I promised myself I would give Gricel a swerve in the future, last time I went there. And yet I found myself there again, this evening. I must be going gaga. I come halfway across the world because the dancing in this city is that good, but that is not to say that Buenos Aires does not have its share of bad dancers. It just has more than its fair share of good ones. To be fair, I did get in a few good dances, this evening. But I had loads of the other kind.
Let me tell you about some of the unusual interpretations of the man’s role, a speciality of the dance floor at Gricel. There was the Boa Constrictor, whose arm went right around my waist and finished up with a hand squeezing right under my breasts, so I could barely breathe and my legs moved like dying fish. There was the Masseur, who kept rubbing his chest against mine in all directions, which felt plain pervy. There was the Spinner, who flicked me with his wrist, like a spinning top, instead of indicating my direction with the torsion of his centre. There was the Farmer, who used both arms to steer me this way and that, like a tractor. There was the Wrestler, who forced my elbow way beyond my back, on the open side of the embrace. And then, there was Death, who tried to bore me rigid by repeating the same two steps throughout an entire, unbelievably long tanda of milonga.
Goodbye Gricel!
Monday 2 April 2012
Saturday 31 March 2012
Small change
Tango in Buenos Aires costs between a third and a fifth of London prices. I’d sooner come here for my lessons and milongas and content myself with regular practicas at home in London. The price of group classes starts from around £3.50, if bought in bulk, to £7. Milongas cost about the same, but then drinks and empanadas have to be factored in at prices comparable to ours. I haven’t yet been to Escuela Argentina de Tango, this time around, where classes are always more expensive than everywhere else, though not necessarily any better. The enormous detail that goes into the teaching of tango technique in Buenos Aires, or should I say techniques, for there are a variety of different approaches, is beyond compare. Your £3.50 buys you mini-tutorials for your head, neck, shoulders, arms, elbows, wrists, palms, fingers, thumbs, ribcage and intercostals, various abdominals and dorsals, hips, buttocks, thighs, knees, ankles, heels, balls of the feet, big toes, little toes and all the ones in between. Just about every milonga hosts exquisite shows by top notch performers and live music played by world famous bands is included at the regular price. For instance, I went to only two milongas this week and saw Otros Aires perform their new stuff and Virginia de Uva dance. The average porteño is fit and there is an abundance of good dance partners. I don’t know what it is that lubricates their movement, but this italic flow is well worth the hundreds of pounds you have to pay to get here.
Tango apart, Buenos Aires is getting expensive. Bread, less delicious than blotting paper, costs over a pound, so we bake our own, which is rather good. Fruit and veg can often cost considerably more here than back home. My verduleria (green grocer’s) charges the equivalent of a pound for four bananas, but I won’t be growing my own. Prepared salads and oranges for juicing are good value and are my fave staple foods. When I first came to Buenos Aires, I used to wake up dreaming about the totally affordable filet mignon I was going to have for breakfast. Been there, done that. Now I’m a muesli muncher and nuts and dried fruit are pretty expensive.
Public transport is still very cheap, and at long last, there is no longer any need to have monedas to pay your bus fare. There is now a pre-pay e-card, like an Oystercard, if you can lay your hands on one. I’m using someone else’s at present, but can’t wait to get one of my own. The subte has more than doubled in price, but London’s lowest fare is still over ten times more expensive. However, the subte stops running ludicrously early, around 22H, which seems pretty incongruous for a city famed for its all-night partying. It could be the government’s intention to safeguard the trade of BA’s immense corps of taxi-drivers. I favour colectivos myself, but I’m told taxis are still very affordable.
Tango apart, Buenos Aires is getting expensive. Bread, less delicious than blotting paper, costs over a pound, so we bake our own, which is rather good. Fruit and veg can often cost considerably more here than back home. My verduleria (green grocer’s) charges the equivalent of a pound for four bananas, but I won’t be growing my own. Prepared salads and oranges for juicing are good value and are my fave staple foods. When I first came to Buenos Aires, I used to wake up dreaming about the totally affordable filet mignon I was going to have for breakfast. Been there, done that. Now I’m a muesli muncher and nuts and dried fruit are pretty expensive.
Public transport is still very cheap, and at long last, there is no longer any need to have monedas to pay your bus fare. There is now a pre-pay e-card, like an Oystercard, if you can lay your hands on one. I’m using someone else’s at present, but can’t wait to get one of my own. The subte has more than doubled in price, but London’s lowest fare is still over ten times more expensive. However, the subte stops running ludicrously early, around 22H, which seems pretty incongruous for a city famed for its all-night partying. It could be the government’s intention to safeguard the trade of BA’s immense corps of taxi-drivers. I favour colectivos myself, but I’m told taxis are still very affordable.
Sunday 18 March 2012
San Telmo with Bel
San Telmo is where I began my second trip to Argentina and I associate it with the excitement of returning to a newfound love. I am ofcourse referring to Buenos Aires. San Telmo was heaving with life at four in the afternoon, as it always is on a Sunday. I took the subte to Independencia then walked through Defensa to Plaza Dorrego, dodging tourists, families on their Sunday outing with toddlers and tiddlers, tango dancers, musicians, artists, artisans selling toys, togs, jewellery, junk, pictures, pies, mate cups, musical instruments and other miscellany, all competing for space on the pavement. Belén had already texted me to say she was waiting for me in the square, so I resisted the longing to loiter and lurk and lech at all the goodies and made an honest attempt at rushing.
I had met Belén on my previous visit, at Soledad’s class in La Boca. We became friends and she would come over to the flat in Almagro and we would have practicas here fairly regularly on a Saturday night. She spoke no English, so I had no choice but to speak Spanish, which was good for me. Bel could not often go out to milongas because her daughter was little, but she could bring her here and the kid was content to draw and play on my laptop while we danced. She was teaching ballet at the time, and although relatively new to tango, was already a gifted dancer who could dance both rôles with confidence. That was over a year ago. We stayed in touch for about six months, but then slipped out of the habit. I had recently received a round robbin from her announcing that she was now teaching tango in Villa Crespo (very close to Almagro) and that the opening night was last Friday. I did not write to tell her that I was coming to Buenos Aires. I just showed up at her gig.
When I finally found Bel in the square, she was watching El Indio and Viginia Uva dancing in the dappled sunlight under a huge tree in the open air milonga space at the far end of the square. I attempted to take photographs to capture the rapture. Ptchah! I couldn’t. It’s all about being there.
Then, we ambled about in the side streets to escape the hustle and bustle. We fancied downing some Quilmes and a steak sandwich and catching up on each other in peace. The first place we tried was a restaurant with a picturesque courtyard, but they didn’t have anything we ordered and the toilets were unspeakable for a place charging five quid for the itsiest bitsiest bottle of beer. San Telmo is not for the frugal. The place we did eventually stop at was reasonably priced, but the meat had to have been imported. Argentinian meat is really good. Our disappointment was solely culinary. We talked for hours, set the world to rights and then wandered back to the square and danced a few tandas, she in her plimsolls and me in my meaty Tevas. Simply divine.
We parted company before the subte closed and as the train trundled homeward, I felt for the children, some ten years old, maybe younger, who were striding up and down the carriages hawking sticker books and rollerball pens at this late hour. Would they be doing it if it was not worth their while? Could they possibly be working on their own initiative? And then, I felt for the buskers, so wonderfully talented, earning a peso here and there. But at least here in Buenos Aires, they are appreciated. They receive applause, if little else.
I had met Belén on my previous visit, at Soledad’s class in La Boca. We became friends and she would come over to the flat in Almagro and we would have practicas here fairly regularly on a Saturday night. She spoke no English, so I had no choice but to speak Spanish, which was good for me. Bel could not often go out to milongas because her daughter was little, but she could bring her here and the kid was content to draw and play on my laptop while we danced. She was teaching ballet at the time, and although relatively new to tango, was already a gifted dancer who could dance both rôles with confidence. That was over a year ago. We stayed in touch for about six months, but then slipped out of the habit. I had recently received a round robbin from her announcing that she was now teaching tango in Villa Crespo (very close to Almagro) and that the opening night was last Friday. I did not write to tell her that I was coming to Buenos Aires. I just showed up at her gig.
When I finally found Bel in the square, she was watching El Indio and Viginia Uva dancing in the dappled sunlight under a huge tree in the open air milonga space at the far end of the square. I attempted to take photographs to capture the rapture. Ptchah! I couldn’t. It’s all about being there.
Then, we ambled about in the side streets to escape the hustle and bustle. We fancied downing some Quilmes and a steak sandwich and catching up on each other in peace. The first place we tried was a restaurant with a picturesque courtyard, but they didn’t have anything we ordered and the toilets were unspeakable for a place charging five quid for the itsiest bitsiest bottle of beer. San Telmo is not for the frugal. The place we did eventually stop at was reasonably priced, but the meat had to have been imported. Argentinian meat is really good. Our disappointment was solely culinary. We talked for hours, set the world to rights and then wandered back to the square and danced a few tandas, she in her plimsolls and me in my meaty Tevas. Simply divine.
We parted company before the subte closed and as the train trundled homeward, I felt for the children, some ten years old, maybe younger, who were striding up and down the carriages hawking sticker books and rollerball pens at this late hour. Would they be doing it if it was not worth their while? Could they possibly be working on their own initiative? And then, I felt for the buskers, so wonderfully talented, earning a peso here and there. But at least here in Buenos Aires, they are appreciated. They receive applause, if little else.
Thursday 15 March 2012
Tigre with Liliana
Last Sunday, I was taken to lunch by Liliana, my first friend in Argentina, at her country club in the city of Tigre. Having spent almost a year and half in Argentina and travelled around a bit, I am appalled at myself that I never made it to Tigre, only thirty kilometres from the centre of Buenos Aires, before this. It is one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. It is situated over the first group of islands at the mouth of the Parana River Delta. It is a study in green. Tigre seemed to me to be mainly populated by trees, surrounding picturesque houses, many of which were built during the Belle Epoque, when the porteño aristocrats, writers and politicians made it a favourite summer retreat. Tigre was home to the first casino in Argentina and there are hotels, restaurants and nautical clubs galore on the banks of rivers and streams.
We had to take a launch to get to Liliana’s country club, a magnificent nineteenth century edifice of stone and timber, situated on the banks of the Lujan,a tributary of the Parana River, amid palm trees, boat houses, canals for rowing, tennis and volleyball courts, picnic grounds, parillas, a swimming pool and countless other delights. I was given a grand tour of the splendours of the building by Liliana’s friend and was left with an impression of rooms, vast and cool and dim, with chandeliers and trophies glinting in the dancing lights reflected by the river below.
I’d like to explore Tigre further, soon.
We had to take a launch to get to Liliana’s country club, a magnificent nineteenth century edifice of stone and timber, situated on the banks of the Lujan,a tributary of the Parana River, amid palm trees, boat houses, canals for rowing, tennis and volleyball courts, picnic grounds, parillas, a swimming pool and countless other delights. I was given a grand tour of the splendours of the building by Liliana’s friend and was left with an impression of rooms, vast and cool and dim, with chandeliers and trophies glinting in the dancing lights reflected by the river below.
I’d like to explore Tigre further, soon.
Monday 12 March 2012
Goodbye purgatory, hello heaven
There is an almighty electric storm going on outside. I can feel the thunder rattle my eardrums and reverberate inside my ribcage. I’ve heard it is not safe for computers to be switched on during a storm, but I think this antique IBM thinkpad would withstand nuclear warfare. Before I go to sleep, I just wanted to say that the hairy days are done with and the way ahead looks smooth. I’ve started to enjoy myself.
Its’ beautiful to be back at DNI studio, with its exciting energy, its adorable teachers, their innovative tango and their minute attention to technique! They give you a private tutorial within the group lesson. They care. I love the atmosphere of the place. The café in the patio is now up and running and the creepers are creeping up the walls and making it almost as pretty as their Corrientes café used to be.
I've also joined a new dance school around the corner from our place that Paula put me on to. It is run by Azucar, one of the biggest clubs in Buenos Aires. I am about to do all this: salsa, bachata, reggaeton, azumba, kizomba, zouk, casino, coreos, rock, caribeño, belly and of course, tango. Is Lewis Carroll running through your head? “Father William,” in particular? You’re right! He and I are one. I’ve already started and I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t my body that dances, in any case, its my soul. It isn’t tango I’m addicted to, it’s physical expression. On my first day, bad back and all, I danced for six and half hours, with one break after the first two hours. It feels so good, I can’t believe it’s legal. I am very impressed by the quality of the teaching and the efficient way the classes are managed at this school. The group dynamics within a dance school are always fascinating. I feel as if I’m watching a soap opera, but one that I’m in.
The best news, though, is that La Maria Practica has moved from El Juvenil in Angel Gallardo to right next door, at La Catedral. I went there this afternoon and had a master class with Cecilia Garcia, one of the best. The lesson was rich and deep. No choreography, no pasos, just how to relate to the air within and the air without the body. One and a half hours of probing deeply into one’s sensitivity to air and space. What a difference it made to the quality of mutual movement! Exquisite.
When my middle daughter was two and she saw the Christmas tree in the living room for the first time, she was so overcome, she said, “Take it home, Daddy.” That’s exactly how I feel about the dance scene in Buenos Aires.
Its’ beautiful to be back at DNI studio, with its exciting energy, its adorable teachers, their innovative tango and their minute attention to technique! They give you a private tutorial within the group lesson. They care. I love the atmosphere of the place. The café in the patio is now up and running and the creepers are creeping up the walls and making it almost as pretty as their Corrientes café used to be.
I've also joined a new dance school around the corner from our place that Paula put me on to. It is run by Azucar, one of the biggest clubs in Buenos Aires. I am about to do all this: salsa, bachata, reggaeton, azumba, kizomba, zouk, casino, coreos, rock, caribeño, belly and of course, tango. Is Lewis Carroll running through your head? “Father William,” in particular? You’re right! He and I are one. I’ve already started and I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t my body that dances, in any case, its my soul. It isn’t tango I’m addicted to, it’s physical expression. On my first day, bad back and all, I danced for six and half hours, with one break after the first two hours. It feels so good, I can’t believe it’s legal. I am very impressed by the quality of the teaching and the efficient way the classes are managed at this school. The group dynamics within a dance school are always fascinating. I feel as if I’m watching a soap opera, but one that I’m in.
The best news, though, is that La Maria Practica has moved from El Juvenil in Angel Gallardo to right next door, at La Catedral. I went there this afternoon and had a master class with Cecilia Garcia, one of the best. The lesson was rich and deep. No choreography, no pasos, just how to relate to the air within and the air without the body. One and a half hours of probing deeply into one’s sensitivity to air and space. What a difference it made to the quality of mutual movement! Exquisite.
When my middle daughter was two and she saw the Christmas tree in the living room for the first time, she was so overcome, she said, “Take it home, Daddy.” That’s exactly how I feel about the dance scene in Buenos Aires.
Getting to grips with how it is and how it isn't
It is shortly after midnight on the sixth night of my fourth escapade in Buenos Aires. I decided to have an early night to enjoy the rain in my little wooden bed. I shouldn’t have had that cuppa, though. The caffeine wouldn’t let me sleep. The last few days kept on rolling around in my head, so I decided to get up and get ‘em out into this blog.
A dry cough and a bad back make a singularly cruel combination, but not cruel enough to dampen my spirits on getting here. Passengers arriving in Buenos Aires have the delightful habit of applauding on landing. It happened on Alitalia. It happened on TAM. Can’t say I’ve ever come across applause on Easyjet, Ryanair or even British Airways. I like it. Arriving is definitely worth celebrating. I guess I should have clapped when the suitcases showed up as well, but I didn’t want to be sectioned. What, I wonder, is the opposite of clapping? It’s what I would have done when they brought me the hospital dinner on the Alitalia flight. I thought Italians were all about food. It’s also what I wanted to do when I discovered the remises had gone up from 135 pesos, last visit, to 180. That is naughty.
Coming home to Paula was like coming home to a receiving angel. Always warm and friendly and prettier than ever, she had the fridge stocked up and made me a delicious, healthy lunch. I am so lucky to have her. It’s the sweetness of the people, above all else, that magnetises me to this city.
But... Buenos Aires comes at a price. One forgets. It's rather like remembering the ecstasy of holding your newborn, but forgetting all about labour. Yesterday, I went to Personal to get my phone chip activated and queued for an hour. When it was my turn they said, really sorry, but the system is down. We cannot do anything to help anyone, today. They kept on doing this to everyone in the eight or so queues, who were waiting to state the reason for their visit and to be give a numerito to get seen to. Couldn't they just have made an announcement? The next day was a Groundhog day.
Then I queued for half an hour to withdraw money and when it was my turn, a security guard came out and said no more transactions. The machine is being serviced. So I went to another machine. Tried several times to withdraw money from ATMs at different banks and again and again, the computer said no. I later found out that it was because there is a shortage of notes and at times the ATMs just can’t cope with the demand. I now know that on a good day, you can withdraw a thousand pesos at a time. This is worth knowing because just a year ago, it was only possible to withdraw three hundred pesos at a time and with the commisions and bank charges from both ends, that was scary.
Exhausted and deflated, I went to change my travellers’ cheques, queued for forty-five minutes (such a lot of red tape) and was told I was in the wrong queue. Even though it said Foreign Exchange on the counter at which I was queueing. Coughing and aching, but needing to get hold of some money, I went into the 'right' queue and waited half an hour to be served and a further ten minutes for them to process the cheques. Then I came home and collapsed on my little wooden bed and discovered that one of the US$ 100 bills I had received was fake. The next day, I returned to the Bureau de Change and to my amazement, they took back the fake note without a fuss and exchanged it for a pukka note. They are, as I said, a very pleasant people.
A dry cough and a bad back make a singularly cruel combination, but not cruel enough to dampen my spirits on getting here. Passengers arriving in Buenos Aires have the delightful habit of applauding on landing. It happened on Alitalia. It happened on TAM. Can’t say I’ve ever come across applause on Easyjet, Ryanair or even British Airways. I like it. Arriving is definitely worth celebrating. I guess I should have clapped when the suitcases showed up as well, but I didn’t want to be sectioned. What, I wonder, is the opposite of clapping? It’s what I would have done when they brought me the hospital dinner on the Alitalia flight. I thought Italians were all about food. It’s also what I wanted to do when I discovered the remises had gone up from 135 pesos, last visit, to 180. That is naughty.
Coming home to Paula was like coming home to a receiving angel. Always warm and friendly and prettier than ever, she had the fridge stocked up and made me a delicious, healthy lunch. I am so lucky to have her. It’s the sweetness of the people, above all else, that magnetises me to this city.
But... Buenos Aires comes at a price. One forgets. It's rather like remembering the ecstasy of holding your newborn, but forgetting all about labour. Yesterday, I went to Personal to get my phone chip activated and queued for an hour. When it was my turn they said, really sorry, but the system is down. We cannot do anything to help anyone, today. They kept on doing this to everyone in the eight or so queues, who were waiting to state the reason for their visit and to be give a numerito to get seen to. Couldn't they just have made an announcement? The next day was a Groundhog day.
Then I queued for half an hour to withdraw money and when it was my turn, a security guard came out and said no more transactions. The machine is being serviced. So I went to another machine. Tried several times to withdraw money from ATMs at different banks and again and again, the computer said no. I later found out that it was because there is a shortage of notes and at times the ATMs just can’t cope with the demand. I now know that on a good day, you can withdraw a thousand pesos at a time. This is worth knowing because just a year ago, it was only possible to withdraw three hundred pesos at a time and with the commisions and bank charges from both ends, that was scary.
Exhausted and deflated, I went to change my travellers’ cheques, queued for forty-five minutes (such a lot of red tape) and was told I was in the wrong queue. Even though it said Foreign Exchange on the counter at which I was queueing. Coughing and aching, but needing to get hold of some money, I went into the 'right' queue and waited half an hour to be served and a further ten minutes for them to process the cheques. Then I came home and collapsed on my little wooden bed and discovered that one of the US$ 100 bills I had received was fake. The next day, I returned to the Bureau de Change and to my amazement, they took back the fake note without a fuss and exchanged it for a pukka note. They are, as I said, a very pleasant people.
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