Buenos Aires milongas

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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.

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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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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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Warmth

December 31, 2009 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams | 11 comments

from Sallycat and BarbieLast night, as I stood up to leave a Buenos Aires milonga – in a freshly renovated (but chilled to cero grados by blasting air conditioners) traditional venue – a beautiful woman sitting in the front row stopped me and said, I just wanted to say that I read your blog and really enjoy it… or something equally heartwarming (in my delight I have forgotten the precise words she spoke), and brought a huge smile to my slightly frozen cheeks. I was grateful for that kind touch from a stranger in an unfamiliar milonga, and for the other joys that came my way throughout the evening. The two friends I sat with, laughed with, ate chips coated in cheese and herbs with. The man I knew from another venue who danced with me right away and so eased the nerves (yep, I still get them) of being on a huge dance floor surrounded by seated rows of pretty high-powered, serious solo dancers, when the room is half empty and my body is not warmed up. I know it’s supposed to be about only you, your partner and the music – but it isn’t always, if I’m honest: that long line of guys along the wall are having a good reccy to see if they might want to risk you later or strike you straight off their list; so, kicking your partner or tripping over your own feet on a slippery floor because of either nerves or cold muscles is not a good plan, believe you me. The cosiest, most comforting embrace of the later hours, after I’d been sitting out a bit: he actually rubbed my hands and said to me after a couple of tangos, There, I feel the temperature of your heart rising. I left after that because I couldn’t bear to sit and lose the heat again. It was my last tanda of the decade, and I wanted to leave my tango on a high note. And I did, didn’t I? But not really because of him. Rather, because of the unexpected and kind words of the lady on the front row.

Last night was the first time for me (and for many, as it’s only been open for two weeks) at this milonga (though because it had moved from another venue, many regular folk knew each other, of course). My magnetic energy was low because during my bus journey across town a black ink pen in my bag had managed to leak marks all over the front of my green dress, so I had to wear my cardigan pinned in a slightly strange arrangement to cover it up. I was given a seat on the third row because the organiser had never seen me before. It was tough to perform the cabeceo from there and avoid confusion – one woman stood for a cabeceo intended for me on my first tanda, though my guy kindly stuck with me. Plus, truly, some blokes don’t ever look at the third row, well, except perhaps to tease. I did manage to dance a few nice tandas, but there was a fair bit of sitting it out, and as I say, the aircon was a killer… almost drained me of signs of life. It was one of those nights where I had to work hard to feel the love, get dances, see many smiles. The dancing was great, but a lot of the time I was watching it and not doing it. I even grumbled a bit to my friends. Never a good sign. Means my magnetic energy is probably on the floor. And that’s very bad news, because in my experience men are never attracted to dance with women with zero zest. Punto. And frankly I don’t blame them. I knew what was happening and mustered my most positive vibe now and again to achieve a successful cabeceo, but it just wasn’t one of those nights when guys looked at me without some serious effort on my part. Let’s just blame it on the ink pen and the cardigan folks… and move on.

On the way home on the bus, I got to thinking that a decade ago I’d never even heard the word tango, Argentina was just a place on the map of my youth (hooked in with vivid memories of my grandfather yelling abuse at Margaret Thatcher on the telly), and I’d just given up a job teaching primary school children to become a full time housewife in middle, and quite conservative England. Here I am to my surprise and delight, ten years later, living in Buenos Aires, being given an unexpected compliment on my writing by a gorgeous tanguera from the front row (although any row would have been equal in this case), who until that moment, I had never met. Sod the number of dances. Sod the icy blast of the aircon. Sod the pen all over my new dress. I am writing from Buenos Aires, Argentina. My writing touches those I have never met. That is my dream. And it is my reality. Out of the blue, when I least expected it but probably needed it, this lady, who incidentally was wearing a stunning (and totally pen-mark free) dress herself, reminded me of that.

And there was a strange coincidence thing going on with that stranger and me, you see. In the moment she spoke to me, I was about to speak to her to tell her that I loved her dress. Despite my chilly night, I had just watched her dancing and made a tiny decision to be warm too. Our decisions met. Our intentions. Her words to me. Mine to her. Mutual warmth connecting rows of seats, different nationalities, unique human beings on their own adventurous and equally special paths. By the time I went to bed last night, I knew that The Universe took me to sit in that milonga fria, just for that. Knowledge of the power of warmth.

In 2010 I am going to do my best to be warm-hearted. I am going to tell people when they do something that inspires me. I am going to thank people who say something that helps me. I am going to try to remember that when I decide to reach out with a written word or a spoken word or a deed of love, even the intention might be enough to create an opportunity, a meeting, a conversation, even a thought that I otherwise would never have had. It might also put a much needed smile on someone else’s face, and the world might just get a teeny bit happier as a result.

So, on the eve of a new decade which rather splendidly will include the year 11, I (Sallycat and Barbie captured above in the Palermo sunshine, connected by what I think are a pair of sunglasses or, in my dreams, a magic white-winged butterfly) yell,

Let’s hear it for warmth!

And if you’re listening at La Nacional, Turn down the damn aircon and perk us all up a bit! Gracias.


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The Christmas post

December 21, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information, Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Expat in Buenos Aires | 17 comments

Santa CarlosChristmas 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

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My kind of tango

January 25, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information, Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 10 comments

Ruben y Cherie perform at La Milonguita Live in Buenos Aires, dance tango all night right? Mmmmmm…

I’m sure friends passing through think me a total flake, but what you do when you have a couple of weeks, a month, six months or even a year changes big time when you know you’re in it for the long haul. But, does the fun have to end when you need to get up before eight in the mornings, conserve your pesos in the face of a British pound scraping the floor with the dollar, finally wake up to the fact that sleep during the hours of darkness matters? I think not. Here’s why.

I meet my talented Brit film making friend at six on the corner of Corrientes and Rodriguez Peña and we nip on the bus to Humberto Primo 1462. It’s Saturday evening and the milonga is Los Consagrados. It’s my first visit, not to the venue of course, but to this particular milonga. My dear blogging pal TangoCherie will be there with the charming Ruben, and has been kind enough to offer us a seat at her table. I’ve been promising to pop along for almost, I’m embarrassed to say, two years… ah well the best things are worth a wait I reckon.

My mate looks cool as a delicious banana licuado in her white summer dress and I’m begging fashion advice from her as we walk the last couple of blocks to the entrance. I’ve seen myself in a few shop windows en route and I’ve decided that I’ve really got to invest in some clothes that actually fit me. I seem to shrink in forty degree heat.

“I cut my own fringe today,” I say, “Does it look straight? And you’ve gotta tell me if my trousers look baggy at the back. Should I do the belt up a notch or will that give me the disappearing up the arse look?”

“Your fringe looks great and yeah, hitch them up. You’ll fit right in!”  she laughs.

I know what she means. I do it. After my unexpected success with flashing the two inches of taut tummy some weeks ago, I am pretty confident that promoting my backside just a millimetre or three won’t do my dancing chances any harm. But I pull my top down. I’m a shy girl at heart and I’m spoken for. Happily.

We pay our $15 pesos (a good price these days so I’m smiling) and head straight for the ladies to slip into our tango shoes and for me to check the trousers one last time. God it’s hot. The attendant is fanning herself madly and complaining with good humour about the heat – or at least I think she is: she talks very fast. I am grateful that I don’t have to spend my entire evening in there and resolve to give her a big tip later. I’m sweating by the time we emerge, but the huge elegant salon (of Niño Bien fame) has whirring fans and I am excited because I bought my own cheap gypsy style one on the street this week. It’ll be my first milonga with an instant breeze in my hand. Cool.

The guy on the door is charm itself (and cute) and eventually after a pleasant enough half an hour seated on one side of the room, we spot my friends across the ‘pista’, and join them. Oh what a joy it is to share a milonga table with lovely people who know and understand Buenos Aires tango. When the milonga is their ‘tango home’ it’s extra special. I sit there and think how bloody lucky I am. To be able to chat in Spanish with Ruben and in English with Cherie, share potato crisps, catch up on all the news. To my delight Ruben dances a tanda with me, and later one with my mate. Thank you for sharing him Cherie: what a fabulous dancer he is. And thank you Ruben: 1. because you made me feel like a queen, and 2. because I am not kidding when I say that after that tanda I almost have to fight off a queue of charming Argentine gentlemen milongueros, and every single one of them makes me feel like a queen too. Truly this is a lesson in why, if you want to dance with the best of Buenos Aires in places where you aren’t known, you have to get out on that floor with someone who makes you look beautiful. Ruben does. I know, not only because I felt it myself but because some of those guys tell me so,

“I saw you dancing with Ruben. I had my eye on you. Really you are a lovely dancer.”

And honestly, this isn’t just the ’slime talk’ I used to fall for in the early days either. I know what’s genuine by now. I feel when it’s good, for them as well as me.

Now I will say that this is a friendly place. It’s traditional but it has an informal early evening vibe and there are plenty of ’single’ dancers who want to dance. The atmosphere is inclusive relative to so many places that I’ve been, and both my mate and I were ‘cabeceo-ed’ even before we joined my friends. Proof therefore that some of the men in Los Consagrados will invite strangers to dance. All that aside, to get onto the floor with a wonderful and preferably ‘known amongst the milonguero boys’ dancer is the absolute key to a fab night of tango in this city. Men here want to know that you are worth the risk, or at least the ones who are after your dancing as opposed to your body do. And they are the guys for me.

So both my friend and I dance ‘muchisimo’ and we stay right to the last tanda. I can’t remember the last time I made it right through to La Cumparsita without yawning. We get chatted up by the desirable doorman on the way out. Me chatted up? Bloody hell. We’re giggling as we head down for the bus. I discover that the 60 actually goes straight past on Humberto Primo. Perfect, and at this hour – 10.30pm, it’s safe to be waiting there, well with a friend anyway. The kiosko’s open and the family in the doorway helpfully direct us to the exact location of the bus stop, as it isn’t marked. As we wait, three vans and cars carrying guys we’ve danced with slow down, and friendly shouts of ‘Chau chicas!’ make us chuckle again. One of the vans is white with the word, Pugliese beautifully sign painted in large blue letters down the side. Gorgeous.

I am so happy on the ‘colectivo’ home. It’s 11pm. I’m awake. For three hours I’ve danced my kind of tango: the kind that feels great. I’ve shared with good mates. I’ve been welcomed by a friendly crowd into a milonga that really feels like ‘home’ on first visit. And I’ve still got the energy to join Carlos after work to eat, talk and whatever else the night may bring. Honestly, for this Buenos Aires tango loving soul trying to forge a balanced but adventurous life, this is the way to do it.

And you know what? You guys can try my favourite kind of tango evening too. Cherie and Ruben are lovely genuine people and they offer all kinds of tango services including Milonga Accompaniment. I’m one of those folks who doesn’t like to recommend a thing until I’ve touched it, felt it, believed in it. And although they’ve been my friends for a while, two years it’s taken me to get to Los Consagrados, share their table, dance with Ruben. It goes without saying that Cherie is a lovely dancer too. Last night before we said our ‘hasta luegos’ I remarked to her,

“You know what? I’ve been to this venue so many times for different milongas but this has been the business! I will be back!”

I meant it. Honestly, if you’re new in town and need a relaxed night out with a friendly couple you can trust, well I reckon that Cherie and Ruben and Los Consagrados are a damn good place to start. And hey who knows, maybe I’ll see you there.

Want more details about Los Consagrados? Read what Cherie wrote in 2007 here. Maybe a few details have changed, but you’ll get the idea.

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Energy

January 8, 2009 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams | 18 comments

Merengue makes me smile Fairly recently I sat with a dear girlfriend in a Saturday night milonga popular with solo dancers, for five hours, and managed to be invited onto the floor for the grand total of two tandas (both during the first hour when the place was half empty): one with a guy I knew, and one with a friend of a very nice woman on the next table. Although the dances were divine, it wasn’t really the happiest of nights, at least in terms of number of tandas danced (which for me is not always everything – but even I, self elected President of the Make Sure You Soak Up All Aspects of the Buenos Aires Milonga Campaign Party, struggle a bit with two tandas in five hours and with knocking on for $50 pesos spent: transport, ‘entradas’, cloakroom, ‘empanadas’ – excellent at this venue and absolutely required to keep me from falling asleep around hour three, drinks).  Actually this particular night looked up in the end because ‘mi amor’ C. appeared and saved me, and although he was given a seat in the far distance and almost behind the wall of the DJ’s booth, we managed to somehow signal to each other when we wanted to dance; and to prove it here we are, thanks to T. another of my gorgeous tanguera pals, dancing merengue in the tropical tanda – and I think I’m smiling.

There were some basic reasons why the night may not have been destined for greatness in the ‘quantity of dances’ regard. Although I’ve lived here for almost two years and however much I love Buenos Aires and the milonga I speak of, the reality sometimes hurts: I’m not a regular at this place and therefore the host (who allocates the seats) doesn’t know me or if I can dance; there is very little space between the chairs so it’s virtually impossible for men to stand up or walk around in order to widen their options in terms of dance partners – that means if the ones sitting near you don’t pick you, then you’re in trouble; the place is so packed and the seating so arranged that if you are in the third row back at one end of the room and you don’t achieve a successful ‘cabeceo’ in the first seconds of a tanda, your view of eligible men is completely blocked by dancers and you may as well give up. However despite these basic realities of milonga life, if I’m honest I know that besides all this stuff that is easy to blame, on the particular night in question my usual confident personal energy was just not there and because it was missing, I missed out.

Instead of energy, I could write power of attraction. I could write magnetism. I could write self belief: these days I recognise it in others and I am realising that I sometimes have it myself. When it’s there, I could probably stomach two tandas in five hours, but if it’s there I probably won’t have to.

Some of my friends seem to have attractive energy all the time: it’s in their eyes, their elegance, the way they laugh, the way they move, the chatter at their tables. When I have it too, I smile, chat and giggle with them; I sit up straight; I make the effort to move my head to get in the eye line of the guys I want to attract, while looking as if I’m ready to set the dance floor alight; I’m relaxed and carefree so I never look desperate, on the contrary I probably look as if I don’t really mind if I never dance at all (in part because I don’t – I’ll have a fun time anyway). On days and nights when my energy is high I can have to work hard NOT to dance, even in some places where I am not known: though I have to say, not necessarily in the one I describe, which can be a tough nut to crack for an unfamiliar face.

The night in question came just after I’d decided not to cough up a fortune for more contact lenses but to go back to my glasses. My energy had taken a serious down turn: I’m ashamed to say I felt ugly for a while and it affected everything. Now in my case it was the return of the specs that set the whole thing off, but it could equally well have been clothes that just didn’t feel right, lack of sleep, writer’s block, not eating before arriving at the milonga… no matter what the cause, the effect was depleted self confidence, and the result was invisibility: potential dance partners looked through me like I wasn’t there, including a man I had danced with on a fairly regular basis somewhere else. God it’s a ghastly feeling. I know I’m not the greatest dancer on the planet, but I can dance OK and when I hear vals followed by De Angelis then Calo then D’Arienzo then Pugliese and I cannot make a single man look my way… need I say more?

In the end I was grateful for this experience. It shocked me a bit, and it made me angry: at first angry with everyone else of course, but by 24 hours later with myself. Sometimes anger is a great motivator if used wisely. It got me off my arse the next night, and out with the same friend to a different milonga, where I decided to flaunt my specs rather than worry about them, and bloody hell, I had to run outside for a cigarette to get a break from gorgeous tandas. OK perhaps there were a few other factors on my side: I vaguely know the host (although not sure if she recognised me in my glasses, so maybe she just liked my gleaming smile) and we got a great seat where we could be noticed; from our prime position making eye contact with the guys was a piece of cake; I’ve danced there quite a lot with C. and so possibly a few chaps knew I could dance OK; my trousers kept slipping down and exposing an inch or two of taut tummy flesh (oh well, taut for a 45 year old) – felt a bit bad about that, but it’s not quite the same as a mini skirt that reveals your knickers, is it? The hours turned into a darling of a night and I knew though that despite all the strokes of good fortune, I was making my own luck in my head, just by believing in myself.

A while ago during the Tour de France I saw this poster on the wall of the subway. I snapped it, and I’ve been dying to use it ever since. Maybe this is the moment. I want to pedal into 2009 remembering that I am a little Sallycat magnet, and I attract what I believe. Beautiful inside and outside with or without specs, a dancer worth a tanda with or without flesh on display, a writer worth reading with or without finished or published books… the bottom line for me is self belief. May I find it, nurture it and use it well.

IMGP0151

Roughly translated advert for the 2008 Tour de France

Your toughest rival is in your own head.

Happy cycling.

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Feel

August 13, 2008 in Buenos Aires Information, Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 13 comments

The moon above La Glorieta

La Glorieta is one of my favourite venues for tango in Buenos Aires.

Under its roof I have felt  apprehensive (my first night out in Buenos Aires tango, alone), high (after my first ever tanda with Carlos, on my first night out in Buenos Aires tango, alone), caressed by romance (after my second ever tanda with Carlos, one week later), the joy of sharing (on countless occasions ever since when I have taken visiting friends there), crushed (watching the qualifying rounds of the Metropolitano 2007), part of an Argentine life (dancing with the Argentines, in the chilly winter, in my coat, under the moon), and always very very happy.

Why is La Glorieta my kind of place?

It seems to me that it is a place for everyone: to dance, to watch, to chat, to kiss, to be.

It’s outside in a public park and so touches dancers and non-dancers alike: people sit and drink mate on the grass, or stand around on the stone walkways as dusk falls. Children mimic the dancing they see up above. Old folk sit on benches, listen to the music and chat to the dancers as they change their shoes. Passers by are attracted by the drifting melodies, can see tango being danced, perhaps for the first time. People arrive on foot, on bicycles, on motorbikes, on the bus, on the subway.

It’s relaxed: no reservations, no tables, no competition for the best seats, just smiles and shoulders touching as the night gets darker and busier. Eyes meet easily here, or a quiet, ‘Bailas?’ is equally appropriate. Everything and everyone is in the mix: tango shoes, street shoes, people dressed for dancing, people dressed for a walk in the park, the old, the new, the young, the ‘mas grande’ (that means the older not the bigger – well in this context anyway), the friends, the lovers, the singles, a million and one different tango styles and quirks, the beginners, the old hands, the Argentines, those from other countries. This is social dancing for fun, for love, for joy.

It’s kind of home made and reminds me of English summer events outside: the spaghetti junction of cables running to the music system; the music itself, that sometimes falters or changes from vals to tango mid tanda; the lengthy announcement that breaks the evening in two; the ‘no loo’ scenario.

It’s beautiful: the shadows that play in the roof; the weak lights that sometimes give up to let the moonlight in; the extra gentle sound and fresh air when it rains; the curled ironwork which I can lean on, or tie my bag to, or just notice; the wide stone steps; the smooth tiled floor that has felt the sweep of many feet.

On Sunday evening, Carlos and me danced in La Glorieta. Our bodies had wonderful conversations: laughing through milongas, chatting excitedly through valses, whispering through tangos. We watched too with fondness, and chuckled to see an old couple talking aloud constantly as they danced, their torsos pulled apart by their chatting heads. I said, ‘They’re are deciding what to eat for dinner, no?’. During the next tanda a joking C. gave it a go with me, ‘Shall we go to Disco or Coto? What shall we buy?’ We lasted about 30 seconds. ‘Que diferencia!’ Carlos seemed mortified, ‘How can you feel anything if you are talking?’

Too true eh? I have thought the same as a few men in the past have wittered on in my ear… How can you listen to my heart (never mind the music) if you are talking to my head? And why are you letting your voice stamp on your own soul? And, when I’m dancing with you I don’t care who you think you are or what you think the people dancing next to us are doing or who you have decided I am: I want to feel who you really are… so please just shut up and then you might find out who I really am too…

Carlos and me laughed, closed our mouths and left our bodies to it.

La Glorieta, Buenos Aires As we walked home from La Glorieta on Sunday evening, Carlos told me that he would never have spoken to me before dancing with me, in any other Milonga. But at La Glorieta last April he did so because we happened to be standing next to each other during the mid-evening announcements, close enough together for conversation to be natural. He says he looked at me and thought I looked alone and slightly anxious (he probably means terrified). He says he wanted to help me to feel better, to smile. His tentative, ‘Where from you?’ or some such delightful variation did not fail. Carlos tells me he still can’t believe that he actually spoke to me like that, out of nowhere, him being the shy soul that he is. That he noticed me at all, that he was inspired to speak, that he tried a few English words… these are the things I marvel at. I think La Glorieta smoothed our way with its open nature and generous spirit.

I feel that La Glorieta is a place with a beautiful soul, in part formed of all the magical connections created under the curve of its roof. The memory of our first tentative encounter is in there somewhere, mixed with the echo of their easy conversations, the depth of your kisses, the energy of their dancing, the song of your laughter.

Perhaps if you dance there, you will feel it too.

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Winter tango

July 25, 2008 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 8 comments

IMGP6722 Hot from my bath, I cheerfully make plans to go out. Two friends from here, two mates from there, Carlos on his way home from Barracas where he is searching for a gas leak… empanadas in my tummy. Optimistic. Full. No idea how cold it is outside.

I manage to uncover one clean skinny t-shirt, of a rather zesty ‘naranja’ – well maybe tangerine, and jeans in the boxes that make up my wardrobe. I try to think about elegance for once: I choose a coat that is definitely more charm than warm. Before Carlos can say ‘radiator’ I have him showered, fed and on the Subte, zipping towards Catedral through the dark tunnels of Buenos Aires. I think he tries to suggest a different jacket at some point before we leave, but I am too busy organising him into the plans of my various friends to listen.

We arrive in the land of off season tango San Telmo: lone leather coated man on the door; $23 pesos ‘entrada’ between us instead of the required $24 from the $25 I hand over because no-one wants to admit to having a spare peso coin; even the music drifting down the stone steps sounds a bit thin.

Upstairs my dear tanguera friend is dancing with a tanguero on the rough wood floor in the semi darkness. Me and C. sit in our coats, order a coffee, and I reluctantly take off my knee length boots and thick socks and put on my old black patent tango shoes with the open toes. My feet shrink under the table.

It is a joy to see the tanguera and the tanguero dance together. Her face is dream like over his shoulder. They look like they have been dancing forever in the space lit with red. They look like they belong on that floor, in San Telmo, in Buenos Aires. She is elegance. He is in a short sleeved shirt. They look comfortable. They look warm.  We watch for a while, we embrace them when they stop. Their welcomes touch my heart, but by now I can’t feel my knees.

Me and C. dance in our coats. The floor is old and my heels discover a few pot holes. I trip over C.’s shoes. He hasn’t changed his: he’s dancing in my dad’s cast off Marks and Spencer specials. We sit. My body begins to rust.

We are now five at the table, and there are perhaps five other people in the room. We chat in a mixture of English and Spanish. I find my tongue has seized up. I lose words in castellano, and the ones that come spill out all ’stumbly’. ‘Do you want to speak English?’ offers the kind tanguero. ‘No,’ say I. ‘Carlos won’t understand.’ And I stutter on clumsily. I wonder how the hell I manage at home speaking castellano day in day out. How does C. understand anything I say? I start to shrink. I text my friends and tell them to do their own thing. Back at the table I decide to switch to English after all, but I seem to have forgotten how to make sense in my own language too. I shrink a little more.

The kind tanguero invites me to dance. I am happy. But out there on that naked wooden floor I think I actually do disappear down the cracks. My body first. Then my head. Then my heart. I can only say sorry, and I feel sad that I do. Where have I gone?

Carlos makes a tiny flower for the tanguera. Someone else at the table mistakenly pulls off the stem. The flower head lies disconnected.

The kind tanguero invites me to dance a second tanda. By the last track I feel my soul warming. I hope he feels it too. We say our farewells and he heads out into the night.

Carlos makes a new stem for the tanguera’s flower. She puts it in her beautiful hair. I put on my socks and my cosy boots. Me and C. dance again: my boots and my dad’s shoes comfortably cover the holes in the floor.

We walk the empty streets to find a taxi. The meter starts at $3.80 since the latest price hike and a couple of blocks from the flat we get stuck behind a trash truck.  We wait for a team of men to clear every scrap of split open and spilt rubbish bags from a mountain behind a tree. The meter clicks up to $25.56. I say, ‘Let’s get out and walk, I’m not paying to sit here.’

On the pavement Carlos starts laughing. He says to me, ‘You are so funny, the things you say out loud that other people wouldn’t say…’ and he imitates me, lovingly. I feel my mind running over the night: all the things I said, all the things I did, how I danced, how clumsy I was, how lacking in elegance… I stop myself. I decide it’s time to grow again. I’ve crushed my own spirit enough for one day.

‘I love you,’ I say. And I make sure I say it to Carlos too.

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Dancing in the rain

July 23, 2008 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 12 comments

IMGP5915 On Monday it poured in Buenos Aires. I am so not used to rain anymore. It was always raining in England and maybe it still is, but not here. And so when the heavens cry on Buenos Aires, it is always a bit of a surprise and a bit of a pain.

Thing is, in England I had a car to keep me dry. Here it’s walk to the bus stop and get soaked, cram in with all the other wet coats, strain to see where to get off through the steamed up windows, walk from the bus stop and get even more soaked. On Monday I didn’t want to go out at all. But I had a tango class with Ariel.

I’m loving my tango lessons at the moment. I think I’ve got to a stage (perhaps temporary) where I am relaxing a little in tango and in life, and on the days he stops me frequently with, ‘I feel something strange…’, well I feel it too, and I enjoy the challenge of working to change that ’strange’ feeling to a ‘great’ one. We usually manage to dance a few fabulous tangos at some point during the hour, and our milongas are always a good laugh. I know that I am still learning, and always will be. Rain, even of the torrential variety, will not stop me getting the bus and walking in the direction of Ariel. So I did get soaked on my way to class, but my coat dried out while we danced.

After the class I had the perfect excuse to head home. A vague plan to meet a friend at the La Ideal Monday afternoon Milonga fell through. She was busy. And hell, it was chucking it down. I walked under shop verandas trying to dodge the water pouring in torrents from their edges: sometimes I can time the dodge perfectly, and other times I am hit squarely on the nose, the boot, my glove as if someone was throwing a glass of water at me. Yuk. I thought about how no-one would turn up at the Milonga because of the rain and about how maybe it was not worth the effort to take another bus, then the subway, then walk and get soaked all over again. On any other day I might have gone home, no problem. But on Monday afternoon I could not. On Sunday night I had seen the film, Café de los Maestros.

I loved it. And so did Carlos. It made us both cry: the faces, the characters, the glimpses of their stories and of Buenos Aires. This film filled me with indescribable emotion for the music that I dance to, and with endless gratitude for those who created and played it, and indeed for those who still do.  It also brought into sharp focus for me that I am a tiny insignificant part of tango, but that in being even the tiniest part, I help to carry the story on into the future, and that it matters that I do. If it rains today and so no-one goes to the Milonga, then maybe it will not be there when the sun shines and you are in Buenos Aires and feel like getting out to dance.

So on Monday I stood dripping on a Villa Crespo street after my class, and I remembered the Thursday afternoon Milonga that is no more. I dug into my almost empty ‘monedas’ purse and managed to find the peso for the bus. I thought to myself, ‘For all you maestros who gave me tango, a bit of rain and no mates to hang out with ain’t gonna stop me. I’m on my way!’

I do like La Ideal. I can’t help it. Yeah I know it’s a bit of a tourist haunt and on the expensive side, and there can be a few pain in the ass type guys looking for new faces on the block. But in the afternoons there can be some wonderful gentlemen waiting to give me their souls, and I really like to dance in the afternoon. I allow myself to soak up the echoes of the past from the building, the space, the music and when I am alone there my heart fills up. I can’t explain it really. Maybe it’s that I watched Osvaldo y Coca dance between its columns on my first ever night out in Buenos Aires. Maybe it’s that I’ve met many friends on its balcony and at its tables. Maybe it’s just that I go there ’sola’. Hell, I don’t know why, but it makes me smile.

On Monday I was delighted that two of my Thursday afternoon gentlemen had braved the rain and kindly danced with me straight away. I was surprised at how many people had not let the ghastly weather put them off: maybe they had all seen Café de los Maestros too. Or maybe they didn’t need to: one or two of them, I understand, had danced in it. Later the Milonga organiser invited me to move my seat to sit in the eye line of some of her milonguero friends. It was a joy to dance with every one of them. I chatted with a friendly Brazilian lady visiting on holiday. I sipped a coffee between tandas. I left when my feet could not dance another step.

I walked to the subway and sped towards home and Carlos. It was dark and I was at peace. The rain had stopped.

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Alive!

June 22, 2008 in Buenos Aires Information, Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams | 22 comments

collage Last night I needed to remind myself why I came to Buenos Aires. I had to get out and dance!

We decided to go to Maipú 444. It’s a great Saturday night venue: perhaps it is THE Saturday night venue for single dancers in Buenos Aires. Last night it certainly was. El Beso is closed at the moment… something to do with regulations and so the El Beso crowd joined the Maipú regulars and when me and Carlos arrived at maybe 12.30am, it was packed. Luckily I saw my mates: Yasmin, Anne and Donna had seats at the front (we hadn’t reserved) and miraculously, by the time we had gone back to leave our winter coats with the cloakroom and change our shoes, two seats came free. Me and Carlos sat next to the dance floor: perfect. Even more perfect was that Tina was sitting yards from us in her very own seat against the ‘women’s wall’ and so there I was, soaking up the glorious tango music surrounded by the love of my life and four of my beloved Buenos Aires tangueras.

Maipú 444 Saturday IS Buenos Aires tango to me: the downtown street entrance with its slightly seedy feel, always crowded because there is a bus stop right outside; the mountain of carpeted stairs that are the ‘time tunnel’ between my daily life and the tango that injects vibrancy into my soul; the loud music which floods my spirit; the yummy empanadas that seem ‘home made’; the dancers who are as fun to watch as to dance with; the traditions that mean I can sit back in the security of the tango codes I love: no unwelcome ignoramus  is likely to stand over my table demanding that I dance… Here, if I don’t catch anyone’s eye I will be left alone to enjoy my lover and my friends.

The dance floor was packed for a while, indeed there was even an announcement about keeping to small steps and following the line of dance, but as always there was more space when the milonga tanda came on, and we enjoyed that gift. Perhaps my happiest moment was dancing the Chacarera with Carlos, I felt my energy start to soar and our smiles grew with every step. Tina was dancing in the line next to me and that felt great: tango blogging friends from different lands, enjoying the folk dance of our adopted country, together. By the time the Los Reyes del Tango tracks came on to end the night, the floor had emptied a bit and I was able to enjoy every beat. I said to Carlos, ‘I feel like I have woken up from a long sleep.’ It was nearly 4am.

Our noisy little party was last to leave the venue but eventually we ambled out onto Corrientes, stared at the Obelisco lit in the night. The girls around me were chatting about their tango, giggling at the slick chat up lines offered by some of men along with the unwanted invitations to Niño Bien, comparing the success of their newly purchased tango shoes, reliving the highest and lowest moments of the night’s roller coaster ride. I was suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude for the life I can have every day if I want it. I yelled, ‘Hey chicas, we are in BUENOS AIRES, it’s 4 in the morning. Bloody hell we’re ALIVE!’

We stumbled in to a café on the corner with 9 de Julio, ordered Submarinos (hot milk with a bar of chocolate to plunge into the froth), café con leches, and a Cachamai tea for Yasmin, our beloved ‘yogi’. We talked about ages, star signs, birthdays, discussed focusing on the positive, taking responsibility for our own happiness, celebrating life. Carlos kept us laughing with his newly learned parts of  English phrases: ‘If I…’, ‘I mean I…’, and his unashamed direct question to Tina, ‘How many old?’

We realised that it was June 21st, the summer solstice in England and so the winter solstice here as we fell out in a noisy circle of friendship into the freezing street. We wrapped ourselves in farewell hugs. Everyone said they were happy I had made it out at last (I have been very busy lately) and I laughed, saying that I do in fact exist. Sallycat is not made up, she does actually live in Buenos Aires and she does still dance tango. I felt loved and welcomed back into my dreams by my friends. Of course the taxi driver had the air conditioner blasting all the way across the city. By the time I got home I was frozen solid but the warm glow of this precious night did not leave me.

This morning, Carlos has popped out to get me a special surprise: bacon and eggs for breakfast… truly the A1 end to a night from tango heaven. And so he has granted me perfect start to a new day: the present, today, a gift from God. Last night we girls talked of how important it is to focus on the here and now: no comparisons, no looking back to how good it was two years ago, last year, last week. We make our present every minute that we breathe. I am glad that I have been reminded of that. Today is gonna be a fantastic day. The simple fact is that I live in Argentina by choice, I am alive and I have the power to create the life I want, every single day. And, I will. Believe me, I will.

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