Journal Entry

The sun seems to set too soon over Buenos Aires as Summer comes to a close and I make my way toward the Northern Hemisphere in anticipation of Spring. I have said goodbye to my best friend and watched him turn the corner onto Defensa as the San Telmo Street Fair noisily winds down for another week. I may never see him again.

It’s hard to notice how exhausting Buenos Aires is when you’re caught up in the middle of it. But between flannel sheets in the dark and almost cloying silence of the suburbs of Calgary I notice the drain. I feel weary, but in other ways – full. There are surprisingly few tears (so far) and I believe that I’ve made the right decision – to come home. I feel anxious but it is not the anxiety of loss, regret, fear and despair as has accompanied me so often on this journey but the excitement over the opportunity to nurture and share the many seeds I have sown, germinated and grown in the belly of Argentina.

My first practica upon return is disappointing – as I knew it would be. I look forward to May when I will attend a Tango Festival in Vancouver (vantangofest.com) and meanwhile plan to infuse new energy into my own small community. I hope there is enough here for me in return. It crosses my mind that I may be better off to go off Tango (cold turkey) and return to Ballroom – or take up skydiving instead – rather than suffer further disappointment. Nothing can compete Buenos Aires.

Consolation Tango Shoes

My new Comme Il Faut shoes are small consolation for the tango tragedy of leaving one love behind for another – Buenos Aires for Calgary – but like I’ve often said – if the dance isn’t going well at least I have these great shoes hugging my feet while I weep . . .

***

This will be my last entry (except for the ones in draft that I will complete and intersperse throughout the previous entries). My ‘one month’ turned into almost two years and now that part of my journey is over. I will let you know a soon as I have started another blog to report on the next phase of my journey and my upcoming book – Love, Death and Tango. Thank you to all four of you who have been reading this blog and I hope that my posts can continue to be a source of information and inspiration to others who stumble upon my site in the future.

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 fluent 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 smiling and participating again. Family of friends back home in Calgary were not as fortunate.

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 hope to share what I’ve learned with others when I return to Canada.

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 . . .

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.

.

.

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.

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.

After 12 days at a spiritual retreat in Abadiania, Brazil I was looking forward to getting home to BsAs. I hooked up with an Australian couple from the retreat to share a taxi into el Centro. When asked about the taxi situation here I assured them that in all my time here I have never had a bad experience with a taxi. But, this day, my street savvy had been dulled by a loving environment in the Brazilian countryside and I allowed the taxista to ‘take us for a ride’.

When he said the fare would be 129 pesos I questioned that – saying 2 weeks ago I had only paid 115. He said it was because we wanted 2 stops. My bullshit detector must’ve had a short circuit because I kept walking to his car – which I realized, once the mist of the belief in the good of all people began to lift, was not actually a taxi.

By the time I’d reached full city consciousness (mas o menos) we were on the autopista heading toward town, and I didn’t want to worry my companions, so I continued to hang onto my faltering belief in the good of all people. Even at the increased fare we were still getting a good deal by sharing. We dropped them off at their hotel and headed to my apartment.

I handed over 130 pesos and prepared to disembark when he said it’s 129 – and showed me that I had given him 2 tens and a twenty. Surprised, I second guessed myself – but – I knew I’d given him a 100 peso note because I only had one in my wallet and it wasn’t there. I proceeded to yell at him in English wishing I had paid better attention in my Swearing in Spanish 101 class. If I’d been really thinking I may have also reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out my 100 peso note – but we only think about all these things later – don’t we?

Next time I take the bus.

Pink Floyd in Buenos Aires. You can close your eyes and almost imagine it so. I never saw them when they were ‘alive’ (Pink Floyd is dead, long live Pink Floyd!), but being a ‘third world’ country (would somebody please tell me what that means – I find no evidence) the Argentines have trailed behind the current music scene (not really) and kept Pink Floyd and other bands alive with tribute bands. Audiences of all ages love it. Me included.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a rock concert. How I miss the 70s – the flashing lights, the gut wrenching vibrations of a masterful guitar riff, an endless drum solo, a haunting saxophone and the sweet second-hand smoke of the person in front of me. Marijuana may be legal here but smoking in the auditorium is not.

The lead singer of the tribute band The End almost had me fooled until his voice just wasn’t strong enough to pull off the subtleties of one of my favorite songs: Us And Them. I was disappointed.

But as the concert went on I became more and more impressed. When the lead began by singing

“So,”

and turned it over to the audience – right on cue, in perfect English, tone and unison, as if they had rehearsed, they sang:

so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain . . .

and together they continued.

When, Durga McBroom, a big beautiful black woman with hair past the hem of her mini-skirt entered center stage and unleashed her voice with the ethereal sounds of the Great Gig in the Sky there was no need for translation. Her powerful sound vibrated to the depths of us, swirled around and stirred up debris like a dust storm before the thundershower – which, had I been alone, would have come pouring down my face. The appreciation of this guest artist, an original member of Pink Floyd, resulted in several standing ovations and a satisfying encore.

It was a fantastic concert and I had no one to share it with but you.

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year,
Running over the same old ground
What have you found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.