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.