech to look forward to, what shape can Christmas take for a British tango dancer in Buenos Aires? Well, if you want to dance you can. Tango doesn’t stop here, even for the birthday of Jesus. This year, after the big steak-in-mushroom-sauce feast cooked by C., I could be trying Salon Canning, open from 1am to 6am for the Milonga de Jazmines en el Pelo y algún brillo en la ropa… (Jasmine in your hair and something shiny in your clothes…), organised by Julia and Pedro so that ‘No-one has to be alone over these holidays’ (a sentiment I like, a lot). Transport might be a bit of a problem, as everything stops (yes, even in Buenos Aires) for a few hours around midnight as the 24th becomes the 25th and the fireworks shock every living creature awake, but lucky for me, I can walk to Canning if I want. And, by the time I emerge into the dawn of Christmas morning, the buses and taxis will be back in action. And if I do dance all night, I’ll probably sleep through most of the hot sunshine on Christmas Day, and won’t even notice that my family aren’t with me, that there’s no turkey with cranberry sauce or crackers crammed with paper hats at lunch, and that La Reina Elizabeth isn’t on the telly at 3 o’clock. I’ll still miss them all, though. Perhaps more than I care to admit.

Meanwhile, anoche, Me and C. stepped out on to the temporary Plaza Dorrego dance floor, rolled out beneath strings of coloured lights, and whirled our way through the warm air, creating our own blissful breeze with a few valses, tangos and milongas… we giggled as our feet caught in the taped joins, we recognised familiar faces in the crowd, we celebrated the fact that the people of San Telmo have something similar to our beloved La Glorieta (in Belgrano), and we joined them dancing in it. Swirling a vals together under a cloudless sky, the stars and the slim moon in late December? Not a bad Chrimbo present, I reckon. It might not have been wrapped in Christmas paper nor left under a huge real tree. It might not have been printed on card nor delivered by the postman. It might only have cost a few pesos thrown into a passed-around gorro (hat). But, it sure as hell said, Happy Christmas, loud and clear, to me. And, let’s face it, it’s not just any present is it? It’s my present, my life, chosen for me, by myself. If I don’t embrace it and love it, then I’ve only got myself to blame.

I hope you guys enjoy your presents too. I’m sorry you couldn’t give Happy Tango (my book, Sallycat’s Guide to Dancing in Buenos Aires) as a Christmas gift this year, but despite me working round the clock for months, it just wasn’t ready. And maybe it won’t quite make the January sales either. But, printed in time for Easter? A definite possibility. Reading a bit of Sallycat while munching on a huge Galaxy Easter egg? Sounds the perfect combination to me. Something delightful to look forward to in that normally-rather-dull ‘world shopping calendar’ I mentioned. Though, now I’m falling into the trap of getting ahead of myself in the world of things too. Instead, let me just stick with the here and now, Navidad 2009…

Happy Christmas, one and all, wherever you are in the world – from me,

Sallycat, in Buenos Aires