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)

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.

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.

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?

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?