Tango

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 . . .

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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.

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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 chooses 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 other’s 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. Her 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.

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 call them tango ourbursts. If you’ve never been to Buenos Aires you likely imagine that people here spontaneously dance tango in the streets, the parks, the cafes and even while waiting in the check-out line at the grocery store. They don’t. I have never seen anyone dance tango anywhere other than a prescribed location at a specific time. You do see tangueros in the streets performing for tourist dollars – not because they are struck by the passion of the moment, the beauty of the music heard in a restaurant or while walking by a music store.

So far, it’s only happened to me twice. Once on the sidewalk after a class – trying to work out the move we just learned and once in an icecream shop unable to resist the music being played. That’s not near enough – I’d like it happen a lot more. You have to be walking with, or at least within close proximity to, a willing partner when the mood strikes.

He calls it guerrilla tango. In his hometown the email or text message would go out to the tango community, the sender would bring a boom box, and the group would gather within the hour at a central public location and dance. This shakes up an otherwise monotonous workday.

In BA this kind of subversive activity would not only be tolerated but encouraged. Elsewhere, I’m guessing, there would be rolls of red tape: necessary permits, public safety issues, liability insurance, people’s sense of propriety and all kinds of other bureaucratic bulllshit – not to mention – people’s internal barriers.

But let’s give it a try. Let’s meet in the Devonian Gardens – or – whatever the appropriate (or inappropriate!) public central location is in your city – and let’s perform random acts of Tango.

Let’s make a New Year’s resolution: everyday, everywhere, whenever the mood strikes us – DANCE. And maybe, if we remember to hold each other close, shut up and just move to the music, we can stop the fighting.

As of this week the Buenos Aires Club (Peru 571) has been deemed “unfit for tango” and permanently closed. There was no official Health Inspector’s notification on the door – only a handwritten notice from Mariana saying that Tango Queer has moved to a new location at Perón 2450 (La Capilla). According to El Afronte’s website they have suspended both Bendita and Maldita Milongas. That leaves a huge void in the San Telmo area for dancing tango in the first half of the week.

What exactly does “unfit for tango” mean? It’s true that the wooden floor could be detrimental to those in spiky heels but for the most part, Peru 571 was a very casual venue where most dancers wore flat shoes. Is the building a fire hazard? Are the kitchen and bathrooms unsantiary? Or, were these milongas taking precious tango tourist dollars away from other milongas? If any of those is true, I can assure you that there are other venues that will be, or should be, shut down.

After the Cro-Magnon fire in 2004 all dance venues were closed. Some never reopened. Although Club Español somehow miraculously stayed open during that time, the popular venue has since closed its doors. Other milongas have been ‘frozen’ in the past until money gets put into the right hands. Confiteria Ideal remains “scandalously dilapidated” even after a huge financial infusion by the government to spruce up the historic building went mysteriously missing. I’m sure there are many more stories like this that I, an outsider, am not privy to.

Tango is big business in Buenos Aires. With the current global economic crunch only the most dedicated tangueros are making their annual pilgrimage to the southern milonga circuit. The organizers are suffering from the lack of tourist dollars and it seems it might be time to get mean.

UPDATE: Within less than a week enough money went into the right hands and Peru 571 will reopen Monday, Dec. 21. Even without renovations – 10,000 pesos apparently makes the Buenos Aires Club now fit for Tango.

From Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt – p. 26

“ . . . Savannah Morning News, April 2, 1914 …

TANGO IS NO SIGN OF INSANITY, HOLDS JURY

DECIDES THAT SADIE JEFFERSON IS NOT INSANE

It is no indication of insanity to tango. This was settled yesterday by a lunacy commission which decided that Sadie Jefferson is sane. It was alleged the woman tangoed all the way to police headquarters recently when she was arrested. “

It was buried information – something I didn’t relish being reminded of – but it warrants repeating in the name of precaution against the spread of disease – especially in the time of the Swine Flu (Gripe A) pandemic of fear and consequently the shutting down of several public places.

Julio arrived at Practica wearing a surgical mask. Since Julio is in his 70s he takes his mortality, and protection of his health, more seriously than most of the dancers at DNI. Although I didn’t repeat what the Home Care Nurse told me – that the masks are virtually useless as a form of protection against others – I did suggest that hand-washing was the most effective way to prevent the spread of disease. This is especially important behavior in a public situation where many people are dancing with each other. Julio took me aside and in a lowered tone confided to me that most men do not wash their hands before leaving the restroom.Okay, I really didn’t want to know that. Ignorance has its place in the defense against fear.

Later, engaging another man in a similar conversation, he reminded us of a study that reported that men were more likely to wash their hands if there was another man in the restroom. Chances were good that most men who used the restroom alone were leaving it without having washed their hands. I was dancing with these men. Gross.

Now, to be fair, I have to tell you that some women do not wash their hands before leaving the restroom either. Both genders beware: hand-holding = germ transference.

Since I’ve started dancing I’ve thought it a romantic idea, stylistically speaking, to revive the wearing of hats and gloves for women. Lately, I more furtively believe that women should wear gloves to defend against the spread of germs. Look classy, stay safe.