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.