The Plateau

Revenons a nos moutons. I set out to write about tango, self and possibility and went off at a tangent, as you do, but I have an hour to kill before my vals class, so here goes:

When I first arrived, I felt as if every lesson was taking me forward and this was deeply satisfying. My posture improved and consequently my balance. With the help of my skilful tutors, I started to see my body as an instrument of tango and began to see that it needed to be played in a particular way in order to produce tangoesque movement. I started to work with my breath, as in yoga and martial arts, for smoothness, effortlessness and control of movement. I started to understand the importance of the expansion and contraction of the spaces in my body, for instance between my dorsals, between my ribs and hips and within my shoulder joints. I started to become aware of dancing within my frame. I started to use my palms and fingers as crucial points of connection to lever my movements. I started to acquire a deeper understanding of the lead and the anatomy of tango moves.

Then, I reached a plateau and I felt as if nothing much was changing, that I was no longer feeling excited about my rate of progress. I realised that this was partly down to the state of my body. If tango dancers had to have MOTs, I´d be the one that looked passable on the outside, but that needed its chassis welding, motor tuning and new tyres. I have not been getting up in time to attend yoga classes and this has been a big mistake. Being fit and flexible is a prerequisite of dancing good tango. I also decided it was time to be test-driven by an expert, to have my dance scrutinised for bad habits. So, I booked a short series of private lessons and practicas. The only way is up.

The Metaphysics of Sacadas

Today in class, we were made to understand that the sacada doesn´t exist. There is no such thing. No saca la pierna. The word merely describes an effect. The man projects his leg. He transfers his weight onto the projected leg. He doesn´t do anything to the woman, but his action has an effect on her leg.

Characteristically, I thought, Love is like a sacada. It doesn´t really exist, yet we all know what it feels like. Nobody actually does anything to you. He just stands in front of you and your legs give way.

Now I know what it feels like to be mauled by a lion, I feel complete. I wish I could say more, but I´ve learned my lesson. For the moment.

The Phone and the Full Moon

This is a few days old and not even about tango, though I might just dance it later:

For hours, I anguished about whether to apologise. I argued with myself.
My brain said, "Forget him. He´s a heart breaker."
My body said, "Who needs a heart?"

But it turns out no one has read anything. I was mistaken. I´m still safe. But I´ve learned my lesson, I think.

Me and my phone have just about fallen out. First it screwed up my first two dates with CFBS: it wasn´t until the third attempt to make contact that we actually managed to meet up. Then, yesterday, the phone didn´t ring when it was supposed to and I couldn´t access my voicemail. Nor could I tell from whom I had received messages. And in spite of having credit and some battery power, my phone refused to connect with his number. I discussed all this with a friend and we came to the conclusion he had read my blog and barred my calls, being a grown-up in high places. The full moon kept me up most of the night, so I feel wrecked, but all wrung out (no more tears,) because - Ta-Raaaaa! [FANFARE] - we meet tonight...

Life as Entertainment

Pens stop working when I've had them a couple of days. I could easily make that mean something, but I won't. I thought I'd adopt Life as Entertainment as my philosophy during my time in Buenos Aires. And why not? I would keep this a secret so that I could comment on real experiences involving real people without them becoming unduly self-conscious and altering their behaviour. Not that there's any point in trying to make sense of life, because it happens anyway. I believe I know all there is to know about love and infatuation, but that still doesn't prevent it from jumping up and biting me on the bum and I still catch my breath when I see someone of the same build or a sign over a shop bearing his name. I didn't reckon on anyone bothering to google my name, discovering my blog and finding themselves reading about... themselves. It was not intended that anyone should feel ridiculed or maligned. I'm not a bad person - just a shallow marshmallow. But now, the moon is full and I feel like weeping.

Sex in the City - Not

I caught myself feeling bored at a milonga for the first time ever, last night. I was sitting at a table with CFBS and his friends, a situation devoutly to be wished, you would have thought. We'd been to milongas together, but this was our second time sitting together. The first time, it had been electric. Romantic to be kissed by him after every dance, on the cheek or the forehead, with lots of little kisses, the way you'd kiss a baby. But then he went too quickly, said too much, too soon and once it's out, it can't be unsaid and that is soooo exhasparating. CFBS is gorgeous as a moviestar, can dance, is intelligent and amusing, we have chemistry, but skipping straight to the after party? Why? What about the game? The conversation we had is only possible in Spanish:

"Why not?"

“Because I'm far too British. For me, this is like a game of chess and I'm not sure I'm ready to lose my queen.”

“I'm not sure I want to lose my tower. And I definitely don't want to lose my horse.”

He's quick, that one. So, we sat for a bit, looking straight ahead and I realised I'd done it again, most likely, killed off a favourite. First the demon dancer, now him. Groundhog day. He's gone to Cordoba for a week. He asked me to mail him, but that's like torturing the tea bag after the water's turned cold. I don't think I will. If he's my horse, he´ll gallop back to me.

I remember having a conversation with my previous landlady about the demon dancer and she said, “But that's how it works, here. Argentine men like their women. There's nothing unusual about expecting to go to bed the day you meet.” “Hello I like you I'd like to know you better you can have my number I want you do you want to come back to my place” is not that unusual an opening gambit. This is true and I am definitely not showing off.

Another time, I told her about how embarrassed I felt on a collectivo when I was groping for my bus fare and a condom fell out of my purse. I only carry one because.

“Oh, there was no need to feel embarrassed,” she said, “ they've probably never seen one before - Argentinos don't know what condoms are...”

Well, there's always a first time. Standing in a queue, waiting to get into a concert, I heard someone say: “Well, this is Buenos Aires, where half the population is crazy and the other half are psychologists.” But which half? I've noticed a lot of the psychologists I've met have been women... er, that's all I have to say on that subject.

He just phoned. He's already reached “I love you” and we both know what he's up to, but his voice is like cognac and he has me giggling like a schoolgirl. I'm afraid we're both running out of moves and my queen is in jeopardy.

Plan B

Stay one step ahead: always have a plan B. I am learning. I don't think this is being cynical or skeptical. Being Buddhist, worry is slander: but there's no harm in being practical about achieving peace of mind. As the Arab saying goes, Trust in God, but tie up your camel first.

I have been a little too glib, a little too smug and I've been caught out a couple of times. For instance, I have gone out to a milonga with just enough to pay my entrance and buy a small round, then on the way back, I have waited for the carefully researched collectivo, having made a note of the best one to take, only to find I had to wait in the freezing dawn for one hour because it didn't show and I hadn't enough money with me for a taxi. I now know to take my bus guide with me everywhere, so I can figure out an alternative route if necessary and to take taxi money just in case.

It's worth keeping your ears open for good accommodation even if you have already got somewhere wonderful to stay. You just never know when circumstances might change and it's no fun suddenly finding you have nowhere to live.

As for men, sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, guapos, hermosos, lindos are everywhere in BsAs and they are all waiting for you. Devote yourself to one, by all means, but there is no harm in having a Plan B. I haven't seen anything of the demon dancer for over a week, but ColinFirthButSexier is present and correct and standing by ready to take my breath away as are twenty other chicos. It hasn't required much effort to generate a tidal wave of desire across Buenos Aires. Porteños are extremely friendly: many of the men I've danced with have said things like “I like you. I would like to spend time with you. I want to know you better. When shall we meet again?” This is definitely not London. My favourite anecdote is about an old virtuoso I danced tango nuevo with, at La Viruta around 2.00 a.m. After a tanda, (and the tandas are very long there,) he looked me in the eye and said “I'm going to bed, now.” I was slightly alarmed and thinking, why is he telling me this. Then he said, “I'm telling you this because I am seventy-two years old and I have two grandchildren and it is now my bedtime.”

Moving house

It's been almost a week since I last blogged and there have been all sorts of ups and downs, but mainly ups. Of course. I / eye!*

I had planned on staying in my flat in Recoleta for the duration of my visit to Buenos Aires. I liked my spacious room with its oak armchairs and marble-topped dressing table, its marble and brass en suite bathroom and green and pleasant terraza. I had always gotten on really well with the landlady. We had long conversations in Spanish and she went out of her way to make me feel at home, even offering to lend me her own frocks. The rental included cleaning services, but as far as I could make out, the room was only ever swept with a glance. Last week, I asked her for cleaning materials and was offered an antediluvian hoover, which blew out more than it sucked in, a brush, but no pan and a scrawny, bedraggled, ponytail of a mop. I said, delicately as possible, if I could be provided with the wherewithall to clean my rooms, I would be very happy to do so. Whereupon, the landlady suddenly decided she didn't like me being in all hours of the day, as if I were the 'dueña de la casa,' while she was out at work. The thing is, I could hardly help queening it. After dancing all night, I needed to sleep in. She informed me I would have to vacate the room within a few days.

After a whole day spent looking at flats to let on the internet, I went out to dinner at a restaurant in Recoleta to dine on Lomos Monstros (giant Filets Mignons) with my two lovely flatmates from Germany and then to a milonga at La Viruta. I needed cheering up. There, I met an Porteño guy, who happened to be a taxi dancer, but off duty. We danced most of the evening and when I mentioned I was looking for somewhere to live, he said not to worry, he would definitely be able to help me out. He had a friend who was an actress, who had a double room upstairs with its own bathroom. If that wasn't available, I could live at his sister's. I moved out the following day. I had a conciliatory chat with my landlady and we parted on good terms: all's well that ends well.

Ironically, my new home is in Palermo Queen's. I live with Catalina, who is an actress, and her ten year old daughter, Guadalupe (Guadi.) They are sunny and relaxed as a day on the beach. Being gregarious by nature, I couldn't have wished myself better circumstances. We speak Spanish and English on alternate days, so that we all profit from the arrangement. My accommodation is reasonable, very clean, has a well-equipped kitchen: there is even a water filter, which makes tea taste just divine, a filter coffee machine and a toaster, whereas in Recoleta, I had to pour my Columbian through a tea strainer and heat my bread on the gas stove.) It is also next to three of the best milongas in town: Canning, La Viruta and Villa Malcolm, home of Tango Cool. Catalina has bought me a brand new music system, given me a tour of the area in her car and shown me all the local amenities, including two swimming pools. I am happy.

(*Refer to Plaza Dorrego - September)