Saturday 4 July 2009
Mi Mar del Plata
I went to the inauguration of a new milonga, Mi Mar del Plata, at el Juveníl, on Corrientes 4534. This is where La Maria Practica para Mujeres takes place, only the práctica is upstairs and the milonga is in a larger hall, on the ground floor, with stairs leading to an ample gallery on the mezzanine, where it is possible to sit at tables, watch the dancers on the floor below or even dance, although the space in the gallery is long and thin. Downstairs, alongside the main dance floor, there is a bar and just a handful of tables. The floor was not as smooth as the dancers, but all the beautiful people were there and I think it got off to a great start.
The Night of the Living Dead
No práctica for me today. DNI has closed its doors for the moment, on account of the swine flu. I see on facebook that some other classes and prácticas next week are also being cancelled. Buenos Aires will be soon be filled with tango dancers walking the streets with their arms outstretched, like the zombies in The Night of the Living Dead, in search of an abrazo.
The streets and subtes are filled with people wearing face-masks. There have been 55 deaths and I offer my condolences to those bereaved. There have also been 2,409 confirmed cases of infection with the H1N1 virus, known over here as la gripe A. Paranoia is rife and is every bit as infectious as the flu. You can’t get to a handbasin for the queues of guilty people wanting to wash their hands. The soap industry must be booming. And there are so many people scrubbing their hands with alcohol wipes that all the pharmacies have sold out. You can’t imagine how embarrassing it is to find yourself sneezing at a milonga. I think I might stay in tonight. Curl up on the sofa in front of our giant screen with a nice DVD. Not as much fun as dancing, but at least I'll have clean hands, eh?
This pandemic is a big deal. Schools across the country have been closed and in Buenos Aires, universities, as well. Pregnant women have been told they can take two weeks off work to avoid contracting the virus. I read that some fast food places have been closed down for not respecting the recommended distance between tables, whilst down the road others have been permitted to remain open for business. You could be forgiven for thinking municipalities were in competition with each other to see which one could close down the greatest number of establishments. However, today, the minister of health announced that protocols for coping with the emergency would be unified. I imagine these cover closures, social distancing and the distribution of anti-viral drugs. I am anxious about whether and how all this might affect air travel, however. I’m supposed to be flying back in six weeks and I don’t want to have to lose my ticket in the event of being caught blowing my nose at the airport.
The streets and subtes are filled with people wearing face-masks. There have been 55 deaths and I offer my condolences to those bereaved. There have also been 2,409 confirmed cases of infection with the H1N1 virus, known over here as la gripe A. Paranoia is rife and is every bit as infectious as the flu. You can’t get to a handbasin for the queues of guilty people wanting to wash their hands. The soap industry must be booming. And there are so many people scrubbing their hands with alcohol wipes that all the pharmacies have sold out. You can’t imagine how embarrassing it is to find yourself sneezing at a milonga. I think I might stay in tonight. Curl up on the sofa in front of our giant screen with a nice DVD. Not as much fun as dancing, but at least I'll have clean hands, eh?
This pandemic is a big deal. Schools across the country have been closed and in Buenos Aires, universities, as well. Pregnant women have been told they can take two weeks off work to avoid contracting the virus. I read that some fast food places have been closed down for not respecting the recommended distance between tables, whilst down the road others have been permitted to remain open for business. You could be forgiven for thinking municipalities were in competition with each other to see which one could close down the greatest number of establishments. However, today, the minister of health announced that protocols for coping with the emergency would be unified. I imagine these cover closures, social distancing and the distribution of anti-viral drugs. I am anxious about whether and how all this might affect air travel, however. I’m supposed to be flying back in six weeks and I don’t want to have to lose my ticket in the event of being caught blowing my nose at the airport.
Monday 29 June 2009
Milonga with Mattress Included
As we skyped this morning, one of my daughters remarked that I hadn’t written a sausage in over twenty days. Twenty days? Well, I was in bed for one week. No, it wasn’t swine ‘flu. I gave up smoking and my body went into shock. I did consider writing about my fever and nausea-altered consciousness. Or about staring at the wall outside my window and seeing how many faces I could see in its cracks and shadows. Or about sniffing my farts like flowers, like Jean Genet in his prison cell. But I didn’t have the energy and as soon as I did, I got straight up, Lazarus-like, and danced for seven hours.
As for the other two weeks, my life has been more or less the same everyday and I never tire of it: up around mid-day, an afternoon class at DNI, an evening class, práctica or milonga and sometimes all three. I no longer feel out of my depth in the Level 7 class and my teachers tell me my tango has come along ‘un montón’. I don’t just follow, I dance and I feel the difference in my balance, sensitivity and suppleness. But you’re only as good as your last gig and when I go back home and dance a whole lot less and with dancers of a somewhat different caliber, I imagine I’ll come back down a notch or two. Boohoo!
My faithful friend, Mabel, (pronounced as in Michelle ma belle) who is a dead-ringer for Kate Winslet, or rather a cross between Winslet and Greta Scacchi, asked me to join her at a new milonga last night, in the barrio of Balvanera. It was situated in a great big hangar-like structure on Adolfo Alsina 2764, with pink and lemon lighting, tiered seating on the entrance side and an enormous Romanesque mattress along one side for reclining upon. I bet the mattress came first. They probably acquired this mattress and thought, how can we put this thing to good use and someone said, I know, let’s build a milonga around it. That is almost certainly what happened. Anyway, it was friendly and the drinks were cheap (yes, they sold booze, even though the sale of alcohol was prohibited, it being the night before the elections.) The milonga finished at 03:00 and Mabel and friends insisted I accompany them to La Viruta, even though I was there till 07:00 this same morning. After a few feeble protests, I gave in and off we went, the five of us, all squashed into one taxi, thanks to an accommodating and fun-loving cabbie.
I had to have café con leche on arrival to kid my body into believing I still had bags of energy to burn. But not only had I danced till 07:00 in the morning, I had also been in Tango 7 at DNI at 14:00, followed by three hours of práctica and then a tango electronico class. That’s seven hours of tango on five hours' sleep, before even setting foot in the first milonga. Crazy, crazy, crazy… but isn’t life exquisite, with a capital X.
And now, it’s the night after and I’m sitting in my Sunday night favourite, the Torquato Tasso, scribbling about it all. Someone’s taco crashed into the top of my left foot and even though I murmured my trusty mantra, “Toes of steel, toes of steel!” which always seems to work, it carried on hurting , so I decided to sit out a couple of tandas and whip out my note pad, instead. But here comes another porteño stunner… I’m off. Goodnight!
As for the other two weeks, my life has been more or less the same everyday and I never tire of it: up around mid-day, an afternoon class at DNI, an evening class, práctica or milonga and sometimes all three. I no longer feel out of my depth in the Level 7 class and my teachers tell me my tango has come along ‘un montón’. I don’t just follow, I dance and I feel the difference in my balance, sensitivity and suppleness. But you’re only as good as your last gig and when I go back home and dance a whole lot less and with dancers of a somewhat different caliber, I imagine I’ll come back down a notch or two. Boohoo!
My faithful friend, Mabel, (pronounced as in Michelle ma belle) who is a dead-ringer for Kate Winslet, or rather a cross between Winslet and Greta Scacchi, asked me to join her at a new milonga last night, in the barrio of Balvanera. It was situated in a great big hangar-like structure on Adolfo Alsina 2764, with pink and lemon lighting, tiered seating on the entrance side and an enormous Romanesque mattress along one side for reclining upon. I bet the mattress came first. They probably acquired this mattress and thought, how can we put this thing to good use and someone said, I know, let’s build a milonga around it. That is almost certainly what happened. Anyway, it was friendly and the drinks were cheap (yes, they sold booze, even though the sale of alcohol was prohibited, it being the night before the elections.) The milonga finished at 03:00 and Mabel and friends insisted I accompany them to La Viruta, even though I was there till 07:00 this same morning. After a few feeble protests, I gave in and off we went, the five of us, all squashed into one taxi, thanks to an accommodating and fun-loving cabbie.
I had to have café con leche on arrival to kid my body into believing I still had bags of energy to burn. But not only had I danced till 07:00 in the morning, I had also been in Tango 7 at DNI at 14:00, followed by three hours of práctica and then a tango electronico class. That’s seven hours of tango on five hours' sleep, before even setting foot in the first milonga. Crazy, crazy, crazy… but isn’t life exquisite, with a capital X.
And now, it’s the night after and I’m sitting in my Sunday night favourite, the Torquato Tasso, scribbling about it all. Someone’s taco crashed into the top of my left foot and even though I murmured my trusty mantra, “Toes of steel, toes of steel!” which always seems to work, it carried on hurting , so I decided to sit out a couple of tandas and whip out my note pad, instead. But here comes another porteño stunner… I’m off. Goodnight!
Thursday 18 June 2009
Saturday Milonga in La Boca Cancelled
Please note, the Saturday Milonga in La Boca, hosted by Soledad and El Gordo, has been cancelled till further notice.
Monday 8 June 2009
El Indio at La Catedral
A bit dozey this evening, having had just four hours’ sleep last night, I glanced at my watch, misread the time and showed up an hour late for Tango 4 at DNI. At a loss as to what to do with myself, I headed back home and just as I was about to open the front door, thought, I wonder if there’s anything on at La Catedrál, across the road. I went over to check and sure enough, the poster on the door advertised a class that was just about to start with none other than El Indio.
I first heard mention of him in Danny Israel’s book. Since coming to Buenos Aires I have had him pointed out to me several times, most recently at Prácticalab, which he founded. As I paid my entrance, a tall, dark character with striking ‘indio’ features and a long black mane entered the building. Ladies and gentlemen, I thought, He has arrived. He is here. And by some gorgeous accident, so am I.
It was an exciting class. He draws quite a crowd. He teaches purposefully, from the essence. He knows how to communicate the elements, whilst maintaining the pace of the lesson. Musicality, technique and floorcraft were integrated into the preparatory exercises. He was demanding and the lesson was challenging, but the choreography was thrilling and included a move I haven’t seen before, a Montesino gancho. Tango flowed from him into us. I will most definitely be going back for more.
I first heard mention of him in Danny Israel’s book. Since coming to Buenos Aires I have had him pointed out to me several times, most recently at Prácticalab, which he founded. As I paid my entrance, a tall, dark character with striking ‘indio’ features and a long black mane entered the building. Ladies and gentlemen, I thought, He has arrived. He is here. And by some gorgeous accident, so am I.
It was an exciting class. He draws quite a crowd. He teaches purposefully, from the essence. He knows how to communicate the elements, whilst maintaining the pace of the lesson. Musicality, technique and floorcraft were integrated into the preparatory exercises. He was demanding and the lesson was challenging, but the choreography was thrilling and included a move I haven’t seen before, a Montesino gancho. Tango flowed from him into us. I will most definitely be going back for more.
Sunday 7 June 2009
Three birthdays and an opening night
Quite a few parties this week. Three of them were birthdays and two of those were mine. Oh my head. Where is my alka seltzer? My tongue is asleep and my teeth itch. (Okay, that was Shelley Burman.)
On 2nd June, Tango Queer celebrated its fourth birthday with a special milonga (band, balloons and birthday cake.) On 4th June, I held a milonga at home (yes, I did!) to celebrate my birthday. I turned 39, as usual. On 5th June, my class in la Boca held a surprise birthday party for me and on 6th June, Soledad and El Gordo inaugurated their new milonga in La Boca in the same cool venue on Benito Perez Galdos, where the French girls had their farewell party. Getting to bed at 08:00 is becoming commonplace. As is helping to wash up after a milonga. I’m beginning to consider myself at home in Tangoland, consider myself a part of the furniture.
I am malingering at home, between class and going out, waiting for my phone to charge, when I should be out milongaring. I’m snatching a moment with my Thinkpad, to tell you all about my life in Buenos Aires. It is full on, so I’m finding it harder and harder to spare a minute to talk about it. I have never been so deliriously happy, month after month, but I’m suffering from feelings of anxiety about having only got a couple left to go…
At Tango Queer’s birthday party, a woman came and sat at my table. She was small woman with a sweet face, quiet and unassuming. She looked to be in her sixties and I imagined she was someone’s mum, who had come down to TQ to watch. It turned out she was an accomplished dancer from Florida, who could lead with as much panache as she could follow, was seventy-eight years old and that her partner had given Mariana, the founder, a stipend to get this project started. Just goes to show, the boughs that bear the most fruit hang low.
TQ is worthy of celebration. I love the freedom of switching roles mid-dance, watching men dance with men and women dance with women and women lead men as well as the usual. I like being on first name terms with the bar staff. Peru 571 feels to me like an extension of my living room. It was a good night. There was live music from a band called Cruel China and a brilliant solo tango performance from Mario, who dances with a stick as a prop. The place was packed and a good night was had by all.
I decided to have a milonga at home, the day before my birthday. I sent out a whole load of emails and texts, but because it was a weekday and a bit last minute, some of my women friends who have children, were unable to attend. Also, it coincided with the leaving party of one of my other friends. Nevertheless, I was delighted to see all the people who did come, including a few of my tango teachers. This is a lovely space for socializing and we danced till about 03:00 and I’m proud to say the police were called because it was a weekday and one of the neighbours considered us a nuisance. We turned down the music and carried on a while, but then decided to move on. We went to Theodoro’s, an atmospheric tango bar round the corner, which apparently never closes, where you can bring your own booze, forget the corkscrew, and someone with a strong index finger will do the honours for you, where musicians show up randomly with their instruments and keys, crow bars and battering rams for opening the doors of perception and you are treated to spontaneous performances all night long. Red-eyed, coked up revellers who don’t or can’t dance seem to know all the tango lyrics and join in whenever someone starts up. I was completely enchanted. It was broad daylight and there was traffic in Sarmiento, when I emerged, ready for bed.
When I woke up, it was time for my evening class in La Boca. This is a class in a Centro Cultural, a community centre, attended by a cat and the people of this run down barrio. We always have a beer and crisps at the end of the lesson, which frequently goes on till after 01:00 in the morning, but this day, they came with picadas and wine and a home-made birthday cake (full of dulce de leche, my favourite) and every single member of the class, including the teenagers, brought me a present. I was overwhelmed by their warmth and goodness and I will never forget it. We danced everything, including some tango and some of us got very drunk. That was a proper birthday, that was.
Apart from La Viruta, which you either love or hate (I love) and the Milonga de las Morochas, I’m not terribly keen on anything that’s on offer on a Saturday night, so I am very glad that Soledad and El Gordo, two of the most fun-loving people I know, have collaborated to open a new milonga in La Boca. The opening night got off to a slow start, but by 01:00, the place was buzzing and we didn’t start washing up till after 07:00. Sole and El Gordo greet every one that enters as if they are the most important person in the world and they dance with everyone, talk with everyone and make efforts to ensure that everyone has everything they need. The venue is cool. I particularly like the leafy shadows whooshing against the tall windows, the moody lighting, the high ceilings, the kidney-shape of the main room, the gigantic parilla (barbecue) and the fact that there is a quiet room where you can disappear off to for a snog, a chat or a foot massage. In summer, you can even sit in the garden. The next one is the week after next and as of 20th June, it will run every Saturday and offer dinner as well as dancing. Entrance is free. What more can I say?
On 2nd June, Tango Queer celebrated its fourth birthday with a special milonga (band, balloons and birthday cake.) On 4th June, I held a milonga at home (yes, I did!) to celebrate my birthday. I turned 39, as usual. On 5th June, my class in la Boca held a surprise birthday party for me and on 6th June, Soledad and El Gordo inaugurated their new milonga in La Boca in the same cool venue on Benito Perez Galdos, where the French girls had their farewell party. Getting to bed at 08:00 is becoming commonplace. As is helping to wash up after a milonga. I’m beginning to consider myself at home in Tangoland, consider myself a part of the furniture.
I am malingering at home, between class and going out, waiting for my phone to charge, when I should be out milongaring. I’m snatching a moment with my Thinkpad, to tell you all about my life in Buenos Aires. It is full on, so I’m finding it harder and harder to spare a minute to talk about it. I have never been so deliriously happy, month after month, but I’m suffering from feelings of anxiety about having only got a couple left to go…
At Tango Queer’s birthday party, a woman came and sat at my table. She was small woman with a sweet face, quiet and unassuming. She looked to be in her sixties and I imagined she was someone’s mum, who had come down to TQ to watch. It turned out she was an accomplished dancer from Florida, who could lead with as much panache as she could follow, was seventy-eight years old and that her partner had given Mariana, the founder, a stipend to get this project started. Just goes to show, the boughs that bear the most fruit hang low.
TQ is worthy of celebration. I love the freedom of switching roles mid-dance, watching men dance with men and women dance with women and women lead men as well as the usual. I like being on first name terms with the bar staff. Peru 571 feels to me like an extension of my living room. It was a good night. There was live music from a band called Cruel China and a brilliant solo tango performance from Mario, who dances with a stick as a prop. The place was packed and a good night was had by all.
I decided to have a milonga at home, the day before my birthday. I sent out a whole load of emails and texts, but because it was a weekday and a bit last minute, some of my women friends who have children, were unable to attend. Also, it coincided with the leaving party of one of my other friends. Nevertheless, I was delighted to see all the people who did come, including a few of my tango teachers. This is a lovely space for socializing and we danced till about 03:00 and I’m proud to say the police were called because it was a weekday and one of the neighbours considered us a nuisance. We turned down the music and carried on a while, but then decided to move on. We went to Theodoro’s, an atmospheric tango bar round the corner, which apparently never closes, where you can bring your own booze, forget the corkscrew, and someone with a strong index finger will do the honours for you, where musicians show up randomly with their instruments and keys, crow bars and battering rams for opening the doors of perception and you are treated to spontaneous performances all night long. Red-eyed, coked up revellers who don’t or can’t dance seem to know all the tango lyrics and join in whenever someone starts up. I was completely enchanted. It was broad daylight and there was traffic in Sarmiento, when I emerged, ready for bed.
When I woke up, it was time for my evening class in La Boca. This is a class in a Centro Cultural, a community centre, attended by a cat and the people of this run down barrio. We always have a beer and crisps at the end of the lesson, which frequently goes on till after 01:00 in the morning, but this day, they came with picadas and wine and a home-made birthday cake (full of dulce de leche, my favourite) and every single member of the class, including the teenagers, brought me a present. I was overwhelmed by their warmth and goodness and I will never forget it. We danced everything, including some tango and some of us got very drunk. That was a proper birthday, that was.
Apart from La Viruta, which you either love or hate (I love) and the Milonga de las Morochas, I’m not terribly keen on anything that’s on offer on a Saturday night, so I am very glad that Soledad and El Gordo, two of the most fun-loving people I know, have collaborated to open a new milonga in La Boca. The opening night got off to a slow start, but by 01:00, the place was buzzing and we didn’t start washing up till after 07:00. Sole and El Gordo greet every one that enters as if they are the most important person in the world and they dance with everyone, talk with everyone and make efforts to ensure that everyone has everything they need. The venue is cool. I particularly like the leafy shadows whooshing against the tall windows, the moody lighting, the high ceilings, the kidney-shape of the main room, the gigantic parilla (barbecue) and the fact that there is a quiet room where you can disappear off to for a snog, a chat or a foot massage. In summer, you can even sit in the garden. The next one is the week after next and as of 20th June, it will run every Saturday and offer dinner as well as dancing. Entrance is free. What more can I say?
The extraordinarily poetic tango lessons of Debi Altieri
I’ve just returned from yet another exquisite experience at La Catedral, (half a block away from my flat), where Debi Altieri is currently giving her extraordinarily poetic tango lessons on a Sunday evening. The quality and subject matter of the tuition is priceless and yet, the group is small. Tiny. I just can’t figure out how it is that some of the most beautiful experiences to be had on earth, experiences that cost little or nothing, manage to escape the attention of the masses. I often wonder why this is, as I float on my back, feeling like a millionaire, under a mackerel sky in the deliciously icy water of the Lido, a seventy-five metre swimming pool next to my place in London, which I frequently have all to myself in winter.
Debi’s classes leave you deeply in love. In love with your dance partner, in love with tango, in love with the moment, in love with life. In this class, all the dancers hold each other tenderly for a long moment after the music has ended. Debi’s lessons are themed and structured to make it so. She has exercises that draw the genie out of the bottle.
Her last lesson was about the pauses and silences of tango. Before the class, I had depended upon the man to create these spaces, but since Debi’s lessons, I have learned that I can create them, too. It is the pauses and silences that give tango it’s poetry, it’s intensity, it’s tints of emotion. It is in the silences that we share another’s heartbeat, another’s breath. When we pause, we can luxuriate in the tenderness of the embrace, the proximity of another’s body, the bloom of another’s face. A tango, which is nothing more than steps and fancy figures is a lie.
Tonight’s lesson was about talking with your body. That is not what she called it, but I believe it is the essence of what she was trying to convey to us. The lesson was not about dance steps or ‘technique’. It was about giving and receiving, the communication of feelings via micro-movements of the head, arms, shoulders and the many different parts of the torso. The class started with contact exercises, the results of which were then carried forward into the dance exercises with utterly beautiful results.
The Catedral is the perfect venue for her classes, with its dark, cavernous hall, the warm wooden floor which she frequently gets us to lie on, the sculptures and artefacts hung all about , its central circle of coloured lights creating a hallowed space for our special dance experience and a colossal, illuminated human heart hanging on the wall. Sadly after next week, she expects to move the class to another venue, but no doubt she’ll somehow manage to transform it into a cathedral of the heart.
Thank you Flor, for telling me about Debi’s classes.
Debi’s classes leave you deeply in love. In love with your dance partner, in love with tango, in love with the moment, in love with life. In this class, all the dancers hold each other tenderly for a long moment after the music has ended. Debi’s lessons are themed and structured to make it so. She has exercises that draw the genie out of the bottle.
Her last lesson was about the pauses and silences of tango. Before the class, I had depended upon the man to create these spaces, but since Debi’s lessons, I have learned that I can create them, too. It is the pauses and silences that give tango it’s poetry, it’s intensity, it’s tints of emotion. It is in the silences that we share another’s heartbeat, another’s breath. When we pause, we can luxuriate in the tenderness of the embrace, the proximity of another’s body, the bloom of another’s face. A tango, which is nothing more than steps and fancy figures is a lie.
Tonight’s lesson was about talking with your body. That is not what she called it, but I believe it is the essence of what she was trying to convey to us. The lesson was not about dance steps or ‘technique’. It was about giving and receiving, the communication of feelings via micro-movements of the head, arms, shoulders and the many different parts of the torso. The class started with contact exercises, the results of which were then carried forward into the dance exercises with utterly beautiful results.
The Catedral is the perfect venue for her classes, with its dark, cavernous hall, the warm wooden floor which she frequently gets us to lie on, the sculptures and artefacts hung all about , its central circle of coloured lights creating a hallowed space for our special dance experience and a colossal, illuminated human heart hanging on the wall. Sadly after next week, she expects to move the class to another venue, but no doubt she’ll somehow manage to transform it into a cathedral of the heart.
Thank you Flor, for telling me about Debi’s classes.
Thursday 28 May 2009
Goodbye San Telmo, Hello Almagro
A few days ago, I left my beloved flat on Independencia and moved to Almagro. I loved living in my old flat, even though the kitchen and bathroom were pretty basic. I had an ample bedroom with a wooden floor big enough for dancing, a pair of large erotic paintings, which I miss already and this rather special triffid growing in the window. I had lovely flatmates and my landlord was just fine. I could easily have stayed there and carried on waking up too late for daytime lessons at DNI in Almagro, day after day. Fortunately, this new flat came up and I just had to let go. Now, I can get up after noon, have a very relaxed start to the day and still manage to get to DNI, which is only six blocks away, for class at 14:00.
The flat was advertised as ‘Stylish flat in Almagro,’ so I had to go take a look. I said ‘yes’ as soon as I walked through the front door. I immediately took to the young lady who was to be my dueña. The flat was indeed stylish. Artistically designed spaces, built on many levels, with twenty foot ceilings, a living cum dining area big enough to host a small milonga, exposed brick wall, gigantic windows, wooden floors, nicely furnished, all mod cons, two bathrooms and a decent-sized bedroom for me with a divinely comfortable bed. It was a quarter more expensive than my previous flat, but I figured it would be one and a half times more comfortable and convenient living here. Almagro is within easy reach of all the milongas and prácticas where I tend to go: in San Telmo, Recoleta and Palermo. I can even walk to quite a few.
As I popped down to the Disco (supermarket) this morning, two blocks away, my walk took me past a street filled with the beauty and fragrance of flowers, because the area is the equivalent of the old Covent Garden. It is where florists come to buy their flowers. The next block in the opposite direction is a park. I am on Sarmiento. Medrano subte, on Corrientes, is one block in front of me. I am very, very lucky.
Just so I wouldn’t float away on a dream, when I got up after my first night there, the good old universe set about keepin’ it real. I went to get some money out of a hole in the wall and the computer said my transaction was invalid. I tried two others with the same result. I dashed back home and logged in to my bank to find out what the hell was going on and found my accounts had disappeared. Then, I tried the telephone banking option, but when I keyed in my code, it came up as invalid. I wasn’t liking any of this, so I chanted a bit and decided to block it out of my mind and dance till able to get through to my bank. I went to DNI. I could only do this because Paula, who owns the flat, was extraordinarily sympathetic and lent me all the money I needed, even though I still owed her money. When finally I managed to speak to the bank, I discovered they had blocked my accounts for security reasons: some of my post had been returned to them. Everything’s alright now. I’m glad to have had the shock, though. Dreamers like me need to be kept on their toes.
The flat was advertised as ‘Stylish flat in Almagro,’ so I had to go take a look. I said ‘yes’ as soon as I walked through the front door. I immediately took to the young lady who was to be my dueña. The flat was indeed stylish. Artistically designed spaces, built on many levels, with twenty foot ceilings, a living cum dining area big enough to host a small milonga, exposed brick wall, gigantic windows, wooden floors, nicely furnished, all mod cons, two bathrooms and a decent-sized bedroom for me with a divinely comfortable bed. It was a quarter more expensive than my previous flat, but I figured it would be one and a half times more comfortable and convenient living here. Almagro is within easy reach of all the milongas and prácticas where I tend to go: in San Telmo, Recoleta and Palermo. I can even walk to quite a few.
As I popped down to the Disco (supermarket) this morning, two blocks away, my walk took me past a street filled with the beauty and fragrance of flowers, because the area is the equivalent of the old Covent Garden. It is where florists come to buy their flowers. The next block in the opposite direction is a park. I am on Sarmiento. Medrano subte, on Corrientes, is one block in front of me. I am very, very lucky.
Just so I wouldn’t float away on a dream, when I got up after my first night there, the good old universe set about keepin’ it real. I went to get some money out of a hole in the wall and the computer said my transaction was invalid. I tried two others with the same result. I dashed back home and logged in to my bank to find out what the hell was going on and found my accounts had disappeared. Then, I tried the telephone banking option, but when I keyed in my code, it came up as invalid. I wasn’t liking any of this, so I chanted a bit and decided to block it out of my mind and dance till able to get through to my bank. I went to DNI. I could only do this because Paula, who owns the flat, was extraordinarily sympathetic and lent me all the money I needed, even though I still owed her money. When finally I managed to speak to the bank, I discovered they had blocked my accounts for security reasons: some of my post had been returned to them. Everything’s alright now. I’m glad to have had the shock, though. Dreamers like me need to be kept on their toes.
Friday 22 May 2009
Practica Tangolab
I met a bailarín with a particularly elegant caminata at Peru 571, last week, a freshfaced Argentino, like an apple with a ponytail. He gave me his phone number and told me to call him if I wanted to dance with him another time. Somewhat in need of a change of scenery, I sent him a text message asking if he wanted to go out and he suggested a brand new práctica called Tangolab in Palermo. Normally, I would have gone to La Viruta for my weekly hit of rock on a Wednesday, so I had to choose between them. I never want for partners at a milonga, but prácticas are another matter. They do seem to be more partner-oriented, so I thought I would profit from this opportunity and give the new gig a try.
The venue was perfect: a huge space with tables around the outer edges, hosted by immaculate waiters serving food and drink, very high ceiling, stage lighting, glass doors and outside, a smokers’ paradise on the lawn, under parasols in a garden with an illuminated fountain, so seductive it made you want to smoke again. The sound quality was good and I thought the music well chosen, with a nice mix of styles. The crowd consisted mainly of young Argentinians and tourists, as is usually the case with prácticas. Although only in its second week, the place was packed. I imagine its reputation was assured, because it is organised by El Indio, who a well-known figure in Buenos Aires tango. The deadly smooth, stone dance floor was no deterrent to dancing, but it was a little tricky and sure as hell had me thinking about buying some nice, new dance trainers.
My partner for the evening seemed to know an awful lot of people there and it turned out he was a tango teacher with twelve years of tango behind him. I was a perfect numpty not to have considered that he might be looking for private students. I confronted him about this and he was charming and said there was no reason a tango teacher could not enjoy the pleasure of dancing with a potential student, whether or not she became one. He introduced me to his friends and we had a very sociable evening. He has even offered to help me move house and to come round and cook me a meal in my new flat, next week. I couldn’t imagine this ever happening in London.
The venue was perfect: a huge space with tables around the outer edges, hosted by immaculate waiters serving food and drink, very high ceiling, stage lighting, glass doors and outside, a smokers’ paradise on the lawn, under parasols in a garden with an illuminated fountain, so seductive it made you want to smoke again. The sound quality was good and I thought the music well chosen, with a nice mix of styles. The crowd consisted mainly of young Argentinians and tourists, as is usually the case with prácticas. Although only in its second week, the place was packed. I imagine its reputation was assured, because it is organised by El Indio, who a well-known figure in Buenos Aires tango. The deadly smooth, stone dance floor was no deterrent to dancing, but it was a little tricky and sure as hell had me thinking about buying some nice, new dance trainers.
My partner for the evening seemed to know an awful lot of people there and it turned out he was a tango teacher with twelve years of tango behind him. I was a perfect numpty not to have considered that he might be looking for private students. I confronted him about this and he was charming and said there was no reason a tango teacher could not enjoy the pleasure of dancing with a potential student, whether or not she became one. He introduced me to his friends and we had a very sociable evening. He has even offered to help me move house and to come round and cook me a meal in my new flat, next week. I couldn’t imagine this ever happening in London.
Wednesday 20 May 2009
Iguazú of the bleeding heart
The floor was almost empty. She noticed him coming in as she finished dancing with another man. He hesitated in the doorway a moment, seeing a man and a woman going wild to the cortina. A tango started up again. Hugo Díaz. Then he got himself a drink and sat down at an empty table close to the entrance, illuminated by the red fire exit light, sipping his tinto in profile to her. Genteel. Princely. Elfin. Pass, she thought.
He took his time. He looked her way. Did she want to dance? Not really. She had hoped to be next to dance with her beautiful teacher. Still, there was something about him. She gave him a smile and rose to meet him.
‘Are you gay?’ she asked.
‘No. But why are you asking?’
‘Well, it’s a gay milonga here on Tuesdays. I come here to learn to lead. What about you?’
‘I didn’t know. I came because it’s near where I’m staying.’
Little by little. The face, the embrace. Nice. Very nice. They danced another and then another. Tango minimalism. The line of beauty. Perfect balance. German. Danced schön. Vorsprung durch Technik.
She wanted him to see her dance with someone else. Someone who would make her legs fly, like her tango teacher. She danced with her teacher, but he didn’t seem impressed. He was only interested in one thing: perfection.
When they danced again, he shared the lead with her, keeping the traditional embrace. He made her lead him with her torso on her forward steps. It worked very well. His face changed. His breathing changed. Sighs and whispers. She luxuriated in the approval.
‘Would you like to meet again? May I give you my email address?’
Of course. If he hadn’t asked, she would have done the asking.
He mailed her the next morning asking her out to lunch or at least coffee at the Plaza Dorrego. No, she thought.
'Thank you, but it’s a milonga or nada. I don’t do lunch or coffee. I’m only in BsAs for one thing: tango. I’m sure you understand. Weren’t you just the same when you first started dancing?'
He answered, 'Women are all the same. They only want one thing from me.'
That’s our line, she thought and forgot about him.
Friday was a día feriado, so everywhere was closed. On finding her afternoon class at Torcuato Tasso cancelled, she started to walk home along Defensa and as she came into Plaza Dorrego thought she’d stop for coffee. It occurred to her to call H to share with her this freak outbreak of normal life. Good deed for the day, she thought. Give a dog a bone.
He was down in a matter of minutes and she was surprised at how pleasant it is to look at the face of someone who likes you. He invited her to come and see his flat and as she had a couple of hours to kill before her class in La Boca, she did.
It was a bachelor flat in Bolívar on the tenth floor, with a stunning view through walls of plated glass. The front door of the apartment opened onto a spacious, white tango salon, invisibly lit, with a mirrored wall, marble floors and chic leather furniture. A shag pad. He showed her around. He put on some music, took her in his arms and they danced.
Later, she reflected on what really happened. Of course it depended on how you conceptualised it. Weltanshauung. At some point, something shifted in her perception of him. As a proud and independent woman, it shocked her to consider she might have been seduced by her surroundings. As a pragmatist, she reflected she might well have been. A conditioned reflex. Pavlov’s dog. The dog hears the bell, the dog salivates. You enter a shag pad and well, there you go. It’s the reason people spend vast sums of money on marble, mirrors and leather and why women waste hours getting ready to go out, time and money which could be spent on improving the mind, seeing as that is where reality occurs. The paradox bothered her and she bothered the paradox: the mind moulds the experience of reality, yet here was an experience of reality blatantly moulding the mind. His mind, as much as hers. He seemed to become a different person there.
Nothing happened. She had her class to get to in La Boca, but later, The Process began.
He wanted to undress her and dance in the mirrored room and she said okay, but only by candlelight. One candle. In another room. They made each other laugh. Así se baila el tango.
Later, they were children again. Open. Trusting. They gambled, laying chapters of their lives on the table, face up. The more they knew each other, the more there was to know. She could never have guessed what he was like. He had seemed so strict and restrained in his taste in music and style of dancing. He wouldn’t dance to Pugliese. Yet he was a free spirit. Curious, sensitive, intuitive. She thought he had the most lovable face. And the most beautiful legs in the world. Sometimes, she wrote to his legs. Runners’ legs.
She loved it when he whispered to her in German and she found his German English strangely endearing: he said intimothy for 'intimacy'and When do we see us tonight? He said ‘please’ in bed. You don’t say ‘please’ in bed, do you? His German Spanish was even more incomprehensible and he always texted her in Spanish. Todas el día. No hace gente. Quiero de llamaste. ¿Quieres verte me?
Very quickly, they grew to want each other intensely, but love was hard work. They were both demanding and had clear ideas of how things should be. Not the same ones. They were both control freaks. One by demand, the other by omission. One was for communication, the other for silence. It didn’t work. There was agitation, aggravation, argument. One step forwards, two steps back. A tango of frustration. And still they longed for each other.
Within days, everything came to a sudden stop. Like a plane against a mountain. He had invited a friend to stay with him in Buenos Aires for the remainder of his holiday. They would no longer be able to be alone together for more than a few hours at a time. Milongas, lunch, coffee in Plaza Dorrego, lazy afternoon in the flat, walk in the park over by Puerto Madero, nights bound and gagged by the presence of another the other side of the bedroom wall. Three is a crowd. He was torn between wanting to spend time with his friend and seeing her. He would invite her to join them, then uninvite her when the friend objected. Plans chopped and changed. She longed for him, but thought this inconsiderate. He believed he was acting in good faith and expected her to be understanding. While they were busy being right, they were not tender, just raw. Bed became a battlefield.
She needed to leave the country to get her visa renewed. She suggested going to Iguazú, where she could cross over the border to Brasil and get her passport stamped on re-entry. Ever since she had heard of it, she had thought Iguazú was for lovers. He said it was too far away and that he and his friend had planned to go to Montevideo for the weekend. Still, somehow, they ended up going to Iguazú. She wondered whether she had somehow wished the trip into existence. Thought is real.
The flight was an hour and a half long. Time enough for the three of them to bond. They talked philosophy, but there was still a palpable tension between them. Once they landed in Iguazú, they were instantly soothed by its natural beauty. There was not enough time to see the falls on the first day, so they went walkabout and loitered in a café. Iguazú is a one-horse town with low buildings, embedded in a lush, green landscape and the rich, red earth that is common to many places in the southern hemishere. The air is silent and fragrant and the water, soft. There are fruit trees everywhere, even downtown. It is a place to romance Mother Nature, to reconnect with the earth.
The atmosphere between them started easing, but still there was tension. When they returned to their hotel rooms before dinner, he was silent and withdrawn. Unable to stand it any longer, she swept out and requested a separate bedroom, but there were no singles left. She decided she’d wait and see how things panned out before accepting a double. They went out to dinner.
The restaurant had a pleasant atmosphere. Music wafted down from the jazz bar upstairs, the lighting was mellow, the food delicious and the wine, marvellous. The boys handled the conversation with their endless fund of jokes, which saw them through all three days of their trip. She was impressed. She could never remember any and when she did, she invariably bungled the punchline. By the end of the meal, the three of them were in good humour. She decided she would ask for a room when they got in, to preserve the fragile goodwill that they had finally managed to build between them. Either he would be relieved or he would object. Either way, it seemed the thing to do.
He objected.
As soon as they closed the door behind them, it was as if they met for the first time. It was the Iguazú she had always known it would be.
The next morning, after breakfast, the three of them got a bus over to the Brazilian side of the falls. They walked along the canyon on a long walkway, through the rainforest, past prehistoric rockscapes, waterfall after waterfall, until they were directly over the Garganta del Diablo (the Devil’s Throat.) She stood and stared silently, moved by the magnificence of the flow. The past hurling the present into the future. Not consecutive, but concurrent . She was present to the twin meanings of current. Now is the flow. It spoke to her. Now. Now. Now. There is nothing else. Now is the time, always. Perfect and limitless for those with eyes that see. Now. Now. Now.
As if the splendour of the falls was not enough, a vivid rainbow ringed the landscape. A flight of birds, or possibly butterflies, swung low over the falls, making exquisite shapes, like a veil, blowing in the wind. So much beauty is unbearable to human beings. This is probably why the tourists down below took endless pictures of each other, instead.
They took pictures together, too. She sat in his lap on the bus. He shared his i-pod with her and they danced tangos at the bus stop in the middle of nowhere. It was a day of kisses and caresses and being welded together in holy intimothy. She had her sparkling Iguazú. A happy day for the two of them, but also for the three of them. Another wonderful dinner. Another wonderful night.
To cut a long story short, they broke up. They started coming apart at the airport on the way back. She had meant to pay for dinner the night before, but had forgotten her purse. On an impulse, at the airport, she gave him a wad of notes “as a contribution.” For some reason, he appeared to take offence, presumed she was starting an argument, appeared to go cold on her. On the plane, he seated his friend between them. As she listened to the cello in her head, she thought, nothing is perfect because the human mind is imperfect. Original sin, Fundamental Darkness, whatever you might care to call it, will not admit perfection.
Later that day, once back in Buenos Aires, he messaged her to meet up for dinner at an address in Bolívar. When she got there, the restaurant was closed and he was nowhere to be seen. When they finally found each other, she was ratty. He couldn’t take it and left.
For two days, she tried to see him, before he left for Germany. He did not respond to her text messages or calls, but just before he left, he sent her a report on her behavior, as though she were one of his clients. He said in his German English, her model of communication was not ‘You are ok, I am ok.’ Rather, it was ‘I am not ok, you are not ok,’ that she ascribed bad motives to his behaviour and that this drove him crazy and… It made her feel very sad. We can only ever drive ourselves crazy, she thought. We believe what we choose to believe. Because. But. Now is perfect and limitless for those with eyes that see.
He took his time. He looked her way. Did she want to dance? Not really. She had hoped to be next to dance with her beautiful teacher. Still, there was something about him. She gave him a smile and rose to meet him.
‘Are you gay?’ she asked.
‘No. But why are you asking?’
‘Well, it’s a gay milonga here on Tuesdays. I come here to learn to lead. What about you?’
‘I didn’t know. I came because it’s near where I’m staying.’
Little by little. The face, the embrace. Nice. Very nice. They danced another and then another. Tango minimalism. The line of beauty. Perfect balance. German. Danced schön. Vorsprung durch Technik.
She wanted him to see her dance with someone else. Someone who would make her legs fly, like her tango teacher. She danced with her teacher, but he didn’t seem impressed. He was only interested in one thing: perfection.
When they danced again, he shared the lead with her, keeping the traditional embrace. He made her lead him with her torso on her forward steps. It worked very well. His face changed. His breathing changed. Sighs and whispers. She luxuriated in the approval.
‘Would you like to meet again? May I give you my email address?’
Of course. If he hadn’t asked, she would have done the asking.
He mailed her the next morning asking her out to lunch or at least coffee at the Plaza Dorrego. No, she thought.
'Thank you, but it’s a milonga or nada. I don’t do lunch or coffee. I’m only in BsAs for one thing: tango. I’m sure you understand. Weren’t you just the same when you first started dancing?'
He answered, 'Women are all the same. They only want one thing from me.'
That’s our line, she thought and forgot about him.
Friday was a día feriado, so everywhere was closed. On finding her afternoon class at Torcuato Tasso cancelled, she started to walk home along Defensa and as she came into Plaza Dorrego thought she’d stop for coffee. It occurred to her to call H to share with her this freak outbreak of normal life. Good deed for the day, she thought. Give a dog a bone.
He was down in a matter of minutes and she was surprised at how pleasant it is to look at the face of someone who likes you. He invited her to come and see his flat and as she had a couple of hours to kill before her class in La Boca, she did.
It was a bachelor flat in Bolívar on the tenth floor, with a stunning view through walls of plated glass. The front door of the apartment opened onto a spacious, white tango salon, invisibly lit, with a mirrored wall, marble floors and chic leather furniture. A shag pad. He showed her around. He put on some music, took her in his arms and they danced.
Later, she reflected on what really happened. Of course it depended on how you conceptualised it. Weltanshauung. At some point, something shifted in her perception of him. As a proud and independent woman, it shocked her to consider she might have been seduced by her surroundings. As a pragmatist, she reflected she might well have been. A conditioned reflex. Pavlov’s dog. The dog hears the bell, the dog salivates. You enter a shag pad and well, there you go. It’s the reason people spend vast sums of money on marble, mirrors and leather and why women waste hours getting ready to go out, time and money which could be spent on improving the mind, seeing as that is where reality occurs. The paradox bothered her and she bothered the paradox: the mind moulds the experience of reality, yet here was an experience of reality blatantly moulding the mind. His mind, as much as hers. He seemed to become a different person there.
Nothing happened. She had her class to get to in La Boca, but later, The Process began.
He wanted to undress her and dance in the mirrored room and she said okay, but only by candlelight. One candle. In another room. They made each other laugh. Así se baila el tango.
Later, they were children again. Open. Trusting. They gambled, laying chapters of their lives on the table, face up. The more they knew each other, the more there was to know. She could never have guessed what he was like. He had seemed so strict and restrained in his taste in music and style of dancing. He wouldn’t dance to Pugliese. Yet he was a free spirit. Curious, sensitive, intuitive. She thought he had the most lovable face. And the most beautiful legs in the world. Sometimes, she wrote to his legs. Runners’ legs.
She loved it when he whispered to her in German and she found his German English strangely endearing: he said intimothy for 'intimacy'and When do we see us tonight? He said ‘please’ in bed. You don’t say ‘please’ in bed, do you? His German Spanish was even more incomprehensible and he always texted her in Spanish. Todas el día. No hace gente. Quiero de llamaste. ¿Quieres verte me?
Very quickly, they grew to want each other intensely, but love was hard work. They were both demanding and had clear ideas of how things should be. Not the same ones. They were both control freaks. One by demand, the other by omission. One was for communication, the other for silence. It didn’t work. There was agitation, aggravation, argument. One step forwards, two steps back. A tango of frustration. And still they longed for each other.
Within days, everything came to a sudden stop. Like a plane against a mountain. He had invited a friend to stay with him in Buenos Aires for the remainder of his holiday. They would no longer be able to be alone together for more than a few hours at a time. Milongas, lunch, coffee in Plaza Dorrego, lazy afternoon in the flat, walk in the park over by Puerto Madero, nights bound and gagged by the presence of another the other side of the bedroom wall. Three is a crowd. He was torn between wanting to spend time with his friend and seeing her. He would invite her to join them, then uninvite her when the friend objected. Plans chopped and changed. She longed for him, but thought this inconsiderate. He believed he was acting in good faith and expected her to be understanding. While they were busy being right, they were not tender, just raw. Bed became a battlefield.
She needed to leave the country to get her visa renewed. She suggested going to Iguazú, where she could cross over the border to Brasil and get her passport stamped on re-entry. Ever since she had heard of it, she had thought Iguazú was for lovers. He said it was too far away and that he and his friend had planned to go to Montevideo for the weekend. Still, somehow, they ended up going to Iguazú. She wondered whether she had somehow wished the trip into existence. Thought is real.
The flight was an hour and a half long. Time enough for the three of them to bond. They talked philosophy, but there was still a palpable tension between them. Once they landed in Iguazú, they were instantly soothed by its natural beauty. There was not enough time to see the falls on the first day, so they went walkabout and loitered in a café. Iguazú is a one-horse town with low buildings, embedded in a lush, green landscape and the rich, red earth that is common to many places in the southern hemishere. The air is silent and fragrant and the water, soft. There are fruit trees everywhere, even downtown. It is a place to romance Mother Nature, to reconnect with the earth.
The atmosphere between them started easing, but still there was tension. When they returned to their hotel rooms before dinner, he was silent and withdrawn. Unable to stand it any longer, she swept out and requested a separate bedroom, but there were no singles left. She decided she’d wait and see how things panned out before accepting a double. They went out to dinner.
The restaurant had a pleasant atmosphere. Music wafted down from the jazz bar upstairs, the lighting was mellow, the food delicious and the wine, marvellous. The boys handled the conversation with their endless fund of jokes, which saw them through all three days of their trip. She was impressed. She could never remember any and when she did, she invariably bungled the punchline. By the end of the meal, the three of them were in good humour. She decided she would ask for a room when they got in, to preserve the fragile goodwill that they had finally managed to build between them. Either he would be relieved or he would object. Either way, it seemed the thing to do.
He objected.
As soon as they closed the door behind them, it was as if they met for the first time. It was the Iguazú she had always known it would be.
The next morning, after breakfast, the three of them got a bus over to the Brazilian side of the falls. They walked along the canyon on a long walkway, through the rainforest, past prehistoric rockscapes, waterfall after waterfall, until they were directly over the Garganta del Diablo (the Devil’s Throat.) She stood and stared silently, moved by the magnificence of the flow. The past hurling the present into the future. Not consecutive, but concurrent . She was present to the twin meanings of current. Now is the flow. It spoke to her. Now. Now. Now. There is nothing else. Now is the time, always. Perfect and limitless for those with eyes that see. Now. Now. Now.
As if the splendour of the falls was not enough, a vivid rainbow ringed the landscape. A flight of birds, or possibly butterflies, swung low over the falls, making exquisite shapes, like a veil, blowing in the wind. So much beauty is unbearable to human beings. This is probably why the tourists down below took endless pictures of each other, instead.
They took pictures together, too. She sat in his lap on the bus. He shared his i-pod with her and they danced tangos at the bus stop in the middle of nowhere. It was a day of kisses and caresses and being welded together in holy intimothy. She had her sparkling Iguazú. A happy day for the two of them, but also for the three of them. Another wonderful dinner. Another wonderful night.
To cut a long story short, they broke up. They started coming apart at the airport on the way back. She had meant to pay for dinner the night before, but had forgotten her purse. On an impulse, at the airport, she gave him a wad of notes “as a contribution.” For some reason, he appeared to take offence, presumed she was starting an argument, appeared to go cold on her. On the plane, he seated his friend between them. As she listened to the cello in her head, she thought, nothing is perfect because the human mind is imperfect. Original sin, Fundamental Darkness, whatever you might care to call it, will not admit perfection.
Later that day, once back in Buenos Aires, he messaged her to meet up for dinner at an address in Bolívar. When she got there, the restaurant was closed and he was nowhere to be seen. When they finally found each other, she was ratty. He couldn’t take it and left.
For two days, she tried to see him, before he left for Germany. He did not respond to her text messages or calls, but just before he left, he sent her a report on her behavior, as though she were one of his clients. He said in his German English, her model of communication was not ‘You are ok, I am ok.’ Rather, it was ‘I am not ok, you are not ok,’ that she ascribed bad motives to his behaviour and that this drove him crazy and… It made her feel very sad. We can only ever drive ourselves crazy, she thought. We believe what we choose to believe. Because. But. Now is perfect and limitless for those with eyes that see.
Saturday 9 May 2009
The Milonga of the Firemen of La Boca
01:30.
As far as I’m aware, my local firestation (Kentish Town) does not hold milongas. They should. I just got back from the Milonga de los Bomberos de La Boca and it was lovely. Milongas in Buenos Aires normally begin around midnight and frequently are not in full swing until 01:30 or later. This one was an exception. It started at 21:00. This is because children were invited. I left early as I have a lunchtime party tomorrow and there’s no way I’ll get up in time if I dance all night.
It was a pukka community fundraising do in a function room next to the firestation and all generations were present. The ratio of adults to children was about 5:1. When I arrived I was greeted by the families of my friends from La Boca and kissed by over a dozen adults and about twenty kids. The room was huge with a high ceiling, a gallery all the way round, an enormous central chandelier and an excellent parquet floor. There were home-made empanadas and cakes and drinks and volunteers serving, which made it feel like a fête in a church hall, in the way of the Crypt in London.
Many of the people were not there to dance tango but to meet up, socialise and fundraise for the firestation with their families and friends from the barrio. Most of my La Boca tango class was there, including our much loved teacher, Soledad. I invited a number of gringos to come along, but none of them did. Apart from one Japanese lady, fiancée of one of the firemen, I was the only other foreigner present. The standard of dancing was not high, but the feelgood factor was. Very. I felt proud to be part of the human race.
The kids were an important part of the event. They performed music and dance, some solo, some in groups. I was particularly struck by a girl of six who did some stunning belly dancing and a two year old boy who bowled me over with his karate. For me, the highlight of the evening was the hour long karate show by kids age up till the age of eighteen. La Boca karate club is led by a brilliant and dedicated female sensei. The kids were very disciplined and the displays were so impressive, they left me longing to take it up myself.
As far as I’m aware, my local firestation (Kentish Town) does not hold milongas. They should. I just got back from the Milonga de los Bomberos de La Boca and it was lovely. Milongas in Buenos Aires normally begin around midnight and frequently are not in full swing until 01:30 or later. This one was an exception. It started at 21:00. This is because children were invited. I left early as I have a lunchtime party tomorrow and there’s no way I’ll get up in time if I dance all night.
It was a pukka community fundraising do in a function room next to the firestation and all generations were present. The ratio of adults to children was about 5:1. When I arrived I was greeted by the families of my friends from La Boca and kissed by over a dozen adults and about twenty kids. The room was huge with a high ceiling, a gallery all the way round, an enormous central chandelier and an excellent parquet floor. There were home-made empanadas and cakes and drinks and volunteers serving, which made it feel like a fête in a church hall, in the way of the Crypt in London.
Many of the people were not there to dance tango but to meet up, socialise and fundraise for the firestation with their families and friends from the barrio. Most of my La Boca tango class was there, including our much loved teacher, Soledad. I invited a number of gringos to come along, but none of them did. Apart from one Japanese lady, fiancée of one of the firemen, I was the only other foreigner present. The standard of dancing was not high, but the feelgood factor was. Very. I felt proud to be part of the human race.
The kids were an important part of the event. They performed music and dance, some solo, some in groups. I was particularly struck by a girl of six who did some stunning belly dancing and a two year old boy who bowled me over with his karate. For me, the highlight of the evening was the hour long karate show by kids age up till the age of eighteen. La Boca karate club is led by a brilliant and dedicated female sensei. The kids were very disciplined and the displays were so impressive, they left me longing to take it up myself.
Friday 8 May 2009
La Milonga De Los Jueves a "La Independencia"
What a night! It’s hard to be objective about these things, especially as I had a lot to feel glad about before I even got there, but I reckon it was an exceptionally brilliant milonga. Soledad had said it was a good ‘un and DJ’d by a friend of hers. Having been given the nod by my landlord to keep my room till the end of my stay in BsAs and feeling in love, even a bad milonga would have done for me.
I had been to DNI’s evening classes earlier (técnica with Carolina and Tango Level 4 with Julieta and Adrian.) There hadn’t been sufficient varones to go round in the Level 4 class, so I’d volunteered myself as a leader. I was a bit dodgy at first, but by the end of the lesson, I reckon I did myself proud. I came home feeling high, if a little too tired to wash my hair. It being a bad hair day, I thought I’d give Niñ0 Bien a swerve as they tend to be a bit dressy there. I decided to give Thursday nights at the Independencia a try instead. It was a good decision.
I arrived early, around 23:30. There was a beginners’ class going on, so as Soledad was there, as well as Francisco from my class in La Boca, I sat and drank with them to pass the time. The friend Soledad had mentioned was none other than Carlitos, the cuddly man who runs La Milonga del Gordo. He can move and I was chuffed to be asked to dance. The place was livelier than I have ever seen it before. There were a number of ace dancers and of course Soledad herself, who is right up there in my league of tango gods. I danced all night till a bit before 04:00. Sometime around 03:00, some friends of Carlitos showed up and started playing divine tangos: piano, double bass and bandoneon. I asked Soledad whether this was a scheduled show and she said they had just appeared out of the magic of the night. We were warned not to clap so as not to disturb the neighbourhood at this late hour, but people couldn’t help themselves, so gorgeous was the music. We carried on dancing after they left and I wanted to stay on till the end, which may well have been after sunrise, but I needed some beauty sleep so I could be fresh for my soirée with my main man, which would not begin until 01:00, after my class in La Boca. It is a long class.
I have a full weekend coming up. I have managed to get myself invited to a Firemen’s Milonga in La Boca on Saturday night. Me and firemen go back a long way. Some kind of karmic connection, I imagine. Then on Sunday afternoon, Liliana has an important birthday celebration. After that, I might go on to Francisco’s parilla before joining my friend for a milonga and everything.
I wish you all a great weekend!
I had been to DNI’s evening classes earlier (técnica with Carolina and Tango Level 4 with Julieta and Adrian.) There hadn’t been sufficient varones to go round in the Level 4 class, so I’d volunteered myself as a leader. I was a bit dodgy at first, but by the end of the lesson, I reckon I did myself proud. I came home feeling high, if a little too tired to wash my hair. It being a bad hair day, I thought I’d give Niñ0 Bien a swerve as they tend to be a bit dressy there. I decided to give Thursday nights at the Independencia a try instead. It was a good decision.
I arrived early, around 23:30. There was a beginners’ class going on, so as Soledad was there, as well as Francisco from my class in La Boca, I sat and drank with them to pass the time. The friend Soledad had mentioned was none other than Carlitos, the cuddly man who runs La Milonga del Gordo. He can move and I was chuffed to be asked to dance. The place was livelier than I have ever seen it before. There were a number of ace dancers and of course Soledad herself, who is right up there in my league of tango gods. I danced all night till a bit before 04:00. Sometime around 03:00, some friends of Carlitos showed up and started playing divine tangos: piano, double bass and bandoneon. I asked Soledad whether this was a scheduled show and she said they had just appeared out of the magic of the night. We were warned not to clap so as not to disturb the neighbourhood at this late hour, but people couldn’t help themselves, so gorgeous was the music. We carried on dancing after they left and I wanted to stay on till the end, which may well have been after sunrise, but I needed some beauty sleep so I could be fresh for my soirée with my main man, which would not begin until 01:00, after my class in La Boca. It is a long class.
I have a full weekend coming up. I have managed to get myself invited to a Firemen’s Milonga in La Boca on Saturday night. Me and firemen go back a long way. Some kind of karmic connection, I imagine. Then on Sunday afternoon, Liliana has an important birthday celebration. After that, I might go on to Francisco’s parilla before joining my friend for a milonga and everything.
I wish you all a great weekend!
Saturday 2 May 2009
In the streets
30 April
‘Woke up very gradually this morning. Snug under the duvet in my chilly room, I dreamed I was being lulled to sleep in a couchette by the rhythm and the rumble of the train. There was an explosion and my eyes opened to the familiar painting in my room in San Telmo. I sat up and overwhelmed by the throbbing of drums, peered through the triffid growing at my window and saw baterías in their colours trooping along Independencia through dense crowds, flags and banners held aloft, puffs of smoke in the air. Of course! It had to be the Mayday International Workers’ Day rally, but I had not expected that to take place until the first of May, which isn’t till tomorrow. I live on Independencia, on the corner with 9 de julio, where it's all at, so could participate from out of my bedroom, if I were so inclined. It was pretty impressive. Did I say was? This is six hours on and it’s still going strong… the drumming, the explosions, the music. I haven’t left home yet but I feel as though I’ve been marching all day.
Apparently the Peronist-led General Confederation of Labour (CGT) are holding this massive rally. Over a hundred thousand people are taking part. Some say it is to show their support of the President’s programs of production, work and jobs; others assure me it is a show of strength and solidarity on the part of the unions. Porteños don’t generally come across as establishmentarian, so no prizes for guessing the real reason.
2 May
Whilst this is an extreme example of people reclaiming the streets of Buenos Aires, there is always more going on in the streets than mere traffic. I have already mentioned the samba batería that claims Defensa, every weekend and public holiday and fills it with the ba-ba-bada- ba-ba-ba - bada of its tambourínes, the king-king-korong- ki-rong-kong-kong of the agogo bells, the shaka-shaka of the ganza, the babám! babúm! babám! babúm! of the surdo… It is bad, glad, mad and is one of the many reasons I love living right here.
There is a growing movement in the form of street parties, which aims to challenge the government’s scaremongering tactics to keep people off the streets. I went to two last week, which went on till around 01:00: one of them was a flamenco party at the end of Carlos Calvo furthest from 9 de julio and the other, a tango party in Humahuaca. The people of the barrio came together to party, joined by enthusiasts from all over to enjoy the music, dance, atmosphere, coloured lights, bunting, bands playing, barbecues, stalls selling home-cooked food and drink and artisanal wares.
If you are a fan of the flea market, Buenos Aires has hundreds of street markets and fares, particularly at the weekend. My favourite of these is the Fería de Mataderos, which is a long way from the centre but well worth the hike: there is a farmers’ market, food stalls, bric a brac and antiques, tango and folkloric dance shows in addition to stalls selling wonderful, handmade goods.
The corner of Independencia with Peru smells of piss as I pass around 04:00 most nights, on my way home from milongas, but there is a very wide section of pavement just there, edged with flower beds and a graffiti wall which announces ‘Ping pong is played here between 14:00 and 21:00 at the weekend.’ And indeed it is. A table materializes and youths reclaim that stretch of pavement for a few hours of frenetic fun. It is quite an institution and whoever thought it up deserves a medal or perhaps something a little more useful.
Here in San Telmo you do not see as many dog walkers as you do in Recoleta or Palermo, where I previously lived, but there are dogs here, alright, and they leave their mark.
The streets are alive all night long. There is a café on Independencia, a few blocks from mine, where people go to round off their night. I’ve been there at 05:00 and most of the tables on the pavement have been full. I wonder whether they ever close at all. Trasnochando and Buenos Aires are synonyms, for some. But for others, the street is the bosom of the bitch called Buenos Aires on which they lay their weary heads.
To all demonstrating, drumming, dancing, partying, playing ping-pong, pooping, shopping, sitting, sipping, sleeping in the streets:
Good night Buenos Aires, sweet dreams...
‘Woke up very gradually this morning. Snug under the duvet in my chilly room, I dreamed I was being lulled to sleep in a couchette by the rhythm and the rumble of the train. There was an explosion and my eyes opened to the familiar painting in my room in San Telmo. I sat up and overwhelmed by the throbbing of drums, peered through the triffid growing at my window and saw baterías in their colours trooping along Independencia through dense crowds, flags and banners held aloft, puffs of smoke in the air. Of course! It had to be the Mayday International Workers’ Day rally, but I had not expected that to take place until the first of May, which isn’t till tomorrow. I live on Independencia, on the corner with 9 de julio, where it's all at, so could participate from out of my bedroom, if I were so inclined. It was pretty impressive. Did I say was? This is six hours on and it’s still going strong… the drumming, the explosions, the music. I haven’t left home yet but I feel as though I’ve been marching all day.
Apparently the Peronist-led General Confederation of Labour (CGT) are holding this massive rally. Over a hundred thousand people are taking part. Some say it is to show their support of the President’s programs of production, work and jobs; others assure me it is a show of strength and solidarity on the part of the unions. Porteños don’t generally come across as establishmentarian, so no prizes for guessing the real reason.
2 May
Whilst this is an extreme example of people reclaiming the streets of Buenos Aires, there is always more going on in the streets than mere traffic. I have already mentioned the samba batería that claims Defensa, every weekend and public holiday and fills it with the ba-ba-bada- ba-ba-ba - bada of its tambourínes, the king-king-korong- ki-rong-kong-kong of the agogo bells, the shaka-shaka of the ganza, the babám! babúm! babám! babúm! of the surdo… It is bad, glad, mad and is one of the many reasons I love living right here.
There is a growing movement in the form of street parties, which aims to challenge the government’s scaremongering tactics to keep people off the streets. I went to two last week, which went on till around 01:00: one of them was a flamenco party at the end of Carlos Calvo furthest from 9 de julio and the other, a tango party in Humahuaca. The people of the barrio came together to party, joined by enthusiasts from all over to enjoy the music, dance, atmosphere, coloured lights, bunting, bands playing, barbecues, stalls selling home-cooked food and drink and artisanal wares.
If you are a fan of the flea market, Buenos Aires has hundreds of street markets and fares, particularly at the weekend. My favourite of these is the Fería de Mataderos, which is a long way from the centre but well worth the hike: there is a farmers’ market, food stalls, bric a brac and antiques, tango and folkloric dance shows in addition to stalls selling wonderful, handmade goods.
The corner of Independencia with Peru smells of piss as I pass around 04:00 most nights, on my way home from milongas, but there is a very wide section of pavement just there, edged with flower beds and a graffiti wall which announces ‘Ping pong is played here between 14:00 and 21:00 at the weekend.’ And indeed it is. A table materializes and youths reclaim that stretch of pavement for a few hours of frenetic fun. It is quite an institution and whoever thought it up deserves a medal or perhaps something a little more useful.
Here in San Telmo you do not see as many dog walkers as you do in Recoleta or Palermo, where I previously lived, but there are dogs here, alright, and they leave their mark.
The streets are alive all night long. There is a café on Independencia, a few blocks from mine, where people go to round off their night. I’ve been there at 05:00 and most of the tables on the pavement have been full. I wonder whether they ever close at all. Trasnochando and Buenos Aires are synonyms, for some. But for others, the street is the bosom of the bitch called Buenos Aires on which they lay their weary heads.
To all demonstrating, drumming, dancing, partying, playing ping-pong, pooping, shopping, sitting, sipping, sleeping in the streets:
Good night Buenos Aires, sweet dreams...
Sunday 26 April 2009
Wishin'
“What would you like to be, if talent, time, money et cetera were not an issue?” or “If you could live any place you wanted, where would that be?” or “If you could design your own partner, what would they be like?” My friend Lulie used to ask questions like this, as we walked parts of the camino de la Compostela. Questions of this type are surprisingly difficult to answer. I tend to be reluctant to say the first thing that comes into my head, because everything you think, say and do defines who you are and of course, I want to be special, but only in the old-fashioned sense of that term. However, there are other reasons. Read on.
I am here to become a better dancer. Looking for a partner is not on my agenda. However, I met a dancer at the Tasso a week ago, with whom I ‘fell in love,’ whatever that means. (No worries, he don’t know about this blog.) This guy has all the qualities I could wish for: he is good-looking, an outstanding dancer, witty, artistic, intense, has nice manners (my dad used to say, ‘Manners cometh from the heart’.) He is here on holiday but only for a few weeks. Dancing with him, I felt euphoric, the chemistry was compelling. Yet I stalled and stalled, just couldn’t bring myself to get involved. So I broke my own heart.
Now, in retrospect I kind of wish I had let him break it for me. When you want each other, but he has had the audacity to admit he is looking for ‘the one’, that is scary. Confronting with a capital C. I mean to say, what if the glass slipper didn’t fit? Move over, darling? The self-doubt lurking in the depths of my mind starts sniggering at my aspirations and the nay-saying begins. My usual response to the dark side would be ‘Thank you for sharing’ or two fingers, but on this occasion before long, I found myself giving in, agreeing.
It made me sit up and think. I guess I had wished him into existence, but when he materialised, I disappeared. Why would that be? Clearly, ‘I’ obviously is not just one conscious entity, but several. I can never truthfully say ‘I know what I want’ because some of ‘me’ would disagree. There is a lack of integrity. The mind is ‘broken into seven different pieces’. Which brings me to the point I want to make.
I realise that a wish for anything outside of myself is a wish in vain. If I don’t measure up to my own standards, no external circumstance will ever be able to compensate for this. The wish needs to be turned inside out: a wish for transformation from the inside, to be the type of person that would naturally attract the desired circumstance. This is the Buddhist concept of Esho Funi (oneness of self and the environment.) The way I feel about anything is down to my own life-state*. And the only thing that can transform this life-state is me. I know how to do this, indeed have had plenty of experience of this, but it takes considerable effort and assiduous practice. It don't come easy.
Right then, I’m off to the Tasso. I wonder who’ll be there tonight.
Life-state* or World as in ‘The Ten Worlds’ is a Buddhist concept which describes states of mind which determine how we experience 'reality.' These change from moment to moment, although one or more may be dominant at any given time.
The Buddhists of the Soka Gakkai, who follow the teachings of Nichiren Daishonin chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo as part of a threefold practice to transform their life-state.
The Ten Worlds
Buddhahood (enlightenment which manifests as the combined qualities of courage, wisdom and compassion)
Bodhisattva (caring for others)
Realisation (also known as Absorption and manifested as inspiration, often artistic or intellectual)
Learning (self-reflection)
Rapture (overwhelming joy)
Tranquillity (also known as humanity; being able to control instinctive desires with reason)
Anger (being dominated by ego; thinking yourself better or knowing better than others)
Animality (being dominated by instinctive desires)
Hunger (being driven by greed, wanting what you have not got)
Hell (feeling hopeless, powerless, miserable)
I am here to become a better dancer. Looking for a partner is not on my agenda. However, I met a dancer at the Tasso a week ago, with whom I ‘fell in love,’ whatever that means. (No worries, he don’t know about this blog.) This guy has all the qualities I could wish for: he is good-looking, an outstanding dancer, witty, artistic, intense, has nice manners (my dad used to say, ‘Manners cometh from the heart’.) He is here on holiday but only for a few weeks. Dancing with him, I felt euphoric, the chemistry was compelling. Yet I stalled and stalled, just couldn’t bring myself to get involved. So I broke my own heart.
Now, in retrospect I kind of wish I had let him break it for me. When you want each other, but he has had the audacity to admit he is looking for ‘the one’, that is scary. Confronting with a capital C. I mean to say, what if the glass slipper didn’t fit? Move over, darling? The self-doubt lurking in the depths of my mind starts sniggering at my aspirations and the nay-saying begins. My usual response to the dark side would be ‘Thank you for sharing’ or two fingers, but on this occasion before long, I found myself giving in, agreeing.
It made me sit up and think. I guess I had wished him into existence, but when he materialised, I disappeared. Why would that be? Clearly, ‘I’ obviously is not just one conscious entity, but several. I can never truthfully say ‘I know what I want’ because some of ‘me’ would disagree. There is a lack of integrity. The mind is ‘broken into seven different pieces’. Which brings me to the point I want to make.
I realise that a wish for anything outside of myself is a wish in vain. If I don’t measure up to my own standards, no external circumstance will ever be able to compensate for this. The wish needs to be turned inside out: a wish for transformation from the inside, to be the type of person that would naturally attract the desired circumstance. This is the Buddhist concept of Esho Funi (oneness of self and the environment.) The way I feel about anything is down to my own life-state*. And the only thing that can transform this life-state is me. I know how to do this, indeed have had plenty of experience of this, but it takes considerable effort and assiduous practice. It don't come easy.
Right then, I’m off to the Tasso. I wonder who’ll be there tonight.
Life-state* or World as in ‘The Ten Worlds’ is a Buddhist concept which describes states of mind which determine how we experience 'reality.' These change from moment to moment, although one or more may be dominant at any given time.
The Buddhists of the Soka Gakkai, who follow the teachings of Nichiren Daishonin chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo as part of a threefold practice to transform their life-state.
The Ten Worlds
Buddhahood (enlightenment which manifests as the combined qualities of courage, wisdom and compassion)
Bodhisattva (caring for others)
Realisation (also known as Absorption and manifested as inspiration, often artistic or intellectual)
Learning (self-reflection)
Rapture (overwhelming joy)
Tranquillity (also known as humanity; being able to control instinctive desires with reason)
Anger (being dominated by ego; thinking yourself better or knowing better than others)
Animality (being dominated by instinctive desires)
Hunger (being driven by greed, wanting what you have not got)
Hell (feeling hopeless, powerless, miserable)
Friday 17 April 2009
A Tango USP
Am getting slacker and slacker at writing up my bloggywog. Am preoccupied with finding a new home, because sleeping badly on account of sharing my bed, though not with the species of choice. I won’t shock you with the details. Apart from the excellent La Maria Práctica para Mujeres, a most encouraging class with Soledad and a fun night at La Viruta, I have hardly danced at all. If I had flown over here for just the one week, then this week would have been a washout.
I haven’t been to Cochabamba 444 since the last time I was here. I went there last night with Gesa and her visiting sister. The décor has changed slightly in that there are now lots of new paintings up on the cluttered walls, but the fairy lights are still going strong and the ceiling is still heavily populated with early twentieth century fixtures such as cluster lights and fans with lamps on, so the venue hasn’t lost its quaint, tawdry charm.
There was a beginner’s class, which I found quite useful, but the milonga was clearly full of local regulars and we didn’t get a look in. Nor did any of the other foreigners. I think if I were going to live in Buenos Aires, I would consider it worth frequenting the place until I gained acceptance as a bona fide Cochabambina, but I’m not and there are plenty of other delicious milonga options on a Thursday night, so I doubt I’ll bother. I might give their Wednesday a go, sometime, though.
Next Thursday, I might go José Halfón’s practica at Canning. José dances with Virginia Cutillo and was man of the week at the La Maria Práctica, this week. They only ever invite the best. Or I might go to Villa Malcolm and dance again with the creative dancer I met at La Capilla last Sunday evening.
I find that many men have a signature move or two, which they have invented or perfected and for which they have a special affection, but this guy appears to have a never-ending capacity to spawn new ways of lending his limbs to dance. A USP devoutly to be wished. I met another guy at La Viruta, just as I was about to leave on Wednesday night, who coaxed me back onto the dance floor and danced a wild tanda to milonga with no repertoire of tango steps at all – he moved like a dancer, his musicality was spot on and we enjoyed ourselves enormously, but in tango terms, it was gibberish. Even so, I’d still give him another go. After all, what is tango, if not an educated improvisation?
For the present, I would be content as a leader with an adequate repertoire of steps and some fluency. Right now, I know more than I am able to instantly recall and find myself wishing I could write my moves up on the inside of my forearm, like a dodgy comic who can’t remember his routine. As a follower, I have made some progress, but I’ll need to be a whole lot more disciplined if I am to become as strong and supple as I need to be in order to go further.
I haven’t been to Cochabamba 444 since the last time I was here. I went there last night with Gesa and her visiting sister. The décor has changed slightly in that there are now lots of new paintings up on the cluttered walls, but the fairy lights are still going strong and the ceiling is still heavily populated with early twentieth century fixtures such as cluster lights and fans with lamps on, so the venue hasn’t lost its quaint, tawdry charm.
There was a beginner’s class, which I found quite useful, but the milonga was clearly full of local regulars and we didn’t get a look in. Nor did any of the other foreigners. I think if I were going to live in Buenos Aires, I would consider it worth frequenting the place until I gained acceptance as a bona fide Cochabambina, but I’m not and there are plenty of other delicious milonga options on a Thursday night, so I doubt I’ll bother. I might give their Wednesday a go, sometime, though.
Next Thursday, I might go José Halfón’s practica at Canning. José dances with Virginia Cutillo and was man of the week at the La Maria Práctica, this week. They only ever invite the best. Or I might go to Villa Malcolm and dance again with the creative dancer I met at La Capilla last Sunday evening.
I find that many men have a signature move or two, which they have invented or perfected and for which they have a special affection, but this guy appears to have a never-ending capacity to spawn new ways of lending his limbs to dance. A USP devoutly to be wished. I met another guy at La Viruta, just as I was about to leave on Wednesday night, who coaxed me back onto the dance floor and danced a wild tanda to milonga with no repertoire of tango steps at all – he moved like a dancer, his musicality was spot on and we enjoyed ourselves enormously, but in tango terms, it was gibberish. Even so, I’d still give him another go. After all, what is tango, if not an educated improvisation?
For the present, I would be content as a leader with an adequate repertoire of steps and some fluency. Right now, I know more than I am able to instantly recall and find myself wishing I could write my moves up on the inside of my forearm, like a dodgy comic who can’t remember his routine. As a follower, I have made some progress, but I’ll need to be a whole lot more disciplined if I am to become as strong and supple as I need to be in order to go further.
Saturday 11 April 2009
Scribble
Am mildly alarmed to find that a whole week has passed since my last post. Have only been to three milongas, this week, but have attended lots of classes and have started taking notes, right there on the spot. I guess I’m turning into a tango geek. No doubt I’ll wind up getting better at taking notes than at dancing tango, but at least I’ll have the possibility of recapturing some of the highlights of the classes, long after I’ve ceased to be able to remember all the beautiful stuff they dish up here. I wish I had a pair of dolls to practise with, like those life size sex dolls, but for tango (and only for tango.) One of each gender, that I could switch on whenever I felt in need of a práctica. A práctica soon after taking notes helps you make sense of the scribbles about hip, breast and leg positions, which a couple of days later can read like the kamasutra on acid.
I reckon I need to review my note-taking. At the moment, it’s higgledy piggledy: in the first person, one moment, in the third the next, sometimes refering to a leader and follower, sometimes man and woman, sometimes left and right, at other times clockwise and anti-clockwise and so on. Then, there’s the heavy sprinkling of Spanglish terms, such as sacada-ing, ocho-ing, giro-ing, standing in abierta, enrosquing the feet. I know what I mean, but I would feel foolish sharing them with a dance partner. Besides, if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Now, my mind understands this very well – it’s just my body that doesn’t listen. Educating the body is a whole lot like training a dog. A bad dog, in my case.
I haven’t been anywhere new since last week. Just been doing more of the same: am enjoying every moment. But then, I’m a masochist. No time to eat, throbbing feet, not progressing as fast as I would wish. Tango is character building.
I reckon I need to review my note-taking. At the moment, it’s higgledy piggledy: in the first person, one moment, in the third the next, sometimes refering to a leader and follower, sometimes man and woman, sometimes left and right, at other times clockwise and anti-clockwise and so on. Then, there’s the heavy sprinkling of Spanglish terms, such as sacada-ing, ocho-ing, giro-ing, standing in abierta, enrosquing the feet. I know what I mean, but I would feel foolish sharing them with a dance partner. Besides, if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Now, my mind understands this very well – it’s just my body that doesn’t listen. Educating the body is a whole lot like training a dog. A bad dog, in my case.
I haven’t been anywhere new since last week. Just been doing more of the same: am enjoying every moment. But then, I’m a masochist. No time to eat, throbbing feet, not progressing as fast as I would wish. Tango is character building.
Monday 6 April 2009
A week in the life of
I did go to the Men’s Technique class at 15:00 (and very fine it was, too) even though I didn’t wake up till 14:30, which is saintly in view of the hours I’ve been keeping. The earliest I’ve managed to get to bed, this week, is 04:00:
Monday: 04:00 (practica at home and hanging out with Gesa)
Tuesday: 04:30 (Learning to lead at Tango Queer)
Wednesday: 04:30 (La Viruta and Sueño Porteño)
Thursday: 05:30 (La Viruta)
Friday: 05:30 (Soledad’s class and social at La Boca, then Club Havana)
Saturday: 07:30 (Milonga de las Morochas, then party in La Boca)
Sunday: 04:00 (La Capilla)
Staying up late is an addictive luxury and returning to London, where it’s all over by 01:00 in the morning, just doesn’t bear thinking about. I am seriously considering extending my stay. Looking back on the week, I would recommend every single one of my activities:
At home with a tango partner is a very good way to practise, refine and extend what you have learned in class.
Tango Queer is the place to go if you’re looking for an opportunity to try the opposite role. The class is well taught and the milonga afterwards is a lot of fun.
I adore La Viruta, which offers high quality lessons in a convivial setting and a pleasant space: I had tango, rock and milonga lessons there on Wednesday and salsa and tango on Thursday.
Boedo Tango, where the Sueño Porteño milonga takes place, is a venue with three dance floors. It is a traditional sort of milonga, but one which holds themed evenings, hence all the fancy dress.
Soledad’s class in La Boca is unlike any you’ll find advertised in the Tangauta. It feels like an informal gathering of friends. There isn’t the faintest whiff of the competitive spirit you experience in most dance classes. We learn a lot, every one learns both to lead and follow, which makes her beginners better dancers from the outset. We teach each other, consult Soledad as often as we need to and practise as much as we want to. It is guaranteed fun. This time, I got to taste red and black Quilmes and I think I like those even better than the lager. The class goes out as a group, afterwards, to dance the night away. This time, we gave tango a swerve and went for salsa instead.
The Milonga de las Morochas was a hit. It takes place at the same attractive venue as El Beso and is run by the divine Ximena, (who is a student of osteopathy and gives massage at the La Maria práctica for women.) She ushered me to a very good seat and no sooner had I sat down than Luis the mafioso appeared in front of me like the angel of tango, to invite me onto the dance floor. When your first dance is with one of the best, your evening of dance is assured. I had only three tandas with Luis, but I danced nearly every dance.
I left after 02:00 to head off for a leaving party given by two French girls, Aurora and Juia at El Encuentro, a café in La Boca. It was a perfect venue for a party with two rooms, (the main salon and a chill-out room) and a garden. All the light bulbs had been changed to red or amber to give the room an atmosphere and there were tea lights on the tables. There was a bar selling drinks at very modest prices and best of all, the guests included a number of people I knew already and an unusually high percentage of outstanding dancers. I danced with them all. I think I can say without hesitation that it was my best night of dancing in Buenos Aires, my idea of the perfect Saturday night. I got a lift home at 07:00 and I slept till 15:00 on Sunday.
Sunday night, I went to a very chilled milonga called La Capilla at a monastery not far from DNI Corrientes. The beauty of this venue is that it is possible to dance both indoors and outdoors and the building is possessed of a certain mystique. I understand that Sebastian and Eugenia, the exceptionally talented and beautiful ex-DNI tango teachers, have masterminded this milonga. We sat and danced outside, of course. Wine, pizza, tango and moonlight. Who could ask for more?
Monday: 04:00 (practica at home and hanging out with Gesa)
Tuesday: 04:30 (Learning to lead at Tango Queer)
Wednesday: 04:30 (La Viruta and Sueño Porteño)
Thursday: 05:30 (La Viruta)
Friday: 05:30 (Soledad’s class and social at La Boca, then Club Havana)
Saturday: 07:30 (Milonga de las Morochas, then party in La Boca)
Sunday: 04:00 (La Capilla)
Staying up late is an addictive luxury and returning to London, where it’s all over by 01:00 in the morning, just doesn’t bear thinking about. I am seriously considering extending my stay. Looking back on the week, I would recommend every single one of my activities:
At home with a tango partner is a very good way to practise, refine and extend what you have learned in class.
Tango Queer is the place to go if you’re looking for an opportunity to try the opposite role. The class is well taught and the milonga afterwards is a lot of fun.
I adore La Viruta, which offers high quality lessons in a convivial setting and a pleasant space: I had tango, rock and milonga lessons there on Wednesday and salsa and tango on Thursday.
Boedo Tango, where the Sueño Porteño milonga takes place, is a venue with three dance floors. It is a traditional sort of milonga, but one which holds themed evenings, hence all the fancy dress.
Soledad’s class in La Boca is unlike any you’ll find advertised in the Tangauta. It feels like an informal gathering of friends. There isn’t the faintest whiff of the competitive spirit you experience in most dance classes. We learn a lot, every one learns both to lead and follow, which makes her beginners better dancers from the outset. We teach each other, consult Soledad as often as we need to and practise as much as we want to. It is guaranteed fun. This time, I got to taste red and black Quilmes and I think I like those even better than the lager. The class goes out as a group, afterwards, to dance the night away. This time, we gave tango a swerve and went for salsa instead.
The Milonga de las Morochas was a hit. It takes place at the same attractive venue as El Beso and is run by the divine Ximena, (who is a student of osteopathy and gives massage at the La Maria práctica for women.) She ushered me to a very good seat and no sooner had I sat down than Luis the mafioso appeared in front of me like the angel of tango, to invite me onto the dance floor. When your first dance is with one of the best, your evening of dance is assured. I had only three tandas with Luis, but I danced nearly every dance.
I left after 02:00 to head off for a leaving party given by two French girls, Aurora and Juia at El Encuentro, a café in La Boca. It was a perfect venue for a party with two rooms, (the main salon and a chill-out room) and a garden. All the light bulbs had been changed to red or amber to give the room an atmosphere and there were tea lights on the tables. There was a bar selling drinks at very modest prices and best of all, the guests included a number of people I knew already and an unusually high percentage of outstanding dancers. I danced with them all. I think I can say without hesitation that it was my best night of dancing in Buenos Aires, my idea of the perfect Saturday night. I got a lift home at 07:00 and I slept till 15:00 on Sunday.
Sunday night, I went to a very chilled milonga called La Capilla at a monastery not far from DNI Corrientes. The beauty of this venue is that it is possible to dance both indoors and outdoors and the building is possessed of a certain mystique. I understand that Sebastian and Eugenia, the exceptionally talented and beautiful ex-DNI tango teachers, have masterminded this milonga. We sat and danced outside, of course. Wine, pizza, tango and moonlight. Who could ask for more?
Thursday 2 April 2009
La Viruta and Sueño Porteño
I can’t bear that I’m already half way through my trip to Buenos Aires. It’s 04:00 and I’m too excited to sleep having had the best evening ever. Yes, he is gorgeous, dances like a pro, has the manners of a prince and I can feel myself turning into a flying fish, as I speak.
I started my evening very early today because I was in Palermo and thought I might as well hang out at La Viruta, where I was expecting to meet Lili much later. I spent three hours in lessons there, first tango, then rock and when Lili arrived, I led her. Up to that point I had a wonderful dance partner from Valparaiso, who asked if I’d like to sit at his table for the milonga, but Lili was going on to another milonga I’d never been to before, so I left with her, instead. I hope I get to see José again, next week.
When we first walked into Sueño Porteño, it was full to bursting. The car park was full and we had to queue for a space and even the stairs leading up to the milonga were crowded with people in fancy dress either leaving or arriving and there was not a single free chair to be had. I felt annoyed with myself for having made a bad decision, leaving La Viruta, which I was enjoying so much.
Lili was confident we would soon get to sit and she was right. We joined a table with two men, both of whom asked me to dance as soon as I got my shoes on. I barely got to sit all evening, being constantly in demand, and Bety, when she arrived, remarked on this. I said I wondered why and she said,
‘It’s because you look so young.’
Friends, eh! Three of my partners were excellent, but I had many good partners and a few of them were rather amorous. Now, in England, I might have found this trying, but here it is done with so much charm, it is difficult to feel anything more than mildly amused and even flattered. I had a few offers of phone numbers, but the one I loved the best, the princely one, asked me to join him at a milonga on Riobamba on Saturday,
‘And if you do, you’ll make me the happiest man in the world.’
He was dressed like a mafioso. He looked rather, in fact, like a young Robert de Niro. He was dressed in a beautifully cut, dark suit with a golden lapel pin. As I got up to join him on the dance floor, another man aproached me and when I indicated the man I was about to dance with, he said,
‘Ah you’re dancing with Napoleon.’
So, obviously, I thought he was called Napoleon.
I remembered my first ever milonga in Buenos Aires, which was a Friday night at Canning, when I had been flattered to bits that so many brilliant dancers kept asking to dance with me and subsequently discovering that many of them were teachers, looking for business. I asked him whether he was a teacher, but no, he said, he wasn’t. When the tanda ended, I was so overcome with pleasure, I spontaneously took his hand in both of mine and kissed it. Clearly, I am turning into a man and all this leading is rewiring my brain. I felt like an idiot, but he immediately did it back to me and said something beautiful about the pleasure of dancing with me and walked me all the way back to my chair, unlike many who leave you wishing you had your compass, miles from your table. When I told Lili he was called Napoleon, she threw back her head and laughed and said no, he had come dressed as Napoleon the week before.
He said his name was Luis B. He asked for me again a couple of times and when I left with Lili and Bety, he came down after us to the car park to say good bye and to remind me about the Saturday milonga. Part of me feels this is exciting, part of me feels this is distracting. Will I feel compelled to spend two hours getting ready to go out when I could be improving my tango at the Men’s Technique class?
I started my evening very early today because I was in Palermo and thought I might as well hang out at La Viruta, where I was expecting to meet Lili much later. I spent three hours in lessons there, first tango, then rock and when Lili arrived, I led her. Up to that point I had a wonderful dance partner from Valparaiso, who asked if I’d like to sit at his table for the milonga, but Lili was going on to another milonga I’d never been to before, so I left with her, instead. I hope I get to see José again, next week.
When we first walked into Sueño Porteño, it was full to bursting. The car park was full and we had to queue for a space and even the stairs leading up to the milonga were crowded with people in fancy dress either leaving or arriving and there was not a single free chair to be had. I felt annoyed with myself for having made a bad decision, leaving La Viruta, which I was enjoying so much.
Lili was confident we would soon get to sit and she was right. We joined a table with two men, both of whom asked me to dance as soon as I got my shoes on. I barely got to sit all evening, being constantly in demand, and Bety, when she arrived, remarked on this. I said I wondered why and she said,
‘It’s because you look so young.’
Friends, eh! Three of my partners were excellent, but I had many good partners and a few of them were rather amorous. Now, in England, I might have found this trying, but here it is done with so much charm, it is difficult to feel anything more than mildly amused and even flattered. I had a few offers of phone numbers, but the one I loved the best, the princely one, asked me to join him at a milonga on Riobamba on Saturday,
‘And if you do, you’ll make me the happiest man in the world.’
He was dressed like a mafioso. He looked rather, in fact, like a young Robert de Niro. He was dressed in a beautifully cut, dark suit with a golden lapel pin. As I got up to join him on the dance floor, another man aproached me and when I indicated the man I was about to dance with, he said,
‘Ah you’re dancing with Napoleon.’
So, obviously, I thought he was called Napoleon.
I remembered my first ever milonga in Buenos Aires, which was a Friday night at Canning, when I had been flattered to bits that so many brilliant dancers kept asking to dance with me and subsequently discovering that many of them were teachers, looking for business. I asked him whether he was a teacher, but no, he said, he wasn’t. When the tanda ended, I was so overcome with pleasure, I spontaneously took his hand in both of mine and kissed it. Clearly, I am turning into a man and all this leading is rewiring my brain. I felt like an idiot, but he immediately did it back to me and said something beautiful about the pleasure of dancing with me and walked me all the way back to my chair, unlike many who leave you wishing you had your compass, miles from your table. When I told Lili he was called Napoleon, she threw back her head and laughed and said no, he had come dressed as Napoleon the week before.
He said his name was Luis B. He asked for me again a couple of times and when I left with Lili and Bety, he came down after us to the car park to say good bye and to remind me about the Saturday milonga. Part of me feels this is exciting, part of me feels this is distracting. Will I feel compelled to spend two hours getting ready to go out when I could be improving my tango at the Men’s Technique class?
Monday 30 March 2009
The pores of Buenos Aires
I love living here. 9 de julio is the widest road in the world, but there are islands of trees between the streams of traffic that soften the urban landscape. Here and there, you spot a mattress or perhaps even a chair belonging to someone for whom one of these green strips between the grey stripes is home. I wonder how they feel about living here. As I walk back from a Buddhist meeting, I feel the first hint of an autumn chill on the evening breeze and hope the mattress owners have a mean Plan B for when it rains.
I stop for a moment to take in the last purple flourishes of the jacaranda on 9 de julio and the pink blossom, which has survived through heat and thunderstorms on the green corner, where the Independencia subte has its entrance. The teenage couple I saw kissing under the trees on my way to the meeting are still exactly where they were. Small boys and a dad are playing football with a plastic Coke bottle in the playground by the subte entrance, against a backdrop of Palo Boracho, my favourite pot-bellied trees. There are numerous green islands in this city, many with spectacular trees. If the great parks are the lungs of the beast we know as London, these funsize parks must be the pores of the Buenos Aires.
Yesterday, Gesa and I went to the Glorieta to dance the evening away in one of these parklets. It was a punitively humid evening and the porteño mosquitoes just love their meat, especially mine, but still, we came away satisfied with the quantity and quality of the dancing. It is handy living with a tango dancer. We had a practica this evening at home.
I danced every night, this week – in addition to the daytime classes and places I’ve already mentioned, I went to Maipu 444 on Thursday to the Mano a Mano milonga and met up with Swedish Jens I met at the Maldita milonga on Wednesday and saw my first ever performance of malambo, which is a thrilling Argentinian gaucho dance, which requires extraordinary flexibility, strength, stamina and dexterity and recreates the sounds of horses riding. I also went to a milonga at Peru 571 with Jeff on Saturday, where I saw José Halfón and Virginia Cutillo perform. I am in awe of the way her legs float and fly, like ribbons wielded by oriental acrobats.
I stop for a moment to take in the last purple flourishes of the jacaranda on 9 de julio and the pink blossom, which has survived through heat and thunderstorms on the green corner, where the Independencia subte has its entrance. The teenage couple I saw kissing under the trees on my way to the meeting are still exactly where they were. Small boys and a dad are playing football with a plastic Coke bottle in the playground by the subte entrance, against a backdrop of Palo Boracho, my favourite pot-bellied trees. There are numerous green islands in this city, many with spectacular trees. If the great parks are the lungs of the beast we know as London, these funsize parks must be the pores of the Buenos Aires.
Yesterday, Gesa and I went to the Glorieta to dance the evening away in one of these parklets. It was a punitively humid evening and the porteño mosquitoes just love their meat, especially mine, but still, we came away satisfied with the quantity and quality of the dancing. It is handy living with a tango dancer. We had a practica this evening at home.
I danced every night, this week – in addition to the daytime classes and places I’ve already mentioned, I went to Maipu 444 on Thursday to the Mano a Mano milonga and met up with Swedish Jens I met at the Maldita milonga on Wednesday and saw my first ever performance of malambo, which is a thrilling Argentinian gaucho dance, which requires extraordinary flexibility, strength, stamina and dexterity and recreates the sounds of horses riding. I also went to a milonga at Peru 571 with Jeff on Saturday, where I saw José Halfón and Virginia Cutillo perform. I am in awe of the way her legs float and fly, like ribbons wielded by oriental acrobats.
Saturday 28 March 2009
Tango Queer, Centro Popular de la Boca Norberto y Arrigo Todesda and La Milonga del Gordo
Tuesday night, I went to Tango Queer for the second time. The first time, there didn’t appear to be any beginners at the start of the class and I felt somewhat intimidated by the fact that most of the women appeard to be confident leaders. This time, there was a beginners’ class, but I feared it might be too beginnerish for me, so I put myself in the other one. The teacher, believing she was acting in my best interests, partnered me with an English speaker, who was an adequate dancer and whose leading level was higher than mine, but who retracted her drawbridge, now she was safely over on the other side. After the first tango, she whispered in the assistant’s ear and I was carted off to a different dancer, an Argentinian woman who, thankfully, didn’t speak English and who was a much more stylish dancer. Whilst I can understand preferring to dance with people your own level at a milonga, I hope that I shall never forget what it’s like to be a beginner, in a tango class.
It was a useful lesson and I wish I had made notes, so I could practise what we learned in the days that followed, but I didn’t and it’s all gone. I stayed on for the milonga and later, my lovely flatmate Gesa turned up. She is divine to dance with and I shall forever be indebted to her for dancing with me again and again, during the milonga, and introducing me to Soledad, who is now my guru. I have discovered that dancing with women who can lead well feels every bit as wonderful as dancing with a good male lead, but there is an indescribable difference at a visceral level and I love them both in different ways.
Soledad teaches the beginners’ class at Tango Queer and also runs a Friday night class at the Centro Popular de la Boca Norberto y Arrigo Todesca, a cultural centre that was started by the Todesca brothers in the 1930’s, providing free or a la gorra workshops in a variety of arts to the people of La Boca, which it continues to do, to this day. She is a remarkably charismatic woman with an unconventional, yet unmistakeable beauty. She studied at the University of Tango and passionately enjoys teaching it. She encourages role switching in her classes, which suits me down to the ground. When I went, I had the opportunity to dance with complete beginners as well as some of her more experienced students and I learned a huge amount in a short space of time. These days, the learning curve is so steep, I feel like attending fewer lessons and spending more time at home, practising in front of the mirror with my notes.
After the lesson, we sat around at the centre, drinking beer and munching crisps and in my case, also drinking in my surroundings and stroking Felipe (Philip, the cat.) We were just around the corner from La Boca’s football grounds and we could hear them drumming in the distance. The centre is in a century old run-down building on Pinzón, on a stretch of the street with broken street lights, which made it really hard to find. I have heard it said that La Boca is best avoided at night, but on this occasion, I found the boys in the street charming and willing to go out of their way to help me find the place. Soledad’s students were all Argentinians, mostly young people from the barrio, and I felt privileged to be the only exception.
The big, old rooms where the lesson was held were irregular in shape and had high ceilings, hung with overhead fans and jute lampshades that looked as if they grew there. The furniture and fixtures were an eccentric mishmash of styles: bourgeois antique furniture (upholstered chairs and a vast, ornate dresser,) cheap formica topped tables and plastic chairs, prints of Picasso’s Guerníca and a hunting scene, a small exhibition in glass cases about the Todesca brothers and a Todesca painting or two. There was a papier maché clock that looked like an octopus and a mirror hung diagonally, possibly by accident. We cleared the floor before the class and restored it before leaving to head off for a milonga.
Although advertised in the Tangauta, I had never noticed La Milonga del Gordo, which I understand has only just relocated to a marvellous, new location on Defensa, very near Parque Lezama and just around the corner from Torcuato Tasso. It is a superb venue with two leafy, open spaces, one with tables for drinking at the outdoor bar and a softly lit, medium-sized club room where the milonga takes place, with tango art on every wall, a sunken dance floor, a stage area and tables and chairs around two sides of the room. I liked it a lot.
I danced with one of the beginners, to give him courage. It was quiet for the first hour after that, but as soon as Soledad danced with me, and she is a dream to dance with, I got to dance with the host and a number of other people. I had a great time. Rosa was there too and we had a little natter. We left around 05:30 and the others went on to have coffee at a street café, but I was ready for bed.
It was a useful lesson and I wish I had made notes, so I could practise what we learned in the days that followed, but I didn’t and it’s all gone. I stayed on for the milonga and later, my lovely flatmate Gesa turned up. She is divine to dance with and I shall forever be indebted to her for dancing with me again and again, during the milonga, and introducing me to Soledad, who is now my guru. I have discovered that dancing with women who can lead well feels every bit as wonderful as dancing with a good male lead, but there is an indescribable difference at a visceral level and I love them both in different ways.
Soledad teaches the beginners’ class at Tango Queer and also runs a Friday night class at the Centro Popular de la Boca Norberto y Arrigo Todesca, a cultural centre that was started by the Todesca brothers in the 1930’s, providing free or a la gorra workshops in a variety of arts to the people of La Boca, which it continues to do, to this day. She is a remarkably charismatic woman with an unconventional, yet unmistakeable beauty. She studied at the University of Tango and passionately enjoys teaching it. She encourages role switching in her classes, which suits me down to the ground. When I went, I had the opportunity to dance with complete beginners as well as some of her more experienced students and I learned a huge amount in a short space of time. These days, the learning curve is so steep, I feel like attending fewer lessons and spending more time at home, practising in front of the mirror with my notes.
After the lesson, we sat around at the centre, drinking beer and munching crisps and in my case, also drinking in my surroundings and stroking Felipe (Philip, the cat.) We were just around the corner from La Boca’s football grounds and we could hear them drumming in the distance. The centre is in a century old run-down building on Pinzón, on a stretch of the street with broken street lights, which made it really hard to find. I have heard it said that La Boca is best avoided at night, but on this occasion, I found the boys in the street charming and willing to go out of their way to help me find the place. Soledad’s students were all Argentinians, mostly young people from the barrio, and I felt privileged to be the only exception.
The big, old rooms where the lesson was held were irregular in shape and had high ceilings, hung with overhead fans and jute lampshades that looked as if they grew there. The furniture and fixtures were an eccentric mishmash of styles: bourgeois antique furniture (upholstered chairs and a vast, ornate dresser,) cheap formica topped tables and plastic chairs, prints of Picasso’s Guerníca and a hunting scene, a small exhibition in glass cases about the Todesca brothers and a Todesca painting or two. There was a papier maché clock that looked like an octopus and a mirror hung diagonally, possibly by accident. We cleared the floor before the class and restored it before leaving to head off for a milonga.
Although advertised in the Tangauta, I had never noticed La Milonga del Gordo, which I understand has only just relocated to a marvellous, new location on Defensa, very near Parque Lezama and just around the corner from Torcuato Tasso. It is a superb venue with two leafy, open spaces, one with tables for drinking at the outdoor bar and a softly lit, medium-sized club room where the milonga takes place, with tango art on every wall, a sunken dance floor, a stage area and tables and chairs around two sides of the room. I liked it a lot.
I danced with one of the beginners, to give him courage. It was quiet for the first hour after that, but as soon as Soledad danced with me, and she is a dream to dance with, I got to dance with the host and a number of other people. I had a great time. Rosa was there too and we had a little natter. We left around 05:30 and the others went on to have coffee at a street café, but I was ready for bed.
Friday 27 March 2009
La Maria - práctica de mujeres
When I was last in Canning, early on in the evening, a woman came around the tables with a little bag full of hair rollers. She put one on the table in front of me. I picked it up and found rolled up inside it a pink leaflet advertising a práctica just for women at Corrientes 4534 in Angel Gallardo, not far from where I used to live in Villa Crespo. I thought it sounded promising, somewhere I could develop my leading skills, whilst at the same time improving my overall technique and creativity.
I went. It surpassed my expectations. I was welcomed warmly by Karo, Majo and Cynthia, the organisers, who asked my name and even remembered it. Entry was a mere five pesos, which included a table laden with refreshments. There was a masseuse on hand, who was a student osteopath and turned out to be none other than the organiser of La Milonga de las Morochas in Riobamba, a really great Saturday night milonga at the same venue as El Beso. Incense, mate and biscochos, friendly management and good music madeLa Maria a very nurturing environment for a newbie to walk into. Even though the standard of dancing was considerably above mine, I was constantly partnered and Cynthia, Caro and Majo were on hand to give useful input. Then, the icing on the cake: in walked Analia Vega and Marcelo Varela, two of my favourite performers. They came in as guest teachers and showed us a useful little sequence for switching roles.
Towards the end of the workshop, I nourished myself with a massage, half an hour of tactile bliss on a mattress, covered in a pure white cotton sheet. (How I miss cotton sheets...) All in all, the practica was an entirely positive experience, which I intend to repeat with pious regularity.
I went. It surpassed my expectations. I was welcomed warmly by Karo, Majo and Cynthia, the organisers, who asked my name and even remembered it. Entry was a mere five pesos, which included a table laden with refreshments. There was a masseuse on hand, who was a student osteopath and turned out to be none other than the organiser of La Milonga de las Morochas in Riobamba, a really great Saturday night milonga at the same venue as El Beso. Incense, mate and biscochos, friendly management and good music madeLa Maria a very nurturing environment for a newbie to walk into. Even though the standard of dancing was considerably above mine, I was constantly partnered and Cynthia, Caro and Majo were on hand to give useful input. Then, the icing on the cake: in walked Analia Vega and Marcelo Varela, two of my favourite performers. They came in as guest teachers and showed us a useful little sequence for switching roles.
Towards the end of the workshop, I nourished myself with a massage, half an hour of tactile bliss on a mattress, covered in a pure white cotton sheet. (How I miss cotton sheets...) All in all, the practica was an entirely positive experience, which I intend to repeat with pious regularity.
Thursday 26 March 2009
Sunday: San Telmo and La Boca
The morning after the night before: Jeff stayed over. This is Buenos Aires where lovers are two a penny, but friendship is a find. I enjoy, with childish glee, sharing a bed with a friend. Pillow talk into the early hours, swapping life stories, a spot of foot massage, endless tickly stroke, (I used to pay for this with my pocket money as a kid,) enjoying the charge, but resisting a change of gear.
Notwithstanding, I still managed to be ready for Caro by 10:00, as she was planning to look up a particular artist and also to browse the art stalls of San Telmo, on Humberto 1˚ around its junction with Defensa. Artists distil the essence of their subjects and if you want to take home a piece of the city, a painting or a photograph is as good a way as any. From the comfort of your home, you can experience Buenos Aires: Caminito, the obelisk, cafés, bandoneons, guitars, men in hats, prostitutes, beggars, romantic love, despair and of course, the tango.
We strolled through the antique market in Plaza Dorrego, pausing here and there to examine objects that caught our eye: artefacts, antiques, jewellery, crafted in metal, enamel, glass, perspex, wood, seeds. We tried on clothes in the trendy boutiques, bought some costume jewellery and sat in Parque Lezama, our ice-cream cones melting in the sunshine, before continuing on to La Boca, to pay homage to the place where tango was born.
This barrio, once the poorest in Buenos Aires, has now been given over almost entirely to tourism. We didn’t go into the conventillos to watch the artists at work – that will have to wait until the next time. We walked about to get a feel of the place, watch the performances of tango and folkloric dance in the streets put on to attract tourists to the numerous cafés and restaurants in the area. We walked down Caminito. We were being tourists and loving it.
We headed back into town on a colectivo and stopped to eat at the Bar Federal in San Telmo, one of the oldest and most famous bars in Buenos Aires, for lomo con papas fritas (filet mignon and chips.)
When I got home, there were emails from my girls wishing me a happy Mother’s Day. I hadn’t realised it was Mother’s Day, (over here, it’s celebrated in spring, which coincides with autumn in England,) but we have body clocks, so maybe we also have body calendars and maybe that is why my body knew to take me out for a most enjoyable, self indulgent day.
Notwithstanding, I still managed to be ready for Caro by 10:00, as she was planning to look up a particular artist and also to browse the art stalls of San Telmo, on Humberto 1˚ around its junction with Defensa. Artists distil the essence of their subjects and if you want to take home a piece of the city, a painting or a photograph is as good a way as any. From the comfort of your home, you can experience Buenos Aires: Caminito, the obelisk, cafés, bandoneons, guitars, men in hats, prostitutes, beggars, romantic love, despair and of course, the tango.
We strolled through the antique market in Plaza Dorrego, pausing here and there to examine objects that caught our eye: artefacts, antiques, jewellery, crafted in metal, enamel, glass, perspex, wood, seeds. We tried on clothes in the trendy boutiques, bought some costume jewellery and sat in Parque Lezama, our ice-cream cones melting in the sunshine, before continuing on to La Boca, to pay homage to the place where tango was born.
This barrio, once the poorest in Buenos Aires, has now been given over almost entirely to tourism. We didn’t go into the conventillos to watch the artists at work – that will have to wait until the next time. We walked about to get a feel of the place, watch the performances of tango and folkloric dance in the streets put on to attract tourists to the numerous cafés and restaurants in the area. We walked down Caminito. We were being tourists and loving it.
We headed back into town on a colectivo and stopped to eat at the Bar Federal in San Telmo, one of the oldest and most famous bars in Buenos Aires, for lomo con papas fritas (filet mignon and chips.)
When I got home, there were emails from my girls wishing me a happy Mother’s Day. I hadn’t realised it was Mother’s Day, (over here, it’s celebrated in spring, which coincides with autumn in England,) but we have body clocks, so maybe we also have body calendars and maybe that is why my body knew to take me out for a most enjoyable, self indulgent day.
Monday 23 March 2009
La Calesita
Jeff and I had planned to go to the Calesita a couple of weeks ago, but the event had been rained off. This outdoor milonga only runs through the summer: I had never been there and Caro was only in Buenos Aires for a few more days, so this moonlit, balmy Saturday evening we could not resist the chance to discover its charms.
It is all the way out in Nuñes, so I had to take a break from my beloved colectivos and taxis were the order of the day. I had seen pictures of it in a tango magazine, couples dancing in the midst of coloured lights under the night sky and had imagined something like an urban backyard with a dirt floor. Imagine my surprise and delight when we stepped out of the taxi and Jeff led us by the light of the moon, through elegantly landscaped grounds with flowering plants and mature trees towards a glow in the distance.
We arrived at a clearing in the trees, where there was a gatehouse manned by a ticket seller and there, beyond it, was the most captivating milonga I have ever seen, a cross between Christmas and camping. My inner child was in rapture. I felt as my daughter must have felt, when as a baby, she saw the Christmas tree in our living room lit up for the first time: ‘Take it home, Daddy!’
Under a canopy of coloured lights radiating from the centre, a great urn of exuberant foliage presides over a circular, stone dance floor. The milonga is named for its appearance: calesita means merry-go-round or carousel. All around the dance floor is a wide bank of tables and chairs. By the entrance, drinks are sold and tables groan with mouthwatering artesanal snacks, way more enticing than the bog standard sandwiches and empanadas normally available at milongas, but we had already eaten chez moi.
I tend not to eat when I’m dancing: on my previous visit I never did at all, for fear of feeling lumpen or smelling like an empanada, but realised when I got home that I had lost far too much weight. Now when I start feeling weak and empty, I don’t hesitate to hit the pies. Clean those teeth and wash those hands after and that’s the duty to be fragrant dealt with.
We did as much watching as we did dancing, but just being there was so pleasant, it didn’t matter at all. By the time we left, a couple of hours later, all the tables were full. We went on to Peru 571, where Tanghetto was performing.
It is all the way out in Nuñes, so I had to take a break from my beloved colectivos and taxis were the order of the day. I had seen pictures of it in a tango magazine, couples dancing in the midst of coloured lights under the night sky and had imagined something like an urban backyard with a dirt floor. Imagine my surprise and delight when we stepped out of the taxi and Jeff led us by the light of the moon, through elegantly landscaped grounds with flowering plants and mature trees towards a glow in the distance.
We arrived at a clearing in the trees, where there was a gatehouse manned by a ticket seller and there, beyond it, was the most captivating milonga I have ever seen, a cross between Christmas and camping. My inner child was in rapture. I felt as my daughter must have felt, when as a baby, she saw the Christmas tree in our living room lit up for the first time: ‘Take it home, Daddy!’
Under a canopy of coloured lights radiating from the centre, a great urn of exuberant foliage presides over a circular, stone dance floor. The milonga is named for its appearance: calesita means merry-go-round or carousel. All around the dance floor is a wide bank of tables and chairs. By the entrance, drinks are sold and tables groan with mouthwatering artesanal snacks, way more enticing than the bog standard sandwiches and empanadas normally available at milongas, but we had already eaten chez moi.
I tend not to eat when I’m dancing: on my previous visit I never did at all, for fear of feeling lumpen or smelling like an empanada, but realised when I got home that I had lost far too much weight. Now when I start feeling weak and empty, I don’t hesitate to hit the pies. Clean those teeth and wash those hands after and that’s the duty to be fragrant dealt with.
We did as much watching as we did dancing, but just being there was so pleasant, it didn’t matter at all. By the time we left, a couple of hours later, all the tables were full. We went on to Peru 571, where Tanghetto was performing.
Saturday 21 March 2009
El Gardel de Medellín
Tried to get various roomies, acquaintances and friends to come out with me to the milonga recommended to me by a man with a ponytail I met at DNI, last year. They were either unwilling to go out at all or had made other plans. Feeling in my bones that somewhere out there was an adventure waiting for me to happen, I decided to go it solo, or should that be sola.
As I stood at the 91 bus stop (a pavement like any other, with 91 scrawled on the wall,) poring over my Guía, a porteño stood watching, then asked the inevitable question: ‘¿De dónde sos?’ We got talking and the conversation ended, as always, with him giving me his phone number. He offered to accompany me to my milonga, although he didn’t dance tango, assuring me he had nothing better to do. I protested weakly, he insisted, I capitulated. He seemed nice enough.
The Gardel de Medellín, when we found it, had a band playing, Los Siniestras. There were many people sitting cross legged around the edge of the dance floor and all the tables were full. I stood at the front watching with Enzo for a bit, when an elderly gent got up and gave me his chair. As usual, I tried to decline, then accepted. Then, his wife asked me if I had come to dance and got a young fella (whom I had met before, somewhere in San Telmo) to dance with me. That got things started.
A singer came on stage, while I was dancing. He looked a bit like a porteño Pierce Brosnan. Later, he came over to me and asked me how I had enjoyed the show. I presumed he was coming round with the hat, as entrance to this milonga is free, but he said no, he’d just come over for a chat. Then Enrique, that piece of Buenos Aires milonga furniture, came up and asked me if I wanted to dance. Any time I go to a milonga, there is good old Enrique, dancing with all the prettiest girls.
I sat for a bit with a bottle of Quilmes for a spot of people watching. It’s a young crowd with a few notable exceptions. There are few good dancers here tonight, but it doesn’t matter because I am enjoying the laid-back vibe about the place. It’s a small milonga with a dance floor big enough to take twenty couples at a squeeze. Most of the tables are at one end of the room, near the bar, though there are a few around both sides of the dance floor. There is a small stage at the other end of the room. Entrance is free and drinks are reasonably priced. People clearly come here to socialise, not just to dance. Those big, baggy garments, which are a cross between pyjamas and a gathered skirt are very much in vogue. I suppose they keep you cool, but I’m not keen on clothes that obscure the lines and movements of the body beautiful.
Halfway through the evening, a juggler comes on with his entourage. Initially, I think, ‘Oh no! Don’t cut into my tango time,’ but he is accomplished, charismatic and funny and pretty soon, I’m cheering him along with the rest of them. When the juggling finished, the singer returned to my table and seeing me with the Quilmes in one hand and a pen in the other, said in Spanish, ‘Are you writing the New Testament? It’s already been done. Let’s dance.’
He asked me a lot of questions and he was an appalling dancer. I don’t know what he was on, but it was an antidote for embarrassment. He said, ‘Well, I sing, don’t I?’ Amazing, isn’t it, what the pretty and talented believe they can get away with? Slightly anxious I might not be able to extricate myself from continuing to make an ass of myself on the dance floor, I made a dash for the door, when he was busy talking to a friend.
I got the 91 back home, without any trouble at all.
As I stood at the 91 bus stop (a pavement like any other, with 91 scrawled on the wall,) poring over my Guía, a porteño stood watching, then asked the inevitable question: ‘¿De dónde sos?’ We got talking and the conversation ended, as always, with him giving me his phone number. He offered to accompany me to my milonga, although he didn’t dance tango, assuring me he had nothing better to do. I protested weakly, he insisted, I capitulated. He seemed nice enough.
The Gardel de Medellín, when we found it, had a band playing, Los Siniestras. There were many people sitting cross legged around the edge of the dance floor and all the tables were full. I stood at the front watching with Enzo for a bit, when an elderly gent got up and gave me his chair. As usual, I tried to decline, then accepted. Then, his wife asked me if I had come to dance and got a young fella (whom I had met before, somewhere in San Telmo) to dance with me. That got things started.
A singer came on stage, while I was dancing. He looked a bit like a porteño Pierce Brosnan. Later, he came over to me and asked me how I had enjoyed the show. I presumed he was coming round with the hat, as entrance to this milonga is free, but he said no, he’d just come over for a chat. Then Enrique, that piece of Buenos Aires milonga furniture, came up and asked me if I wanted to dance. Any time I go to a milonga, there is good old Enrique, dancing with all the prettiest girls.
I sat for a bit with a bottle of Quilmes for a spot of people watching. It’s a young crowd with a few notable exceptions. There are few good dancers here tonight, but it doesn’t matter because I am enjoying the laid-back vibe about the place. It’s a small milonga with a dance floor big enough to take twenty couples at a squeeze. Most of the tables are at one end of the room, near the bar, though there are a few around both sides of the dance floor. There is a small stage at the other end of the room. Entrance is free and drinks are reasonably priced. People clearly come here to socialise, not just to dance. Those big, baggy garments, which are a cross between pyjamas and a gathered skirt are very much in vogue. I suppose they keep you cool, but I’m not keen on clothes that obscure the lines and movements of the body beautiful.
Halfway through the evening, a juggler comes on with his entourage. Initially, I think, ‘Oh no! Don’t cut into my tango time,’ but he is accomplished, charismatic and funny and pretty soon, I’m cheering him along with the rest of them. When the juggling finished, the singer returned to my table and seeing me with the Quilmes in one hand and a pen in the other, said in Spanish, ‘Are you writing the New Testament? It’s already been done. Let’s dance.’
He asked me a lot of questions and he was an appalling dancer. I don’t know what he was on, but it was an antidote for embarrassment. He said, ‘Well, I sing, don’t I?’ Amazing, isn’t it, what the pretty and talented believe they can get away with? Slightly anxious I might not be able to extricate myself from continuing to make an ass of myself on the dance floor, I made a dash for the door, when he was busy talking to a friend.
I got the 91 back home, without any trouble at all.
Friday 20 March 2009
Tango Bax
The lovely Caro is in Buenos Aires. She is one of my tango teachers in London. I should be showing her around, as I have been here longer, yet she’s the one opening my eyes to who is performing where and suggesting places we could go.
Last night, we went to Canning to see a homage to el Troesma, Zotto. From the social dancing point of view, it was not the greatest of nights, but as for entertainment, we were spoiled rotten. We were treated to singing and dancing by some of the city’s great performers and it was not till the end, when they all gathered together on the dance floor, that we realised what a glut of performers there had been. They included El Chino Perico, Andrés Cejas and Genoveva Fernandez, Leandro Oliver and Laila Rezk, Milena Plebs, José Halfon and Virginia Cutillo and Roxana Fontan. The show had gone on for hours. It was after 04:00, when we left.
Earlier in the day, we went to a class at the Mariposita and this led to a conversation about the correct way for the follower to hold her back in the close embrace. I have had this explained to me in many different ways and I’m still not one hundred per cent sure I’ve got it right. I guess it’s the thing I’d ask for, if I got to see the Wizard of Oz.
Some people say there shouldn’t be a dip in the spine, some that there can be. Some advocate the ‘happy bottom,’ (tilted upwards) others say the pelvis should be perpendicular to the floor. Some say the back should expand into the leader’s hand, others that the torso should incline forwards to maintain contact with one side of the leader’s chest , others still say you need to do both at the same time. At DNI, they say the position of the back is as if you are about to sit down and no further inclined than that. I should be interested to hear any other views on the matter of Tango Bax.
Last night, we went to Canning to see a homage to el Troesma, Zotto. From the social dancing point of view, it was not the greatest of nights, but as for entertainment, we were spoiled rotten. We were treated to singing and dancing by some of the city’s great performers and it was not till the end, when they all gathered together on the dance floor, that we realised what a glut of performers there had been. They included El Chino Perico, Andrés Cejas and Genoveva Fernandez, Leandro Oliver and Laila Rezk, Milena Plebs, José Halfon and Virginia Cutillo and Roxana Fontan. The show had gone on for hours. It was after 04:00, when we left.
Earlier in the day, we went to a class at the Mariposita and this led to a conversation about the correct way for the follower to hold her back in the close embrace. I have had this explained to me in many different ways and I’m still not one hundred per cent sure I’ve got it right. I guess it’s the thing I’d ask for, if I got to see the Wizard of Oz.
Some people say there shouldn’t be a dip in the spine, some that there can be. Some advocate the ‘happy bottom,’ (tilted upwards) others say the pelvis should be perpendicular to the floor. Some say the back should expand into the leader’s hand, others that the torso should incline forwards to maintain contact with one side of the leader’s chest , others still say you need to do both at the same time. At DNI, they say the position of the back is as if you are about to sit down and no further inclined than that. I should be interested to hear any other views on the matter of Tango Bax.
Wednesday 18 March 2009
A feeling
The clocks went back over the weekend and I remembered to adjust my watch, but not my mobile, with the result that I arrived for class at DNI Corrientes an hour early. Not a problem, as there’s nowhere lovelier to sit than their leafy, outdoor café with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Sheltered from the afternoon sun by a breathable canopy, surrounded by potted climbers, creepers, shrubs, tango music spilling out of the adjacent studio (Musica – una fuerza de naturaleza is written on the wall and afileteado.) There is the option of watching a dancer being put through his paces in a private lesson, against the backdrop of a faux pergola overgrown with vine, painted on a tall green stained glass window, one of the most gorgeous features of the building.
It’s not called Buenos Aires for nothing. Being here does you good. I find that I wake up feeling repaired, refreshed. I get out of bed and stretch in front of the mirror and think, ‘Hello, you’ll do.’ I see longer lines and deeper dips in my body and don’t feel compelled to put on make-up when I go to milongas, whereas in London, I go out not so much made-up as embalmed.
I adore being here. DNI is more than just a school – it’s a community. DNI has an unusually high cuddly factor. Nowhere else do you find so many beautiful teachers, so likeable, funny and warm, so able to show you how to use your body to make beauty. Here, there are tango dogs that sometimes wander into the studios to watch. One of them barks to a waltz. Recently, there has been a new addition, a tango puppy. And there is a tango baby. On my last visit, she was a babe-in-arms. Now she toddles around placidly in her exerciser. These are important details. They give you the feeling.
I could just sit here and write poetry. All I have to write with is a blunt pencil and the paper my empanada was wrapped in, but needs must.
It’s not called Buenos Aires for nothing. Being here does you good. I find that I wake up feeling repaired, refreshed. I get out of bed and stretch in front of the mirror and think, ‘Hello, you’ll do.’ I see longer lines and deeper dips in my body and don’t feel compelled to put on make-up when I go to milongas, whereas in London, I go out not so much made-up as embalmed.
I adore being here. DNI is more than just a school – it’s a community. DNI has an unusually high cuddly factor. Nowhere else do you find so many beautiful teachers, so likeable, funny and warm, so able to show you how to use your body to make beauty. Here, there are tango dogs that sometimes wander into the studios to watch. One of them barks to a waltz. Recently, there has been a new addition, a tango puppy. And there is a tango baby. On my last visit, she was a babe-in-arms. Now she toddles around placidly in her exerciser. These are important details. They give you the feeling.
I could just sit here and write poetry. All I have to write with is a blunt pencil and the paper my empanada was wrapped in, but needs must.
More malingering than milongaring
Last week, I went to class every day, but in the evenings, I must confess there was more malingering than milongas. It’s a long journey home from evening classes at DNI Bulnes, added to which classes frequently start late and therefore finish late. Excuses, excuses. All the same, enormous though my affection is for DNI, I will carry on with lunchtime lessons there, but I intend to start going local in the evenings.
I had planned to go out every night this week and would have done so, but tonight, I felt obliged to stay in and get my computer to behave, as it hasn’t let me access the internet all day.
On Monday, I went to a practica at Villa Malcolm with Chris, a double bass player from Boston, who doesn’t mind being led. It was his idea. Yet, of all the places in Buenos Aires we could have gone to, we found ourselves at the same venue as Jeff and Ching. Fate just keeps throwing us together.
Last night, I went to Porteño y Bailarín with Kemal. The teachers were Ernesto Balmaceda, (brother of Julio,) and Stella Baez and we did a very elegant spiral choreography, which Kemal liked so much, he kept saying, ‘I’ll never forget this, I’ll never forget this.’ I found myself feeling rather envious. As a follower, you don’t have anything like the same degree of control over what gets danced. If you have enjoyed a choreography and want to dance it again, the only way to do that is to learn to lead it. I am not capable of inferring a lead, just yet. For me, every bit of leading is hard won. I have to watch it, copy it, repeat it and once I can do that mechanically, only then does the logic of it begin to dawn on me. I look forward to having a breakthrough in being able to work out on my own how to lead the moves I love.
I had planned to go out every night this week and would have done so, but tonight, I felt obliged to stay in and get my computer to behave, as it hasn’t let me access the internet all day.
On Monday, I went to a practica at Villa Malcolm with Chris, a double bass player from Boston, who doesn’t mind being led. It was his idea. Yet, of all the places in Buenos Aires we could have gone to, we found ourselves at the same venue as Jeff and Ching. Fate just keeps throwing us together.
Last night, I went to Porteño y Bailarín with Kemal. The teachers were Ernesto Balmaceda, (brother of Julio,) and Stella Baez and we did a very elegant spiral choreography, which Kemal liked so much, he kept saying, ‘I’ll never forget this, I’ll never forget this.’ I found myself feeling rather envious. As a follower, you don’t have anything like the same degree of control over what gets danced. If you have enjoyed a choreography and want to dance it again, the only way to do that is to learn to lead it. I am not capable of inferring a lead, just yet. For me, every bit of leading is hard won. I have to watch it, copy it, repeat it and once I can do that mechanically, only then does the logic of it begin to dawn on me. I look forward to having a breakthrough in being able to work out on my own how to lead the moves I love.
All for one, one for all or something completely different?
I haven’t seen much of my Turkish friend in the last few days and I was getting used to having him in class. I guess one man’s ad nauseum is another’s heart’s content.
There is a distinct advantage in working consistently with the same person in classes and practicas. For a start, when the class isn’t gender balanced, you have a guaranteed partner, so there’s no dead time. Secondly, once you have established a background of relatedness, giving and receiving feedback becomes a whole lot easier. Thirdly, once you have adjusted to each other, you can give fuller attention to what is new, as you no longer have to start from scratch, each time. Fourthly, you can have the best of both worlds, as you can still continue to enjoy and stay sensitized to different leads or styles, dancing at milongas.
Peaches are in season and I ask myself, as I sink my teeth into my third, this morning, whether I shall ever tire of them. Years ago, when I was piss poor and lived in France, I lived on peaches and popcorn. When the last market stall had sold the last peach, I switched to figs. I also like playing an album over and over, till I know each last note and lyric by heart.
Last night I went to Plaza Dorrego. The demon dancer was there, as always, making women swoon. I had a few dances with strangers, then hooked up with Jeff, who was there with his friend Art from Alaska and a Korean tango deb, Ching. Ching has only had three tango lessons and is already a good dancer. Having danced salsa for years, her mind and body are programmed to move with control and precision. When we moved on to Torquato Tasso, she didn’t hesitate to get up and ask some of the finest tangueros for a dance and they appeared delighted to be asked. Either times are changing or it depends on who’s asking.
Art mentioned he was looking for somewhere to stay and as Zack, our resident genius, is leaving for Mexico, I mentioned there could well be a room available at my digs and did they want to come and see.
We sat in my tiny kitchen till 04:30 drinking coffee and discussing the nature of reality, life after death, the effects of assorted drugs, the relative merits of monogamy and polygamy and whether and to what extent men and women differ in their needs. I told them about my philosopher friend, Sarah Biggie’s solution: duogamy, a system permitting men and women to be in a committed relationship with two partners each. The virtue of such a versatile union is you get the nurture, stability and commitment of monogamy, but with a little more variety, (the chief advantage of polygamy,) as well as a built-in safety valve, should you find yourself at odds with one of your spouses.
Back on the subject of dance partners, wouldn’t two be twice as nice as one? Better still would be to be the variety: learn to switch roles and dance happily ever after.
There is a distinct advantage in working consistently with the same person in classes and practicas. For a start, when the class isn’t gender balanced, you have a guaranteed partner, so there’s no dead time. Secondly, once you have established a background of relatedness, giving and receiving feedback becomes a whole lot easier. Thirdly, once you have adjusted to each other, you can give fuller attention to what is new, as you no longer have to start from scratch, each time. Fourthly, you can have the best of both worlds, as you can still continue to enjoy and stay sensitized to different leads or styles, dancing at milongas.
Peaches are in season and I ask myself, as I sink my teeth into my third, this morning, whether I shall ever tire of them. Years ago, when I was piss poor and lived in France, I lived on peaches and popcorn. When the last market stall had sold the last peach, I switched to figs. I also like playing an album over and over, till I know each last note and lyric by heart.
Last night I went to Plaza Dorrego. The demon dancer was there, as always, making women swoon. I had a few dances with strangers, then hooked up with Jeff, who was there with his friend Art from Alaska and a Korean tango deb, Ching. Ching has only had three tango lessons and is already a good dancer. Having danced salsa for years, her mind and body are programmed to move with control and precision. When we moved on to Torquato Tasso, she didn’t hesitate to get up and ask some of the finest tangueros for a dance and they appeared delighted to be asked. Either times are changing or it depends on who’s asking.
Art mentioned he was looking for somewhere to stay and as Zack, our resident genius, is leaving for Mexico, I mentioned there could well be a room available at my digs and did they want to come and see.
We sat in my tiny kitchen till 04:30 drinking coffee and discussing the nature of reality, life after death, the effects of assorted drugs, the relative merits of monogamy and polygamy and whether and to what extent men and women differ in their needs. I told them about my philosopher friend, Sarah Biggie’s solution: duogamy, a system permitting men and women to be in a committed relationship with two partners each. The virtue of such a versatile union is you get the nurture, stability and commitment of monogamy, but with a little more variety, (the chief advantage of polygamy,) as well as a built-in safety valve, should you find yourself at odds with one of your spouses.
Back on the subject of dance partners, wouldn’t two be twice as nice as one? Better still would be to be the variety: learn to switch roles and dance happily ever after.
Saturday 14 March 2009
More tango schools: La Mariposita and Escuela Argentina de Tango
Friday 13 March 2009
Shamblin'
Friday night milonga? The computer says, ‘No.’ Overcome by the slings and arrows of public transport (colectivos and the subte), private transport (tired feet) and fifty odd mosquito bites, I’m settling for a solitary steak and salad, washed down with Quilmes (my favourite) and an early night, smeared in tea tree oil.
Transport is the bane of my existence in Buenos Aires.
The subte is the lesser of the two evils, but it ends around 22.15. There’s lots of ‘life’ on the subte. Invariably a hawker, frequently a child or someone with a disability, will be selling you wares in the carriage, typically hair clips, stickers, pens and tube maps. Or there might be a musician performing or someone trying to raise money for a personal cause. It brings you face to face with your humanity or lack of it. Then there are the silent reminders of people's struggles to survive: loads of personal advertisements with tear-off phone numbers, tucked into window frames or stuck on the walls.
Provided you don’t need to change lines away from the city centre, which is the only place they intersect, the subte is pretty good. The city is planned on a grid system, so it is easy to find your way as the streets between stops are indicated on the tube map. The stations can get horribly congested. Don’t expect to rush up escalators: here, they stand on both sides. However, the entrances and exits of the different lines are decorated in distinctively coloured, ceramic tiles, some of which are rather beautiful. I can handle the subte.
Both the subte and colectivos are extraordinarily overcrowded and not just at rush hour. The buses make a range of cruel and unusual noises. There seems to be a strictly no silencers policy. Then there’s the great centavo drama. People can’t wait to rid their purses of their five and ten centavo coins. They are as annoying as mosquitoes and it is equally impossible to be free of them. To make matters worse, the minimum bus fare, which was ninety centavos last year, has risen to one peso and ten centavos. So, either you have that ten centavo coin, or you risk getting a whole load in change, every time you take the bus. Just when you think you’ve seen the last of yours, you spot the gleam in your grocer’s eyes and you just know your bill is going to come to X pesos and the obligatory ten centavos, which means you might be lumbered with anything between nine to eighteen of the little bastards again. Five and ten centavo pieces are virtually indistinguishable and you don’t check your change - though you know you want to, because coins are like gold dust if you are in the habit of taking colectivos. Also, they are minuscule, so that they slip between your fingers as you count out your bus fare and it would be positively infra dig to chase a five centavo coin as it rolled away under a bus seat. But when it’s a toss-up between your dignity and getting there, you just might reconsider your position. Or you can’t get on the bus. Now multiply this drama by ten for the ten or so people that get on at each stop. It’s a farce. Just not that funny.
You could walk everywhere, but be prepared. Buenos Aires does not respect the white man. (The ‘Walk’ light at street crossings is generally a white man, and occasionally, a green one.) White, green or red, the average Buenos Aires driver’s reaction is, ‘Am I bovvered?’ Walking more than is strictly necessary is not an option for me at present. My toots are all tangoed out. They want to be plunged in ice water and then forgiven and put to bed.
Transport is the bane of my existence in Buenos Aires.
The subte is the lesser of the two evils, but it ends around 22.15. There’s lots of ‘life’ on the subte. Invariably a hawker, frequently a child or someone with a disability, will be selling you wares in the carriage, typically hair clips, stickers, pens and tube maps. Or there might be a musician performing or someone trying to raise money for a personal cause. It brings you face to face with your humanity or lack of it. Then there are the silent reminders of people's struggles to survive: loads of personal advertisements with tear-off phone numbers, tucked into window frames or stuck on the walls.
Provided you don’t need to change lines away from the city centre, which is the only place they intersect, the subte is pretty good. The city is planned on a grid system, so it is easy to find your way as the streets between stops are indicated on the tube map. The stations can get horribly congested. Don’t expect to rush up escalators: here, they stand on both sides. However, the entrances and exits of the different lines are decorated in distinctively coloured, ceramic tiles, some of which are rather beautiful. I can handle the subte.
Both the subte and colectivos are extraordinarily overcrowded and not just at rush hour. The buses make a range of cruel and unusual noises. There seems to be a strictly no silencers policy. Then there’s the great centavo drama. People can’t wait to rid their purses of their five and ten centavo coins. They are as annoying as mosquitoes and it is equally impossible to be free of them. To make matters worse, the minimum bus fare, which was ninety centavos last year, has risen to one peso and ten centavos. So, either you have that ten centavo coin, or you risk getting a whole load in change, every time you take the bus. Just when you think you’ve seen the last of yours, you spot the gleam in your grocer’s eyes and you just know your bill is going to come to X pesos and the obligatory ten centavos, which means you might be lumbered with anything between nine to eighteen of the little bastards again. Five and ten centavo pieces are virtually indistinguishable and you don’t check your change - though you know you want to, because coins are like gold dust if you are in the habit of taking colectivos. Also, they are minuscule, so that they slip between your fingers as you count out your bus fare and it would be positively infra dig to chase a five centavo coin as it rolled away under a bus seat. But when it’s a toss-up between your dignity and getting there, you just might reconsider your position. Or you can’t get on the bus. Now multiply this drama by ten for the ten or so people that get on at each stop. It’s a farce. Just not that funny.
You could walk everywhere, but be prepared. Buenos Aires does not respect the white man. (The ‘Walk’ light at street crossings is generally a white man, and occasionally, a green one.) White, green or red, the average Buenos Aires driver’s reaction is, ‘Am I bovvered?’ Walking more than is strictly necessary is not an option for me at present. My toots are all tangoed out. They want to be plunged in ice water and then forgiven and put to bed.
Wednesday 11 March 2009
Chacarera
Who did I have this conversation with?
‘Does it rain much in autumn in BsAs?’
‘Sure, but not as much as in London.’
‘So I won’t need wellies, then?’
‘No’.
You were mistaken. Crossing Independencia this evening, on my way home from a chacarera lesson at DNI, there were rivers about one foot deep gushing alongside the pavements. I was out in my walking sandals (I hear my daughters groan) and anxiously peering into the waters as I waded through, ready to jump out of my skin if some object, such as the contents of a bin, a rat or floating dog turd touched my feet.
I had my dad’s trusty brolly with me, though. It’s one that deploys at the touch of a button, but requires you to strain as if constipated, to close up again. Normally, I shun the attentions of the subte guard at 9 de Julio, who propositions me and makes kissing noises as I pass, but on this occasion, I was glad to see him as he rushed forward to help me close my umbrella, opened the barrier so that I didn’t even need to get a ticket out and carried my shopping through for me.
I will never be able to stop giggling about the way the men look at one in Argentina: the drawing up of the chest, the lowered head, the narrowed eyes, the flared nostrils, the pursed lips. This overt male posturing is an old school thing the under-thirties would probably be ashamed of.
Which brings me to the topic of chacarera, one of the Argentine folkloric dances, which is frequently danced at milongas and which I am determined to learn, because I love it. At Rosa’s pancake lunch, I met Scott, who writes a blog, who told me he had expressed his views on chacarera in his blog and caused quite a furore. Scott does not care for chacarera for three reasons, which as far as I recall are as follows:
1. It cuts into his tango time.
2. There is a choreographed and limited range of steps, so it becomes boring to watch, after the first few times.
3. He dislikes the male posturing and female wiles, which the zapateo and zarandeo parts of the dance express. It is now a more egalitarian society and these stereotypes are no longer apt.
This is my understanding of what he said. I have yet to read his blog, but I would like to express my own views in response.
1. If you liked doing it, this would not be an issue.
2. It’s not the steps but the unique way in which they are expressed by each individual that gives chacarera its appeal.
3. Zapateo and zarandeo are metaphors for the attention seeking part of the mating ritual, which is a timeless fact of life, however much the way in which it is done has changed over the ages. Now for zapateo, read fast cars, cool clothes, gym membership. On the other side, there’s make-up, sexy clothes, pretty underwear, no underwear. That’s the overt stuff. And then, there’s undercover posturing: researched conversation, popular or controversial website, proven skill of some kind, becoming a tango instructor... Then there’s piercings, tattoos and a whole bunch of other stuff I don’t even begin to understand. Whatever! We do stuff to pull and chacarera is a celebration of that game. Let’s celebrate!
‘Does it rain much in autumn in BsAs?’
‘Sure, but not as much as in London.’
‘So I won’t need wellies, then?’
‘No’.
You were mistaken. Crossing Independencia this evening, on my way home from a chacarera lesson at DNI, there were rivers about one foot deep gushing alongside the pavements. I was out in my walking sandals (I hear my daughters groan) and anxiously peering into the waters as I waded through, ready to jump out of my skin if some object, such as the contents of a bin, a rat or floating dog turd touched my feet.
I had my dad’s trusty brolly with me, though. It’s one that deploys at the touch of a button, but requires you to strain as if constipated, to close up again. Normally, I shun the attentions of the subte guard at 9 de Julio, who propositions me and makes kissing noises as I pass, but on this occasion, I was glad to see him as he rushed forward to help me close my umbrella, opened the barrier so that I didn’t even need to get a ticket out and carried my shopping through for me.
I will never be able to stop giggling about the way the men look at one in Argentina: the drawing up of the chest, the lowered head, the narrowed eyes, the flared nostrils, the pursed lips. This overt male posturing is an old school thing the under-thirties would probably be ashamed of.
Which brings me to the topic of chacarera, one of the Argentine folkloric dances, which is frequently danced at milongas and which I am determined to learn, because I love it. At Rosa’s pancake lunch, I met Scott, who writes a blog, who told me he had expressed his views on chacarera in his blog and caused quite a furore. Scott does not care for chacarera for three reasons, which as far as I recall are as follows:
1. It cuts into his tango time.
2. There is a choreographed and limited range of steps, so it becomes boring to watch, after the first few times.
3. He dislikes the male posturing and female wiles, which the zapateo and zarandeo parts of the dance express. It is now a more egalitarian society and these stereotypes are no longer apt.
This is my understanding of what he said. I have yet to read his blog, but I would like to express my own views in response.
1. If you liked doing it, this would not be an issue.
2. It’s not the steps but the unique way in which they are expressed by each individual that gives chacarera its appeal.
3. Zapateo and zarandeo are metaphors for the attention seeking part of the mating ritual, which is a timeless fact of life, however much the way in which it is done has changed over the ages. Now for zapateo, read fast cars, cool clothes, gym membership. On the other side, there’s make-up, sexy clothes, pretty underwear, no underwear. That’s the overt stuff. And then, there’s undercover posturing: researched conversation, popular or controversial website, proven skill of some kind, becoming a tango instructor... Then there’s piercings, tattoos and a whole bunch of other stuff I don’t even begin to understand. Whatever! We do stuff to pull and chacarera is a celebration of that game. Let’s celebrate!
Practica X
I went back home to eat before going out again. My German flatmate, Guisa and I had just defrosted the fridge which had developed a wall of ice within, thick enough to build an igloo. I was dutifully working my way through the chicken breasts which had been left in the freezer. They weren’t mine, but they were only a month old with no claimant and I couldn’t bring myself to chuck them away, not when I see whole families rummaging through the bins of Buenos Aires every night, looking for something in edible condition.
Then I dressed up to go to Practica X with Kemal, a Turkish farmer I met at DNI. I had been to Practica X before with Iancito and knew not to go there without a partner. He, in turn, could speak no Spanish and wanted the moral support.
Practica X has moved from Medrano to a venue in Palermo on Humboldt 1464, between Niceto Vega and Jose Cabrera, which makes it almost impossible for me to get to from my home in San Telmo. Still, plucky bird that I am, I did it. It took two subtes, a colectivo and a walk. An hour and fifteen minutes later, I got there, in time for the lesson. The new venue is a humungous hall with stage lighting apparatus hanging off a high ceiling and wall lights that keep changing colour, the sort of venue one associates with wedding receptions, not dancing tango. There were many women at a loose end, even with a number of women leading other women, so I was ultra relieved to have a partner. Although Kemal has only been dancing two months, he is incredibly keen and a fast learner.
The class was interesting in that it was tightly produced and stage managed. In other words, there was a man with a stopwatch holding up fingers and whispering in the teachers’ ears. It was still far too heavy on teacher talk for my taste. I really didn’t like that they wouldn’t answer questions as they arose, telling students instead that there would be an opportunity to ask questions at the end of the lesson. Learning is not achieved by listening passively. Learning involves teaching yourself and this means getting things clear as you go. I like dance lessons to be heavy on demonstration, practice, monitoring and instant feedback and light on theory and explanation. Learning by watching and doing. That would be my way. We shared a table with Claudio, who teaches pedagogy to teachers and he totally agreed with me.
Whilst there is some merit in doing things the way they have always been done, there is also merit in going with the flow and making the most of opportunities. I don’t know why tango teachers don’t avail themselves of modern classroom technology to enhance their teaching. If I were a tango teacher, I would have a video camera to film my demonstration of the information I was trying to convey. I would then project that film onto an electronic whiteboard and have my students attempt to produce the movement themselves, with a model onscreen to follow and check themselves against, playing repeatedly, whilst I wondered around the classroom monitoring and giving feedback. I might even film students to show them what they were doing, so they could judge for themselves what they needed to work on. Whilst tango teachers may be unable to afford the technology, I would have thought that the milonga and practica venues and better established tango schools, would.
I have to say, however, that I really liked Gaston Torelli and Moira Castellano’s take on the giro. They had the man move around the woman and they said something along these lines:
‘Don’t think of the woman as being passively led. Don’t try and get her to do something. Dance and she will naturally respond to your dance.’
Then I dressed up to go to Practica X with Kemal, a Turkish farmer I met at DNI. I had been to Practica X before with Iancito and knew not to go there without a partner. He, in turn, could speak no Spanish and wanted the moral support.
Practica X has moved from Medrano to a venue in Palermo on Humboldt 1464, between Niceto Vega and Jose Cabrera, which makes it almost impossible for me to get to from my home in San Telmo. Still, plucky bird that I am, I did it. It took two subtes, a colectivo and a walk. An hour and fifteen minutes later, I got there, in time for the lesson. The new venue is a humungous hall with stage lighting apparatus hanging off a high ceiling and wall lights that keep changing colour, the sort of venue one associates with wedding receptions, not dancing tango. There were many women at a loose end, even with a number of women leading other women, so I was ultra relieved to have a partner. Although Kemal has only been dancing two months, he is incredibly keen and a fast learner.
The class was interesting in that it was tightly produced and stage managed. In other words, there was a man with a stopwatch holding up fingers and whispering in the teachers’ ears. It was still far too heavy on teacher talk for my taste. I really didn’t like that they wouldn’t answer questions as they arose, telling students instead that there would be an opportunity to ask questions at the end of the lesson. Learning is not achieved by listening passively. Learning involves teaching yourself and this means getting things clear as you go. I like dance lessons to be heavy on demonstration, practice, monitoring and instant feedback and light on theory and explanation. Learning by watching and doing. That would be my way. We shared a table with Claudio, who teaches pedagogy to teachers and he totally agreed with me.
Whilst there is some merit in doing things the way they have always been done, there is also merit in going with the flow and making the most of opportunities. I don’t know why tango teachers don’t avail themselves of modern classroom technology to enhance their teaching. If I were a tango teacher, I would have a video camera to film my demonstration of the information I was trying to convey. I would then project that film onto an electronic whiteboard and have my students attempt to produce the movement themselves, with a model onscreen to follow and check themselves against, playing repeatedly, whilst I wondered around the classroom monitoring and giving feedback. I might even film students to show them what they were doing, so they could judge for themselves what they needed to work on. Whilst tango teachers may be unable to afford the technology, I would have thought that the milonga and practica venues and better established tango schools, would.
I have to say, however, that I really liked Gaston Torelli and Moira Castellano’s take on the giro. They had the man move around the woman and they said something along these lines:
‘Don’t think of the woman as being passively led. Don’t try and get her to do something. Dance and she will naturally respond to your dance.’
Confitería Ideal
In the subte at Independencia, I bumped into Julio, a dancer from Chicago I met at DNI last time round. He told me about some classes (Tuesday at 15:30) at the Confitería Ideal, where the focus was on subtle moves for tiny spaces. As a prospective leader, I thought that sounded like exactly what I needed to know, so I went along.
The Ideal, if you’ve yet to go there, is a building in sumptuous art deco reminiscent of Paris, with a marble staircase leading up to a ballroom on the first floor. It has a splendid stained glass ceiling, doors and windows of bevilled glass, wood paneling, decorative mirrors, chandeliers, marble pillars, a pergola and a substantial dance floor.
The class was three hours long and the teachers were Eduardo Saucedo and Ivana Smolianovich, beautiful people endowed with an infectious sense of humour, blessings common to the tango teachers of Buenos Aires. The focus of the first half of the lesson was a choreography including barridas and sandwichitos. The second half was milonga : one – two – kiss – four – five. ‘Kiss’ represents the brushing of the man’s calf against the woman’s as he switches tracks in the box step.
The Ideal, if you’ve yet to go there, is a building in sumptuous art deco reminiscent of Paris, with a marble staircase leading up to a ballroom on the first floor. It has a splendid stained glass ceiling, doors and windows of bevilled glass, wood paneling, decorative mirrors, chandeliers, marble pillars, a pergola and a substantial dance floor.
The class was three hours long and the teachers were Eduardo Saucedo and Ivana Smolianovich, beautiful people endowed with an infectious sense of humour, blessings common to the tango teachers of Buenos Aires. The focus of the first half of the lesson was a choreography including barridas and sandwichitos. The second half was milonga : one – two – kiss – four – five. ‘Kiss’ represents the brushing of the man’s calf against the woman’s as he switches tracks in the box step.
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