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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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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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When tango cultures work it out

April 29, 2009 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires | 18 comments

Me and C. This is the post I once longed to write, and it is the story of how Me and C. got from A to B.

In January 2008, A stood for Arguments concerning tango. I didn’t go into the times we yelled at each other about it, but I did raise the subject of our differing tango cultures right here, where I would like to draw your attention to point 5, which on Friday night at La Milonguita in Colegiales, accompanied by lots of smiles, winks and joy, finally became our position B:

…go to the Milonga together but ask to be seated separately, then both the woman and man are free to practice the ‘cabeceo’ as if solo, and will be able to dance with many partners as well as with each other during the evening…

Actually we went one better than that: C. arrived two hours before me, sat with the tangueros; I turned up when I was ready, fanned myself with the tangueras; we cabeceo-ed each other for our favourite music; we cabeceo-ed others; we shared a special bond of knowing that we were together, and yet free to dance with whom ever we pleased; we walked home down Avenida Cabildo, hand in hand and giggling like teenagers.

I suspect some of you will be wondering what the hell I am banging on about. When I lived in the UK and danced tango in the UK, I could never have imagined being a part of this little tale. I am sure that C. would not have imagined being a part of this little tale either. Neither of us could have envisaged we would ever even arrive arguing at starting point A, two tango souls from two tango cultures a chasm apart. Over a year ago, as it sunk in that there even was a position A, I was still getting my head around the possibilities offered up by position B, which seemed strange beyond belief.

In that same post back in January 2008 I also wrote:

…I can’t honestly imagine going as far as sitting separately…

and I couldn’t. My open minded British tango heart wanted to dance with C. and with strangers all in the same night. His Argentine tango heart was not keen. Plus the whole sitting separately thing just seemed odd to my British brain. I felt confused and couldn’t ever imagine us at position B. I decided to stop arguing and surrender to time, and the fact that with that time we would understand each others cultures a little better and find our own solution… Perhaps, I accepted, we will never arrive at B, and if we don’t it’s OK. I danced alone in the afternoons and that satisfied my need for tango with strangers, but at night, he came with me and my friends, or we did the couple thing. That was position A minus the Arguments.

  1. Between position A minus the Arguments and B a few things happened: In March 2008, I took C. to some Milongas in the UK and he saw that in Hampshire at least, we all sit together (well, actually on chairs around the walls, but that’s another story) and dance with each other: married or not, engaged or not, boyfriends or not, girlfriends or not… and hell, he adored the fact that he had ‘his chicas’ (as he still calls you wonderful girls to this day) asking him to dance! He also saw that we all go home with our own partners or to our own partners (on the whole, anyway).
  2. In November 2008, a fabulous visiting tanguera who sells Greta Flora tango shoes in Canada started taking me out at night when she was in town. We left C. at home, and to my surprise, instead of raising his eyebrows, he showed signs of being grateful (I am sure that as the months pass it must get rather boring being dragged out with every one of your girlfriend’s English speaking friends, especially when you have to get up early the next day and go install a gas system). When the tanguera left Buenos Aires, I started joining my other mates out on the town too. Not every night – no, no, no. Just now and again. I confess that at first it was a pretty weird feeling, sliding into bed at 5am and curling myself around a sleeping C. and in truth there was a slight feeling of morning after treading on eggshells, but before long we were in the groove of it. Nothing bad happened. We both saw that nothing bad happened. We relaxed.
  3. One night we did sit separately, at my suggestion, at Cachirulo. It was a disaster. We were so far apart in the crowd that we could barely cabeceo each other without standing up and signalling like crazed traffic policemen. That was the night I managed two tandas in five hours for a whole host of reasons. I know the photo in that post proves I was smiling as I danced merengue with C., but I’m not sure he was, and I honestly thought that it was probably the nail in the coffin in terms of us ever reaching position B.
  4. C. went off tango a bit. Work stuff, life stuff, years of tango… desire ebbs and flows. His ebbed for a while. I became more accustomed to girls nights out. Me off with friends suited us both, though I missed dancing with ‘mi amor’ mucho. Occasionally he joined us and he danced with my friends, but I saw his heart was not in tango as it once had been. Patience, I thought, Let the universe decide.

    Months passed.

    Out of the blue, a week ago, C. announced to me that he wanted to start dancing again and that he was thinking that he needed to dance with a variety of women: This summer I want to dance with ‘mis chicas’ in Inglaterra and I don’t want to be out of practice, he said.

    Honestly, you girls from Southampton and its surrounds who are reading this in England, he said that!

    If I had been sitting on one, I probably would have fallen off my chair. Bloody hell! wonders never cease! I thought, but I said calmly, Great, mi amor, that’s great. Where will you go?

    He chose La Milonguita: local, friendly, familiar. I suggested turning up later. Let’s experiment, I said to him in a Barbie moment of enthusiasm, Maybe it’ll be fun. He was in such an upbeat mood, longing to dance, his passion for tango back. Yes, he said, Let’s do it!

    And so, last Friday, we arrived, unexpectedly, gently and easily at position B.

    …sitting separately at the Milonga…

    OK, there were some odd aspects to B: we couldn’t share a meal at the same table; we could only chat between tangos in a tanda (possibly for the first time I was truly grateful for those pauses in dancing); we had to make sure we cabeceo-ed each other fast and/or avoid everyone else for our favourite music; I had a Bugger, why isn’t he looking at me for the vals? moment.

    There were some wonderful aspects to B too: as I watched him, smart and proud, hair slicked back, sipping his cortado in his front row seat, I loved him more than ever; as the milonga thinned out, we danced more tandas together – we’d had our taste of strangers and it was reassuring to slip into each other’s arms; as I danced the last tanda with him, I was overwhelmed by the thought that gifting another person freedom, encourages love.

    So here we are in April 2009, at B. And basically we got there by taking the Argument out of A and letting time do the rest. Rather exciting isn’t it, when you stop trying to force something and hand it over… hey, the universe can even manage to work a few miracles with tango, two diverse tango cultures, a Porteño and an Inglesa!

    Of course I am well aware that position B is really only the beginning.

    And I can’t help wondering what the next installment in this little tale will be. Mmmmmmmm… think I’ll leave that to the universe too.

    Meanwhile I’m off to Maldita Milonga with a friend ;)

    Sallycat

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    Two years. How many men?

    March 9, 2009 in Bloggers Guides | 24 comments

    IMGP0523 Imagine living in Buenos Aires for two years. What would it be like? Would it be affordable? Would it turn out the way you expected?

    Maybe you live here already. Remember the first two years?

    Maybe you don’t want to live here at all, just wondering how it’s been for me, or how a visit might shape up. That’s cool too.

    Two years ago today I stepped off my British Airways flight from London into pouring rain and the unknown. I had zero words of useful Spanish, five months tango experience, and a ninety day horizon… the shortest time I could possible stay in Argentina, to avoid returning to England feeling like a complete failure. Those numbers became nonsense before the ninety days were up: zero turned into an Argentine lover (NOT part of the original plan) and learning the lingo faster than an arrow from Cupid’s bow, in order to negotiate the ground rules; five turned into it’s quality not quantity that counts; ninety turned into it’s the journey that defines, not the outcome… just to have tried at all is enough.

    Yet it’s always the numbers people ask about. How long have you been here? How much did you pay for your flat? What’s the price of a decent steak? So by way of answering a few of your questions and celebrating the highs and lows of the last two years here are eleven numbers that you might be interested in. I’d love to know which surprise you most. Do comment and tell me. Plus, if you have a question about a Buenos Aires number I haven’t mentioned, this is your chance to ask and I’ll do my best to answer. How’s that for an offer?

    OK here goes:

    At time of writing $1 USD = $3.63pesos ARS and 1 UK Pound = $5.12pesos

    25: price this week in pesos of a 600g ‘Bife de chorizo’ (huge high quality rump steak) in the simple but excellent ‘parilla’ across the road from me. This beef is easily enough for two. They’ll do it takeaway and deliver it to the door hot and juicy. To put it in perspective, a Burger King medium combo for one is $19pesos. Think I’d rather have the steak myself. Argentine beef tastes in a way that British beef never did for me, unless it was ‘organic’ and outrageously expensive. Ditto for vegetables and fruit.

    46: rough tot up of the number of different milongas I’ve been to in Buenos Aires. In any given week there are over 100. I’m not talking venues here because one physical place can be home to a milonga organised by a different host each night. These days I only dance 2-3 times per ’semana’ and I stick to the more traditional places with ‘entradas’ (entrance fees) of up to $15pesos, unless I’ve got visiting friends in town. The ‘tourist circuit’ night-time milongas now cost upwards of $18pesos. Want to see a reasonably comprehensive list of milongas in Buenos Aires? Caseron Porteño publish a brilliant bi-monthly Tango Map and Guide and both are available on line here. You can print them out before you leave your own country, for a head start.

    3: times I’ve ventured farther than the outskirts of Buenos Aires. Travel, especially by air (comfortable overnight buses are the alternative),  is relatively expensive in Argentina. I’m passionate about travelling though and I’m not prepared to give it up. At this two year mark I’m researching options for ’service travel’: that is where you work in exchange for your accommodation and food, and only pay your transport costs. I want to see more of the country and this is a potentially affordable and rewarding way to do it. Interested? Check out the Enchanting Challenge website, where a friend of mine writes about some possibilities on the site’s blog. Incidently a return British Airways flight to London cost me $1500USD a few weeks ago and it has to be paid for in dollars, if the journey originates in Argentina, thus converting on the day to 1015 UK Pounds – ouch!

    6: pairs of tango shoes bought, all within the first seven months. All Comme il Faut. 1 pair dead through overuse. 2 pairs worn regularly for two years. 3 pairs barely used because ankle back-strap gives insufficient support (for me) – beware choosing cuteness over practicality. November 2007 price $290pesos. Now could be as high as $450pesos. The next pair I buy will have a lower heel, more padding underfoot and will probably be Tango Brujo (playful sexy styles but feel like dancing on a cloud) if I can beat them down on the money. Greta Flora will run a close second if I can find a really comfortable pair with a delicate enough vibe. Until then the bottom line is 2: trusty pairs of tango shoes that take turns on my feet.

    59000: the US Dollar price I paid for a studio (no separate bedrooms) apartment in Palermo in 2007. Just to give you an idea of how the plummeting UK pound affects Brits like me living in Argentina… When I bought the flat, the whole deal, including all fees, cost me 32000 UK Pounds. If I did the same deal today, buying the flat at exactly the same US dollar price, it would cost me 42000 UK Pounds without the fees. If I’d waited, I wouldn’t have been able to do it regardless of whether house prices here had risen. The ‘nothing special’ one bedroom flat I rented in Recoleta for six months in 2007 was $650USD a month; today it’s probably nearer 800, but even if the price had stayed the same, the plunging pound would have hiked the real cost way out of my reach. Exchange rates, I have found, become critical when you live abroad and depend on any kind of income from your own country. Rather naively I never really thought about it before I came here. At the moment American tourists passing through have it easier than the Brits in that respect (of course I’m well aware that everyone back in Blighty is suffering too). Gordon, for God’s sake, do something!

    0: pesos spent on clothes in the last six months. After an initial spree on arrival back in 2007 I restrict myself to new sandals in summer, new sneakers in winter and replacement essentials when things fall apart. Luckily generous friends flying out, short on luggage space, leave their designer items behind for me. I’ve come to love wearing hand me downs, and feeling the spirit of my friends with me as I dance.

    60 or maybe 65: the average age of my favourite Argentine dance partners (not including C.)… OK it’s a guess, but in general the owners of the embraces that I’d walk a mile for, are significantly older than I am. It’s not because of what they do with their feet, or their perfect posture, or how creative they are with their steps. It’s just because they hold me like I am the most precious gift they have ever been given, keep me duvet-safe, and let me feel the music they’ve grown up with, the way they do. I generally find my ‘boys’ in the more traditional milongas, but I always try to watch them dance first, plus I note the expression on the face of the woman in their arms. Not every Argentine is a joy to partner, as I know you already know… and neither is every foreigner. Wherever you dance in Buenos Aires, observe first to find what you seek, and thus avoid complaints. End of.

    275: the cost in pesos of one month’s medical insurance with MEDICUS – midrange plan. Get’s you easy and speedy access to good doctors (physical and mental health – tried both), loads of great hospitals, dentists, opticians, every test you will ever need, operations (not tried yet), cover while abroad, home visits… oh basically everything. But beware, the price rises regularly. I got my deal through Expat Connection. If you know of a better one, let me know.

    1.25: the maximum cost in pesos of my journeys on public transport from one side of the city to the other. Assuming you can get your hands on the ‘monedas’ for the buses and work out how to use the Guia ‘T’ de Bolsillo (bus route guide available from newstands), they are absolutely the way to travel in my book, and most run all night. The Subte is perhaps a faster alternative into the Centro, but you don’t see life above ground so I don’t like it. If I’ve got time, walking costs nothing, and there’s so much to find on the way that I never get bored using my feet. I don’t take taxis unless I’m sharing the cost because I’d rather choose a milonga entrada or a steak than fork out for the fare. The most fantastic news in the world is that we should be getting a card system for the buses by May… apparently. I’m praying.

    Oh and this is my happiest number of all:

    1: lovers I’ve had. Men I’ve kissed. Men to whom I’ve yelled, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t want a boyfriend!’ Men I’ve fallen in love with. Men who’ve fallen in love with me. And that’s not one of each, it’s just one. Never expected it. Didn’t want it. Couldn’t avoid it. The universe had its own plans. Carlos. Me. La Glorieta. The rest is history (And in case you’re wondering, yep he’s the dude in the hat).

    Those ten numbers are mine. The eleventh would not exist without YOU, and it is:

    153: the number of tiny chapters of my story you have read if you’ve followed Sallycat’s Adventures from the start. This is the one hundred and fifty fourth. Bloody hell! 1206 comments have been posted by you and me (spam only rejected). I love it when you comment and apart from a period last year when I was struggling horribly with the VOD, I have replied to you all (truly sorry if I left you out). From today, if you comment and you are a blogger yourself, you can choose to include a link to your own last post with CommentLuv. A nice idea I think. Like it? Let me know.

    So that’s it. Have I included a number you’re interested in? I hope so.

    Course, some things can never be quantified: how much calmer I am than the day I left the UK; how much less obsessive I am about tango and yet how much more I love it; how far I’ve pushed my boundaries and how much less afraid of risk I’ve become; how grateful I am that I was given the chance to start this journey at all… oh so many things that have made the last two years the most exciting and rewarding of my entire life. You guys know it hasn’t all been roses. Is life ever, wherever you are? But when I look back and ask myself the question, Any regrets? There’s only one possible number I can offer in reply and it’s a big fat ZERO. And I know that whatever happens, it always will be.

    Happy 2nd anniversary to me!

    Sallycat

    PS. Here’s the latest Love Verb lowdown. Do check it out. Guys, you’ve been amazing. AMAZING! If you haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about then this is how you can do the Love Verb Thing and be AMAZING too! Thanks my friends.

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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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