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.
Thursday 28 May 2009
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
