One Month In Buenos Aires

I have spent the past seven days in Tango Teacher Training. All in Spanish – there was too much talking and not enough dancing – which happens a lot in this world. After all these years, my Spanish is still not as fluent as my Spanish so I missed many details. There were no other native English speakers in our class of 22. Usually I wouldn’t complain about too many tall, dark and handsome Italian, French and Latin men, but, I wanted to take the lead and so did they. I HAD to follow these fabulous dancers – such a tragedy . . .

The only real tragedy was the earthquake in Chile during our workshop and the couple from Concepción that could not communicate with their family. But, by the second day they were smiing and participating again.

I was blessed to be able to be included in this workshop – the perfect culmination to eight years of dancing tango and two years in Buenos Aires.

I like the word. Even though it’s Lunfardo, you’re supposed to further distort it in polite company – bolomqui – or something like that – because although it pretends to translate to ‘warehouse’, the actual translation is ‘whorehouse’, but it’s used to indicate a ’shitstorm’ – or plainly – What a mess! Yes, most Lunfardo is that complicated . . . and you thought you were having trouble learning Spanish. I ike the way it looks and sounds – a perfect word for today’s sequence of events. And come on – there are so few words that begin with ‘q’ that we should use them more often.

For the third time in a week I have woken up in the morning to no hot water. After two different gasistas have been here (accompanied by my dueña) I now know how to contort myself and search around in the dark with a special candle to light the pilot and hopefully not have ash drop on my eyelid again. I do this, turn up the temperature dial and wait for the water to heat. After a few minutes the whole things just stops. I repeat the whole procedure.

I call my dueña. She is preparing for a flight to the USA this evening. She instructs me to go across the street to the ferreteria and ask for the gasista and the telephone number. I return, call her with the number so she can make arrangements. He is out of town. He will send his sons and they agree to work around my tight schedule.

I return home after my class and wait. They are late. It begins to rain – hard. They have a good excuse for being late. After several text messages and emails and phone calls I have a good excuse to cancel my evening plans so that I can wait for them until whatever time they decide to show up and complete the job that should have been fixed already – twice.

Apparently they have rung my bell and I have not answered. More phone calls exchanged and one chico appears – soaking wet just from walking across the street. He goes about his business in the other room – conferring with his father over the phone.

In addition to whatever is not working with the heater he soon tells me that it is not the tank that is leaking water but the roof above (I live on the top floor) – especially during this current nasty tormenta. I call my dueña and her remis driver is on the other line – there to pick her up early to take her to the airport even though her flight has just been delayed due to the weather.

I tell her that the hot water tank is being taken care of but the roof is leaking and she tells me that is out of her control and is the responsibility of the building owner. I know that. I just don’t know what to do about it. She leaves for the airport – not to return until well after the time that I leave for Canada. I’m on my own with this mess in my kitchen.

The gasista informs me that he is calling in a plumber – okay whatever – what do I know? They spend about an hour together working out the problem that only seems to be getting worse and thankfully, in the meantime the worst of the rain stops and I think maybe I will be able to leave Buenos Aires before we have another major rainstorm (what are they – every week now?) and the roof falls in on me . . . At least I’ll be able to have a hot shower before I go . . . maybe. The plumber leaves and the gasista keeps going back and forth across the street for parts or advice or a smoke – who knows . . .

After three hours the gasista tells me that he will have to return in the morning with another part. Meanwhile I have no hot water.

*****

Next day:

A friend comes over to view the apartment and immediately plugs the toilet. Too bad the plumber was a day early. Meanwhile, the senior gasista, father of yesterday’s chico arrives, departs, and arrives again with necessary hardware in hand. After an hour he is finished and everything is back to normal. I even take care of the plumbing problem myself.

The nice thing about quilombos is that they are usually short-lived and keep life interesting. And it’s starting to rain again . . .

*****

Every see the movie Groundhog Day? This morning I had to light the pilot again and out it went again after a few minutes. Repeat. So, after more than 4 hours attention, the hot water heater is exactly where it was before – not working.

It’s true – we all lie. I don’t like it much. I try not to do it. But, the situation with the monedas here forces me to lie regularly and I try not to feel guilty about it.

It took me several months to get used to riding the bus on a regular basis. Now I save money on cab fare but am constantly trying to obtain coins for the bus. One day they will devise some (apparently) amazingly difficult alternative to paying exact (or close to exact) fare for each journey. Some of the lineas are already doing this.

So, I buy groceries, not because I need them but because I need to break a 100 peso note and get a few coins in change.

“Tenés monedas?” they ask me at the check out.

Even if I could say it in Spanish I’m not about to explain “yes, I have a few monedas but I’m not giving them to you because I need them and more – an endless supply in order to take the bus”. So, I simply say “no” and avoid eye contact.

Once in a while I go to the bank and get a handful but most of the time I’m enjoying the fact that I’m not so much worried about spending money as I am constantly planning trips to the grocery store, the kiosko, the produce market etc. and hope to hell that they’re not going to round up to the nearest, most convenient peso.

Okay, so here’s a plan. When you get your bills from the bank machine check them all for the authentic watermark. Then, make a personal mark on all of them. Next time you’re ready to pay the taxista make sure that you know exactly how many 100s you have with you and give him one making certain that he understands that you know that you’re giving him 100. Now, at this point, if he still tries to screw you (it’s been done) breathe, chill out, relax. Don’t get upset. You can rest in the confident knowledge that he’s an idiot. If he comes back at you saying that you gave him a fake bill, you know you didn’t. Let him know that you know that he’s exchanged the one you gave him for a false one and stashed your bill. If he owes you money, relax and refuse to get out of his taxi. He can’t pick up another fare with you sitting there. What’s he going to do? Call the cops? Excellent!

If he exchanges the 100 you gave him for a 10 and he tells you that you made a mistake expecting you to cough up another 100 – you know you didn’t – don’t get flustered. If he doesn’t owe you money – just get out of the cab – not feeling obligated to pay for his next oil change.

Don’t worry if you can’t speak Spanish very well. I’m sure that he’ll understand dirty rotten bastard by your intonation even if he doesn’t quite understand your words.

If you have suitcases in the trunk – you may have a problem. Keep your suitcases inside the car with you. They usually want you to do this anyway so they don’t have to get out to open the trunk.

In reality, the majority of taxistas are very nice honest people. It only takes one to ruin your whole holiday and impression of them. Be smart, be careful and just relax – enjoy the ride they’re taking you on . . .

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The nature of tango forces us to protect ourselves in subtle ways from the vulnerability it involves. We press ourselves against a stranger and move as one with their body. We can feel under the skin of the other; we can smell them; our perspiration mingles – on our hands, our brows, our backs. In any other situation this might be too close for comfort. How does it become ‘comfortable’ on the dance floor? We adopt an internal protective attitude. We close our eyes. We try to surrender.
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But, for her, with him, it was different. They had agreed to be unprotected in their humanness with each other. Virtual strangers, they had chosen to be lovers. To dance a delicious forbidden tango.

They agree to meet in the afternoon. Enough words had been exchanged; it was time to feel. Nowhere but Bueno Aires can you dance tango in the middle of the day. That it is why it is called Ideal: the ideal confiteria for a lovers’ tryst. A venerable restaurant and dance hall built in 1912, it has dark wood paneling, large columns, a stained glass domed skylight, huge mirrors and a formally attired nonchalant waiter.

She arrives first wearing a vintage linen dress in a style of the 1940s. A pale golden color with ivory trim on the fitted v-neck empire-waist bodice and an A-line cut skirt – it allow her legs freedom for dancing. Had she accessorized with an an appropriate hat and gloves it would have completed the fantasy. She choosse a table, changes her shoes, and orders a drink. Against the dark wooden panels of the confiteria she is glowing.

A few minutes later, she watches him stride in and over to a table on the other side of the room. He doesn’t want to sit with her. He wants to play. She pretends to not be interested; to not want to look; to not want to dance. She can’t. He is too beautiful and he wants her. She is drawn to his eyes like a magnet and they coquettishly go through the motions of eye contact, nod, rise, meet on the floor.

He invites her into his embrace. For a moment they stand together, close, motionless, breathing in each others scent. She feels him move and she goes. He goes with her. She only wants to go where he wants her to go. His hold assures her he will not let go – at least not for this song, not in this moment – and this moment is all they have, all that matters to them. He turns her and his hand edges close to where her flesh leaves her ribs and rises. Her breath catches, becomes shallow and quickens. Her breasts are pressed against his chest. She hopes that the thumping of her heart doesn’t distract him from the beat of the music. Her temple against his – she hopes that her thoughts don’t distract him from the lyrics of the song. He is so close now. So close she can feel his past, present and future. She can smell his desire. When he turns her his thigh brushes against the front of his trousers. His breath is on her neck, in her ear, surrounding her disconnected thoughts.

Between songs they separate, maintaining a publicly approved intimate distance and gaze into each others eyes. Searching for understanding.

“You look stunning”, he says, and she knows her recent purchase has been worth that one compliment – even if it is chamuyo.

During the cortinas they sit together, no longer willing to waste precious little time playing games across the floor. Still, they speak very little. They dance a couple more tandas and it is time for him to slip away.

She bends down to change her shoes and you cannot see the tears welling up in her eyes. This is the last she will see of him and so much is left undone.

The cemetery never ceases to be a source of inspiration ad contemplation for me. any time of year, through all of the seasons, in different types of weather and throughout different times of the day – I am never bored.

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There is always a new avenue to walk, a new tomb to discover, a different angle or texture on a familiar surface, a new reflection, a deeper shadow, and always the antics of the feline population to watch.

My young friend Amy, recently in Comme Il Faut purchasing her obligatory pair of red shoes, met a woman who was buying NINE pairs of tango shoes to take back to ONE friend in the States. A bit excessive? What’s she compensating for?

If you can’t blame a man’s tools for the work he does then you certainly can’t attribute a woman’s dancing to her shoes. Why then do some women need so many pairs of tango shoes?

I’ve been dancing for eight years and I have not quite that many pairs of tango shoes. I rarely wear them – partly because I don’t go to a lot of milongas. I haven’t purchased a pair in the past year that I’ve been here. But, before I go home I will probably buy one more pair of stllettos and a pair of Darcos new slipper style. My first tango partner used to say in his feigned foreign accent – “It is more important to look good than to feel good.” He was kidding of course . . . I think . . .

Most of the time I wear my very comfortable tango runners or my jazz slippers. I’ve been known to dance in my hiking boots, my Birkenstocks, and my bare feet at Plaza Dorrego. Today I rather successfully led and followed milonga in my flip flops. It’s true that I look and sometimes feel better in heels. It’s likely true that I dance better. I also dance better if my feet don’t hurt. I don’t always carry extra shoes with me and am not going to give up the opportunity to dance just because of ‘improper’ attire.

Insider information has it that milongueros speak very little amongst themselves about women at the milongas but when they do it goes something like this:

“See that one? She looks good but she don’t feel so good. That one over there – she don’t look so good but she feels good.”

He may ask you once because you’re gorgeous but if you don’t dance well he won’t ask you again. It may take him a while to ask you if you’re not complementary eye candy but once he does and he enjoys his dance with you – he’ll not only ask you again but he will also recommend you to his friends.

As I was walking home tonight in the rain after class, instead of the milonga music continuing in my head as it usually does, I am remembering a song from my childhood. As a very young bailarina I listened repeatedly to my Rosemary Clooney record and I still remember all the lyrics to all the songs. I’ve heard The Little Shoemaker used in a short film about The Red Shoes – my favorite Hans Christian Anderson fairytale about a young girl whose dancing gets out of control when she wears a special pair of red shoes. I am obsessed with the many songs and stories based on the theme of the Red Shoes.

At some point you start wondering just how the old milongueros do it. How do they ‘keep it up’ all night – so to speak – especially if they are still working during the day. I realize a passion, an obsession, can be extremely motivating but the body just can’t physically endure extended periods of sleepless nights, nicotine, alcohol, a heavy diet and dancing.

I’ll tell you how they do it: cocaine.

“It’s so cheap here,” my American friend said, “For 50 pesos I can buy enough coke to last me from Friday’s milonga until Tuesday’s milonga.” A recent Tuesday night’s milonga, for this organizer, happened to be 12 hours long. That’s a lot of work. Already suffering from a heart condition and a myriad of other health problems including a current sinus infection, he was in no shape to be going out that night. But having a (perceived) responsibility to others is one of the only things that keeps him going these days. A combination of cocaine, fernet and cola, nicotine and sheer determination got him through one more night – and a good time was had by all.

How many times a night do those milongueros get up from their seat at the bar to go to the bathroom? Prostate problems? Maybe that too. One milonguero telling me some of these stories excused himself from the table three times during the four hour dinner party we attended.

In the past month the tango world has lost two well known milongueros. One was only 46. Both had pre-existing heart conditions. Both had ‘nose problems’. Both died doing what they loved to do best – by cocaine-induced myocardio-infarctions.

My dear American friend almost died once from a heart attack and had a close call a year later. With several stents keeping the physical gateways to his heart open, he still experiences pain regularly and doesn’t receive enough oxygen rich blood to his heart at times. Still, he insists on getting a regular burst of ‘feel good’ to keep him going at the speed that he’s used to. Cocaine (along with everything else considered an unhealthy lifesytle) constricts his already compromised blood vessels. It’s just a matter of time (and one more bife de chorizo) before he just shuts down completely.

Already having surpassed his expected life span by over a dozen years, my friend is lucky to have had the time he’s had. I’ve been fortunate to share some of that with him. “I just want to make it until 2012″, he tells me, “I want to see how it all goes down – at the end of the Mayan calendar.” I hope he makes it that far.

One more night, one more milonga, one more tanda. Live hard and fast, tango on.

I can’t sleep through the night anymore. No, I’m not going to milongas; I’m learning how to lead tango. Now that I have some control over the dance I am being controlled by the music; I’m obsessed with what I can do to express it. The tango music in my head on endless loop wakes me up in the middle of the night. I wait for a cortina but none comes. If dawn has peeked into my bedroom I’m doomed to toss and turn while repeating a variety of sequences in time to the music. It’s tango torture.

Women learn to lead for two main reasons: they want to teach and/or they’re bored. So many times I hear a piece of music (usually milonga or nuevo) that I particularly like and want to express it wholeheartedly with my body. Often the man I’m dancing with is incapable (technically or creatively) in expressing the dance to my satisfaction. I have to remember to surrender to him and not to the music and my own desires. I’m often like a dog, sniffing a banquet and pulling at the leash. I think about how I would dance it if I had any control of my own. I’m determined NOT to be held back in my dancing. So, I’m learning to lead.

I always had a cognitive appreciation for how difficult it is for a man, with all he has to do, to become a good dancer. Now my appreciation is experiential. I get it. But, what I don’t understand is why I’m able to learn both the lead and follow simultaneously and some men in the same class have difficulty learning only their part. Do men and women learn differently? It’s not like I’m a genius or anything (just ask my computer tech) but maybe I have some kind of aptitude for this. Maybe after so many years of following I have some kind of inherent understanding of how to make the woman move the way I want her to. The most difficult thing is to execute the many aspects and maintain them simultaneously throughout the dance – navigating through traffic on the dance floor, oh ya – my posture, chest out, shoulders down, hips back, turn the lady . . . ooops – forgot about my own feet . . . it’s so much to think about, then forget about and just feel your way. My brain hurts, my feet hurt and I can’t sleep at night – but I’m having so much fun!

I’m tired of the complaining: national complaining, ex-pats complaining and my own complaining. When I walk out the door now I make an effort to appreciate at least one thing about this city.

Yesterday, a young man riding his bicycle down Santa Fe was playing his harmonica – with both hands.