Porteño y Bailarín

Well, the chanting certainly paid off. I had the best evening at Porteño y Bailarín. I went there because Helena, (one of the Australians I went with to the Sunderland) had said she was going there and asked if I might like to join her. However, she had already left by the time I arrived. I got there at half past instead of midnight, having absent-mindedly hopped on the wrong colectivo. I liked the venue immediately. It is L-shaped with two dance floors, one in warm colours, the other in cool. Carlos, the host, seated me at a table where both sides meet, with Helena, a lovely Brazilian woman and I got asked to dance as soon as I got my Neotangos on and then, continually ever after. I tried not to derive too much satisfaction from dancing past a tango teacher, seated most of the evening, who at my first milonga had said to my partner, “Oh, don't concern yourself about your lead. She can't follow in any case.”

Porteño y Bailarín are celebrating their birthday and so they are hosting some quality acts there. This evening there was the most divine singer. Everything about her was exquisite: her voice; her expression; her white lace ensemble, split to the thigh; the way she moved, her arms lifting like angel wings, expressing the poetry of the tangos and boleros she sang. I experienced unadulterated rapture and a sharp stab of love for Argentina. I feel so strongly about this country, I can't bear to think I shall have to leave, one day soon. It's 4.00 a.m. and I've just got back and should go straight to bed, but want to capture the high.

The evening was not uneventful. A table toppled over with a crash just before I left. A proper fight had broken out between two varones. I came away with a bruised head from a far too young Columbian, pushing my head into a wall with his face, to press me with an unwanted kiss. There was birthday cake. All my partners tonight were Argentinos and danced in a variety of styles. A tall man in his fifties connected with me with his left hand alone. He appeared not to have movement in his right arm. I felt no more than the edge of his hand guide my hip, occasionally. Dancing with him was a challenge, but strangely enjoyable. They are all so warm and kind. They smell so good. They wear fine shirts that bloom under the fingertips. I luxuriate in the litheness and tone of their bodies and am mesmerised by the intensity in their faces. Oh, Buenos Aires, I love you!