Four bandoneons

Oh... my... God! It's 8.00 p.m. I've overslept three hours and missed the 6.00 p.m. class at DNI I was so looking forward to. This is the first time since I arrived I've permitted myself a siesta. Yes, it is. My time here is precious and I tend to steer clear of illegit encounters with the duvet. I guess I had an excuse, this time. I took a different collectivo home around 3.30 a.m., this morning, told the driver where I was going and as I started spotting familiar territory, asked, 'Are we there yet?' He said, 'Soon.' A couple of minutes later, I asked him again and he said, 'Oh, er... we've gone way past it. Don't worry. It's about four blocks away.' So I got off and retraced the bus route four blocks, but everything was still quite unfamiliar and it was pretty dark for reading minute print on a diddy map. Fortunately, I found a policeman and it turned out I'd been dropped nineteen, not four blocks away from my road. Just like India, where it is not uncommon to tell tourists sweet little lies, with an enigmatic waggle of the head, rather than alarm them with the truth. Anyway, I had to walk back all the way home. Then, at about 9.00 a.m., Alfonso, the concierge, knocked at my door to request access for the plumber, so I got up after just four hours' sleep. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

But the evening was worth the annoying journey back. I went to the Buenos Aires Club (again!) last night with Paola, an Argentinian girl from my class. There was quality live music: a band with three violins, a double bass played with a bow, a piano and four bandoneons! I didn't close my eyes to lose myself in the power, passion, pathos of the sounds they generated, because utterly enthralled just watching these big, beautiful men wielding their instruments, as if interacting with another human being or god in some dramatic dance, their arms held out as if in supplication, faces lifted to an invisible other, the hands coming back together as if in prayer, their faces studies in intensity. Sometimes, they would lift the instrument and bring it crashing down on their knees and the bandoneons would cry out. Indescribable.

Paola is in her twenties, has one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen, is tall and willowy and can really dance. I was very puzzled therefore, to be the first to be invited to the dance floor by the jeune premier. I raised an eyebrow and touched my chest. He nodded. I don't like to be cynical, but perhaps he was intimidated by Paola's beauty or perhaps he preferred not to dance with a tall woman. Who knows? The politics of the cabeceo* are still opaque to me. We both got to dance plenty after the first half hour, in any case, and both loved the gig.

(*invitation to dance, by making eye contact)