Phones, pivots and pooches

Last night, at the Buenos Aires club (again!) my phone kept cutting out. I was supposed to be meeting someone and somehow I managed to miss a key text of his, the one in which he mentioned where he was going. I had sent him a text message suggesting we meet at the venue I had chosen and presumed he'd be there. Both our venues had an “upstairs with live music” and we both spent time searching our respective “upstairs” for each other, sending 'Where are you?' texts, in vain. But it didn't matter, because the people are friendly and even though I have been here for under two weeks, I find I inevitably recognise at least one person from a previous venue. The Republic of Tango, although it spans the planet, is a small world. I met a man and a woman, on separate occasions last night, each of whom mentioned close friends in London, both of whom I have danced with.


Today I went to a technique class for women at Tango Brujo. The first part of the class was about about pushing off and landing securely, when taking a step. The second part was about finessing the musculature of the lower hips and inner thighs for pivoting. A group of us (three Anne's, a Rosa , a Donna and I) went to a café to wind down afterwards and we all agreed that it was a very worthwhile lesson and that this delving into minute detail was exactly why we had come here to learn. I am discovering that Buenos Aires is full people for whom tango is a religion, who have made this pilgrimage, just as the sick visit Lourdes, with the difference that there is no cure: tango is a fatal obsession. I thought, coming here for six months, I was coming here for a really long time, until I realised that people who are here for one year are commonplace. I have met people who have been here for two and three years, just for tango. They are too busy dancing to work. They would sooner starve and dance, so that's what they do. I can't imagine how I'm going to feel when it's time to tear myself away from Buenos Aires – it doesn't bear thinking about.


I live in Recoleta, (the Kensington of Buenos Aires), where everybody and their dog has a dog. One of the most endearing and typically Porteňo sights in the city streets is the dogwalker. Any London child visiting Buenos Aires would give their Gameboys to live here just to see this on a regular basis. There are of course people who walk their own dog(s), but it seems a great many turn their pooches over to the professional dogwalker. Typically, they are young people in sportswear, but sometimes, they look like retired army. So far, I have seen them walk, jog and (my favourite) cycle with with their packs, which can be as large as a twenty, (in which case, of course, they are working in two's.) The dogs come in all shapes and sizes, but what they all have in common is they are always impeccably well-behaved. I have yet to witness a dogfight, display of humping or dog turd on the pavement.