Una inquietante mirada

Greetings and salutations

2010-10-16T23:22:00.000-07:00

I’m back. I arrived exactly one month ago, yet I haven’t blogged at all. There are two reasons for this: one physical, one psychological.

I couldn’t access the blog’s dashboard because I had forgotten my username. Not only that, I was unable to have it mailed to the second named email address because I couldn’t remember that either. It turned out to be one I had forgotten existed, ha! ha! Never mind. What I lack in brainpower, I make up for with resourcefulness, patience and perseverance. I used up valuable tango time trying ever more intricate methods to recover said data until I succeeded. That was the physical side dealt with.

The psychological reason was trickier. For a start, I have been completely riveted by the unfolding story of the Chilean miners all month. I could not bring my mind to bear on tango trivia with this urgent call on my attention. Besides, it’s easy to hold forth when you are having a good time. My last two visits to Buenos Aires had been unabashedly blissful. I could hardly stop myself. Now, here was I in Paradise, all malaise and misgivings, within a couple of days of arrival, after an unsatisfactory work-related encounter with a woman who had been a good friend, last year. I didn’t feel like writing until I had cleared my head for fear that my perceptions would be tinged with the wrong kind of light. So I stalled and stalled.

Now I think it’s time to move on. I have much to be glad of. I am staying at Paula’s once again. A home with buena onda makes all the difference. Almagro is a central barrio with transport links to everywhere and our street is home to the flower market. How lovely to be greeted daily by Buenos Aires with fresh flowers! The flat has wooden floors and exposed brickwork, a vast salon containing amongst other things, a piano and a (what’s the opposite of fun-sized?) flatscreen television, unusually high ceilings, gigantic windows, plants, clever lighting and, my favourite, a disco ball. No fussy ornaments here as in many other places I’ve visited, just the accoutrements of her work and interests: scripts, storyboards, camcorders, guitars, sheet music and books, mostly Spanish, though there are some in English including, I was well pleased to discover, Sylvia Plath and Doris Lessing.

One of the things I love about being back in Argentina is the way people greet each other. A person will enter a room and greet or introduce themselves to each and every person with a kiss, be it friend, acquaintance or total stranger. There is no need for an icebreaker or conversations about the weather. One is immediately related. That is beautiful, and even more so, when one is far from home. The tango teachers, all of them, greeted me with embraces of warmth and pleasure after nearly a year. In London, I didn’t score so much as a smile, never mind a “Welcome back”, much less a kiss, from my regular teachers, when I’d been away for a year. One of them greeted me with, “Twelve pounds, please.” I like this Maya Angelou quote: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

By extension, the abrazo of tango is a physical greeting. That first instant when you step into each other’s arms, can make a woman feel beautiful, appreciated, cherished and in Buenos Aires, as if she is his dream come true. And this causes her to dance as if she is. She can even safely fall in love for the duration of the tanda, without any of the fear of a messy divorce. Or it can make her feel, as it often does in London, like a wheelbarrow, a shopping trolley or if she’s lucky, an articulated lorry. It may not be as much fun, but it is character-building.

Warm and passionate though it is, nothing is perfect, not even the Argentinian psyche. I have discovered that the primitive practice of stonewalling is to be expected here among men who have failed to pull. It is a most frustrating thing when men one would love to dance with again and again, take it to mean that you want them and then punish you when you don’t. I guess the tango culture includes types of personality that men and women are expected to project. If smiles and laughter mean ‘yes’, banter needs to be rationed and the safest expression to wear is a blank.

Mi Mar del Plata

2009-07-04T17:18:00.000-07:00

I went to the inauguration of a new milonga, Mi Mar del Plata, at el Juveníl, on Corrientes 4534. This is where La Maria Practica para Mujeres takes place, only the práctica is upstairs and the milonga is in a larger hall, on the ground floor, with stairs leading to an ample gallery on the mezzanine, where it is possible to sit at tables, watch the dancers on the floor below or even dance, although the space in the gallery is long and thin. Downstairs, alongside the main dance floor, there is a bar and just a handful of tables. The floor was not as smooth as the dancers, but all the beautiful people were there and I think it got off to a great start.

The Night of the Living Dead

2009-07-04T16:49:00.000-07:00

No práctica for me today. DNI has closed its doors for the moment, on account of the swine flu. I see on facebook that some other classes and prácticas next week are also being cancelled. Buenos Aires will be soon be filled with tango dancers walking the streets with their arms outstretched, like the zombies in The Night of the Living Dead, in search of an abrazo.

The streets and subtes are filled with people wearing face-masks. There have been 55 deaths and I offer my condolences to those bereaved. There have also been 2,409 confirmed cases of infection with the H1N1 virus, known over here as la gripe A. Paranoia is rife and is every bit as infectious as the flu. You can’t get to a handbasin for the queues of guilty people wanting to wash their hands. The soap industry must be booming. And there are so many people scrubbing their hands with alcohol wipes that all the pharmacies have sold out. You can’t imagine how embarrassing it is to find yourself sneezing at a milonga. I think I might stay in tonight. Curl up on the sofa in front of our giant screen with a nice DVD. Not as much fun as dancing, but at least I'll have clean hands, eh?

This pandemic is a big deal. Schools across the country have been closed and in Buenos Aires, universities, as well. Pregnant women have been told they can take two weeks off work to avoid contracting the virus. I read that some fast food places have been closed down for not respecting the recommended distance between tables, whilst down the road others have been permitted to remain open for business. You could be forgiven for thinking municipalities were in competition with each other to see which one could close down the greatest number of establishments. However, today, the minister of health announced that protocols for coping with the emergency would be unified. I imagine these cover closures, social distancing and the distribution of anti-viral drugs. I am anxious about whether and how all this might affect air travel, however. I’m supposed to be flying back in six weeks and I don’t want to have to lose my ticket in the event of being caught blowing my nose at the airport.

Milonga with Mattress Included

2009-06-29T00:10:00.000-07:00

As we skyped this morning, one of my daughters remarked that I hadn’t written a sausage in over twenty days. Twenty days? Well, I was in bed for one week. No, it wasn’t swine ‘flu. I gave up smoking and my body went into shock. I did consider writing about my fever and nausea-altered consciousness. Or about staring at the wall outside my window and seeing how many faces I could see in its cracks and shadows. Or about sniffing my farts like flowers, like Jean Genet in his prison cell. But I didn’t have the energy and as soon as I did, I got straight up, Lazarus-like, and danced for seven hours.

As for the other two weeks, my life has been more or less the same everyday and I never tire of it: up around mid-day, an afternoon class at DNI, an evening class, práctica or milonga and sometimes all three. I no longer feel out of my depth in the Level 7 class and my teachers tell me my tango has come along ‘un montón’. I don’t just follow, I dance and I feel the difference in my balance, sensitivity and suppleness. But you’re only as good as your last gig and when I go back home and dance a whole lot less and with dancers of a somewhat different caliber, I imagine I’ll come back down a notch or two. Boohoo!

My faithful friend, Mabel, (pronounced as in Michelle ma belle) who is a dead-ringer for Kate Winslet, or rather a cross between Winslet and Greta Scacchi, asked me to join her at a new milonga last night, in the barrio of Balvanera. It was situated in a great big hangar-like structure on Adolfo Alsina 2764, with pink and lemon lighting, tiered seating on the entrance side and an enormous Romanesque mattress along one side for reclining upon. I bet the mattress came first. They probably acquired this mattress and thought, how can we put this thing to good use and someone said, I know, let’s build a milonga around it. That is almost certainly what happened. Anyway, it was friendly and the drinks were cheap (yes, they sold booze, even though the sale of alcohol was prohibited, it being the night before the elections.) The milonga finished at 03:00 and Mabel and friends insisted I accompany them to La Viruta, even though I was there till 07:00 this same morning. After a few feeble protests, I gave in and off we went, the five of us, all squashed into one taxi, thanks to an accommodating and fun-loving cabbie.

I had to have café con leche on arrival to kid my body into believing I still had bags of energy to burn. But not only had I danced till 07:00 in the morning, I had also been in Tango 7 at DNI at 14:00, followed by three hours of práctica and then a tango electronico class. That’s seven hours of tango on five hours' sleep, before even setting foot in the first milonga. Crazy, crazy, crazy… but isn’t life exquisite, with a capital X.

And now, it’s the night after and I’m sitting in my Sunday night favourite, the Torquato Tasso, scribbling about it all. Someone’s taco crashed into the top of my left foot and even though I murmured my trusty mantra, “Toes of steel, toes of steel!” which always seems to work, it carried on hurting , so I decided to sit out a couple of tandas and whip out my note pad, instead. But here comes another porteño stunner… I’m off. Goodnight!

Saturday Milonga in La Boca Cancelled

2009-06-18T13:09:00.000-07:00

Please note, the Saturday Milonga in La Boca, hosted by Soledad and El Gordo, has been cancelled till further notice.

El Indio at La Catedral

2009-06-08T21:10:00.000-07:00

A bit dozey this evening, having had just four hours’ sleep last night, I glanced at my watch, misread the time and showed up an hour late for Tango 4 at DNI. At a loss as to what to do with myself, I headed back home and just as I was about to open the front door, thought, I wonder if there’s anything on at La Catedrál, across the road. I went over to check and sure enough, the poster on the door advertised a class that was just about to start with none other than El Indio.

I first heard mention of him in Danny Israel’s book. Since coming to Buenos Aires I have had him pointed out to me several times, most recently at Prácticalab, which he founded. As I paid my entrance, a tall, dark character with striking ‘indio’ features and a long black mane entered the building. Ladies and gentlemen, I thought, He has arrived. He is here. And by some gorgeous accident, so am I.

It was an exciting class. He draws quite a crowd. He teaches purposefully, from the essence. He knows how to communicate the elements, whilst maintaining the pace of the lesson. Musicality, technique and floorcraft were integrated into the preparatory exercises. He was demanding and the lesson was challenging, but the choreography was thrilling and included a move I haven’t seen before, a Montesino gancho. Tango flowed from him into us. I will most definitely be going back for more.

Three birthdays and an opening night

2009-06-07T21:56:00.000-07:00

Quite a few parties this week. Three of them were birthdays and two of those were mine. Oh my head. Where is my alka seltzer? My tongue is asleep and my teeth itch. (Okay, that was Shelley Burman.)

On 2nd June, Tango Queer celebrated its fourth birthday with a special milonga (band, balloons and birthday cake.) On 4th June, I held a milonga at home (yes, I did!) to celebrate my birthday. I turned 39, as usual. On 5th June, my class in la Boca held a surprise birthday party for me and on 6th June, Soledad and El Gordo inaugurated their new milonga in La Boca in the same cool venue on Benito Perez Galdos, where the French girls had their farewell party. Getting to bed at 08:00 is becoming commonplace. As is helping to wash up after a milonga. I’m beginning to consider myself at home in Tangoland, consider myself a part of the furniture.

I am malingering at home, between class and going out, waiting for my phone to charge, when I should be out milongaring. I’m snatching a moment with my Thinkpad, to tell you all about my life in Buenos Aires. It is full on, so I’m finding it harder and harder to spare a minute to talk about it. I have never been so deliriously happy, month after month, but I’m suffering from feelings of anxiety about having only got a couple left to go…

At Tango Queer’s birthday party, a woman came and sat at my table. She was small woman with a sweet face, quiet and unassuming. She looked to be in her sixties and I imagined she was someone’s mum, who had come down to TQ to watch. It turned out she was an accomplished dancer from Florida, who could lead with as much panache as she could follow, was seventy-eight years old and that her partner had given Mariana, the founder, a stipend to get this project started. Just goes to show, the boughs that bear the most fruit hang low.

TQ is worthy of celebration. I love the freedom of switching roles mid-dance, watching men dance with men and women dance with women and women lead men as well as the usual. I like being on first name terms with the bar staff. Peru 571 feels to me like an extension of my living room. It was a good night. There was live music from a band called Cruel China and a brilliant solo tango performance from Mario, who dances with a stick as a prop. The place was packed and a good night was had by all.

I decided to have a milonga at home, the day before my birthday. I sent out a whole load of emails and texts, but because it was a weekday and a bit last minute, some of my women friends who have children, were unable to attend. Also, it coincided with the leaving party of one of my other friends. Nevertheless, I was delighted to see all the people who did come, including a few of my tango teachers. This is a lovely space for socializing and we danced till about 03:00 and I’m proud to say the police were called because it was a weekday and one of the neighbours considered us a nuisance. We turned down the music and carried on a while, but then decided to move on. We went to Theodoro’s, an atmospheric tango bar round the corner, which apparently never closes, where you can bring your own booze, forget the corkscrew, and someone with a strong index finger will do the honours for you, where musicians show up randomly with their instruments and keys, crow bars and battering rams for opening the doors of perception and you are treated to spontaneous performances all night long. Red-eyed, coked up revellers who don’t or can’t dance seem to know all the tango lyrics and join in whenever someone starts up. I was completely enchanted. It was broad daylight and there was traffic in Sarmiento, when I emerged, ready for bed.

When I woke up, it was time for my evening class in La Boca. This is a class in a Centro Cultural, a community centre, attended by a cat and the people of this run down barrio. We always have a beer and crisps at the end of the lesson, which frequently goes on till after 01:00 in the morning, but this day, they came with picadas and wine and a home-made birthday cake (full of dulce de leche, my favourite) and every single member of the class, including the teenagers, brought me a present. I was overwhelmed by their warmth and goodness and I will never forget it. We danced everything, including some tango and some of us got very drunk. That was a proper birthday, that was.

Apart from La Viruta, which you either love or hate (I love) and the Milonga de las Morochas, I’m not terribly keen on anything that’s on offer on a Saturday night, so I am very glad that Soledad and El Gordo, two of the most fun-loving people I know, have collaborated to open a new milonga in La Boca. The opening night got off to a slow start, but by 01:00, the place was buzzing and we didn’t start washing up till after 07:00. Sole and El Gordo greet every one that enters as if they are the most important person in the world and they dance with everyone, talk with everyone and make efforts to ensure that everyone has everything they need. The venue is cool. I particularly like the leafy shadows whooshing against the tall windows, the moody lighting, the high ceilings, the kidney-shape of the main room, the gigantic parilla (barbecue) and the fact that there is a quiet room where you can disappear off to for a snog, a chat or a foot massage. In summer, you can even sit in the garden. The next one is the week after next and as of 20th June, it will run every Saturday and offer dinner as well as dancing. Entrance is free. What more can I say?

The extraordinarily poetic tango lessons of Debi Altieri

2009-06-07T19:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve just returned from yet another exquisite experience at La Catedral, (half a block away from my flat), where Debi Altieri is currently giving her extraordinarily poetic tango lessons on a Sunday evening. The quality and subject matter of the tuition is priceless and yet, the group is small. Tiny. I just can’t figure out how it is that some of the most beautiful experiences to be had on earth, experiences that cost little or nothing, manage to escape the attention of the masses. I often wonder why this is, as I float on my back, feeling like a millionaire, under a mackerel sky in the deliciously icy water of the Lido, a seventy-five metre swimming pool next to my place in London, which I frequently have all to myself in winter.

Debi’s classes leave you deeply in love. In love with your dance partner, in love with tango, in love with the moment, in love with life. In this class, all the dancers hold each other tenderly for a long moment after the music has ended. Debi’s lessons are themed and structured to make it so. She has exercises that draw the genie out of the bottle.

Her last lesson was about the pauses and silences of tango. Before the class, I had depended upon the man to create these spaces, but since Debi’s lessons, I have learned that I can create them, too. It is the pauses and silences that give tango it’s poetry, it’s intensity, it’s tints of emotion. It is in the silences that we share another’s heartbeat, another’s breath. When we pause, we can luxuriate in the tenderness of the embrace, the proximity of another’s body, the bloom of another’s face. A tango, which is nothing more than steps and fancy figures is a lie.

Tonight’s lesson was about talking with your body. That is not what she called it, but I believe it is the essence of what she was trying to convey to us. The lesson was not about dance steps or ‘technique’. It was about giving and receiving, the communication of feelings via micro-movements of the head, arms, shoulders and the many different parts of the torso. The class started with contact exercises, the results of which were then carried forward into the dance exercises with utterly beautiful results.

The Catedral is the perfect venue for her classes, with its dark, cavernous hall, the warm wooden floor which she frequently gets us to lie on, the sculptures and artefacts hung all about , its central circle of coloured lights creating a hallowed space for our special dance experience and a colossal, illuminated human heart hanging on the wall. Sadly after next week, she expects to move the class to another venue, but no doubt she’ll somehow manage to transform it into a cathedral of the heart.

Thank you Flor, for telling me about Debi’s classes.

Goodbye San Telmo, Hello Almagro

2009-05-28T21:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Practica Tangolab

2009-05-22T13:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Iguazú of the bleeding heart

2009-05-20T12:19:00.000-07:00

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 quaint 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. He wanted to have her without anything coming between them. This made her anxious, unable to relax. 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 ceased to function to the point he thought her frigid. She knew otherwise. She texted her ex-boyfriend in London for a testimonial and got one. He made out he was horrified. Still, it seemed to do the trick.

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. An unleashing of desire. Ecstasy. And in the early morning chill, the blissful comfort of a lover’s body heat.

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 swarm of birds, 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.

The Milonga of the Firemen of La Boca

2009-05-09T22:34:00.000-07:00

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.

La Milonga De Los Jueves a "La Independencia"

2009-05-08T13:34:00.000-07:00

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!

In the streets

2009-05-02T20:34:00.000-07:00

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...

Wishin'

2009-04-26T18:27:00.000-07:00

“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

2009-04-17T10:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-06T23:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-02T00:52:00.000-07:00

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?

The pores of Buenos Aires

2009-03-30T23:03:00.000-07:00

I love living here. 9 de julio is the widest road in the world, but there are islands of trees between the streams of traffic that soften the urban landscape. Here and there, you spot a mattress or perhaps even a chair belonging to someone for whom one of these green strips between the grey stripes is home. I wonder how they feel about living here. As I walk back from a Buddhist meeting, I feel the first hint of an autumn chill on the evening breeze and hope the mattress owners have a mean Plan B for when it rains.

I stop for a moment to take in the last purple flourishes of the jacaranda on 9 de julio and the pink blossom, which has survived through heat and thunderstorms on the green corner, where the Independencia subte has its entrance. The teenage couple I saw kissing under the trees on my way to the meeting are still exactly where they were. Small boys and a dad are playing football with a plastic Coke bottle in the playground by the subte entrance, against a backdrop of Palo Boracho, my favourite pot-bellied trees. There are numerous green islands in this city, many with spectacular trees. If the great parks are the lungs of the beast we know as London, these funsize parks must be the pores of the Buenos Aires.

Yesterday, Gesa and I went to the Glorieta to dance the evening away in one of these parklets. It was a punitively humid evening and the porteño mosquitoes just love their meat, especially mine, but still, we came away satisfied with the quantity and quality of the dancing. It is handy living with a tango dancer. We had a practica this evening at home.

I danced every night, this week – in addition to the daytime classes and places I’ve already mentioned, I went to Maipu 444 on Thursday to the Mano a Mano milonga and met up with Swedish Jens I met at the Maldita milonga on Wednesday and saw my first ever performance of malambo, which is a thrilling Argentinian gaucho dance, which requires extraordinary flexibility, strength, stamina and dexterity and recreates the sounds of horses riding. I also went to a milonga at Peru 571 with Jeff on Saturday, where I saw José Halfón and Virginia Cutillo perform. I am in awe of the way her legs float and fly, like ribbons wielded by oriental acrobats.

Tango Queer, Centro Popular de la Boca Norberto y Arrigo Todesda and La Milonga del Gordo

2009-03-28T15:32:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night, I went to Tango Queer for the second time. The first time, there didn’t appear to be any beginners at the start of the class and I felt somewhat intimidated by the fact that most of the women appeard to be confident leaders. This time, there was a beginners’ class, but I feared it might be too beginnerish for me, so I put myself in the other one. The teacher, believing she was acting in my best interests, partnered me with an English speaker, who was an adequate dancer and whose leading level was higher than mine, but who retracted her drawbridge, now she was safely over on the other side. After the first tango, she whispered in the assistant’s ear and I was carted off to a different dancer, an Argentinian woman who, thankfully, didn’t speak English and who was a much more stylish dancer. Whilst I can understand preferring to dance with people your own level at a milonga, I hope that I shall never forget what it’s like to be a beginner, in a tango class.

It was a useful lesson and I wish I had made notes, so I could practise what we learned in the days that followed, but I didn’t and it’s all gone. I stayed on for the milonga and later, my lovely flatmate Gesa turned up. She is divine to dance with and I shall forever be indebted to her for dancing with me again and again, during the milonga, and introducing me to Soledad, who is now my guru. I have discovered that dancing with women who can lead well feels every bit as wonderful as dancing with a good male lead, but there is an indescribable difference at a visceral level and I love them both in different ways.

Soledad teaches the beginners’ class at Tango Queer and also runs a Friday night class at the Centro Popular de la Boca Norberto y Arrigo Todesca, a cultural centre that was started by the Todesca brothers in the 1930’s, providing free or a la gorra workshops in a variety of arts to the people of La Boca, which it continues to do, to this day. She is a remarkably charismatic woman with an unconventional, yet unmistakeable beauty. She studied at the University of Tango and passionately enjoys teaching it. She encourages role switching in her classes, which suits me down to the ground. When I went, I had the opportunity to dance with complete beginners as well as some of her more experienced students and I learned a huge amount in a short space of time. These days, the learning curve is so steep, I feel like attending fewer lessons and spending more time at home, practising in front of the mirror with my notes.

After the lesson, we sat around at the centre, drinking beer and munching crisps and in my case, also drinking in my surroundings and stroking Felipe (Philip, the cat.) We were just around the corner from La Boca’s football grounds and we could hear them drumming in the distance. The centre is in a century old run-down building on Pinzón, on a stretch of the street with broken street lights, which made it really hard to find. I have heard it said that La Boca is best avoided at night, but on this occasion, I found the boys in the street charming and willing to go out of their way to help me find the place. Soledad’s students were all Argentinians, mostly young people from the barrio, and I felt privileged to be the only exception.

The big, old rooms where the lesson was held were irregular in shape and had high ceilings, hung with overhead fans and jute lampshades that looked as if they grew there. The furniture and fixtures were an eccentric mishmash of styles: bourgeois antique furniture (upholstered chairs and a vast, ornate dresser,) cheap formica topped tables and plastic chairs, prints of Picasso’s Guerníca and a hunting scene, a small exhibition in glass cases about the Todesca brothers and a Todesca painting or two. There was a papier maché clock that looked like an octopus and a mirror hung diagonally, possibly by accident. We cleared the floor before the class and restored it before leaving to head off for a milonga.

Although advertised in the Tangauta, I had never noticed La Milonga del Gordo, which I understand has only just relocated to a marvellous, new location on Defensa, very near Parque Lezama and just around the corner from Torcuato Tasso. It is a superb venue with two leafy, open spaces, one with tables for drinking at the outdoor bar and a softly lit, medium-sized club room where the milonga takes place, with tango art on every wall, a sunken dance floor, a stage area and tables and chairs around two sides of the room. I liked it a lot.

I danced with one of the beginners, to give him courage. It was quiet for the first hour after that, but as soon as Soledad danced with me, and she is a dream to dance with, I got to dance with the host and a number of other people. I had a great time. Rosa was there too and we had a little natter. We left around 05:30 and the others went on to have coffee at a street café, but I was ready for bed.

La Maria - práctica de mujeres

2009-03-27T12:10:00.000-07:00

When I was last in Canning, early on in the evening, a woman came around the tables with a little bag full of hair rollers. She put one on the table in front of me. I picked it up and found rolled up inside it a pink leaflet advertising a práctica just for women at Corrientes 4534 in Angel Gallardo, not far from where I used to live in Villa Crespo. I thought it sounded promising, somewhere I could develop my leading skills, whilst at the same time improving my overall technique and creativity.

I went. It surpassed my expectations. I was welcomed warmly by Karo, Majo and Cynthia, the organisers, who asked my name and even remembered it. Entry was a mere five pesos, which included a table laden with refreshments. There was a masseuse on hand, who was a student osteopath and turned out to be none other than the organiser of La Milonga de las Morochas in Riobamba, a really great Saturday night milonga at the same venue as El Beso. Incense, mate and biscochos, friendly management and good music madeLa Maria a very nurturing environment for a newbie to walk into. Even though the standard of dancing was considerably above mine, I was constantly partnered and Cynthia, Caro and Majo were on hand to give useful input. Then, the icing on the cake: in walked Analia Vega and Marcelo Varela, two of my favourite performers. They came in as guest teachers and showed us a useful little sequence for switching roles.

Towards the end of the workshop, I nourished myself with a massage, half an hour of tactile bliss on a mattress, covered in a pure white cotton sheet. (How I miss cotton sheets...) All in all, the practica was an entirely positive experience, which I intend to repeat with pious regularity.

Sunday: San Telmo and La Boca

2009-03-26T23:56:00.000-07:00

The morning after the night before: Jeff stayed over. This is Buenos Aires where lovers are two a penny, but friendship is a find. I enjoy, with childish glee, sharing a bed with a friend. Pillow talk into the early hours, swapping life stories, a spot of foot massage, endless tickly stroke, (I used to pay for this with my pocket money as a kid,) enjoying the charge, but resisting a change of gear.

Notwithstanding, I still managed to be ready for Caro by 10:00, as she was planning to look up a particular artist and also to browse the art stalls of San Telmo, on Humberto 1˚ around its junction with Defensa. Artists distil the essence of their subjects and if you want to take home a piece of the city, a painting or a photograph is as good a way as any. From the comfort of your home, you can experience Buenos Aires: Caminito, the obelisk, cafés, bandoneons, guitars, men in hats, prostitutes, beggars, romantic love, despair and of course, the tango.

We strolled through the antique market in Plaza Dorrego, pausing here and there to examine objects that caught our eye: artefacts, antiques, jewellery, crafted in metal, enamel, glass, perspex, wood, seeds. We tried on clothes in the trendy boutiques, bought some costume jewellery and sat in Parque Lezama, our ice-cream cones melting in the sunshine, before continuing on to La Boca, to pay homage to the place where tango was born.

This barrio, once the poorest in Buenos Aires, has now been given over almost entirely to tourism. We didn’t go into the conventillos to watch the artists at work – that will have to wait until the next time. We walked about to get a feel of the place, watch the performances of tango and folkloric dance in the streets put on to attract tourists to the numerous cafés and restaurants in the area. We walked down Caminito. We were being tourists and loving it.

We headed back into town on a colectivo and stopped to eat at the Bar Federal in San Telmo, one of the oldest and most famous bars in Buenos Aires, for lomo con papas fritas (filet mignon and chips.)

When I got home, there were emails from my girls wishing me a happy Mother’s Day. I hadn’t realised it was Mother’s Day, (over here, it’s celebrated in spring, which coincides with autumn in England,) but we have body clocks, so maybe we also have body calendars and maybe that is why my body knew to take me out for a most enjoyable, self indulgent day.

La Calesita

2009-03-23T22:21:00.000-07:00

Jeff and I had planned to go to the Calesita a couple of weeks ago, but the event had been rained off. This outdoor milonga only runs through the summer: I had never been there and Caro was only in Buenos Aires for a few more days, so this moonlit, balmy Saturday evening we could not resist the chance to discover its charms.

It is all the way out in Nuñes, so I had to take a break from my beloved colectivos and taxis were the order of the day. I had seen pictures of it in a tango magazine, couples dancing in the midst of coloured lights under the night sky and had imagined something like an urban backyard with a dirt floor. Imagine my surprise and delight when we stepped out of the taxi and Jeff led us by the light of the moon, through elegantly landscaped grounds with flowering plants and mature trees towards a glow in the distance.

We arrived at a clearing in the trees, where there was a gatehouse manned by a ticket seller and there, beyond it, was the most captivating milonga I have ever seen, a cross between Christmas and camping. My inner child was in rapture. I felt as my daughter must have felt, when as a baby, she saw the Christmas tree in our living room lit up for the first time: ‘Take it home, Daddy!’

Under a canopy of coloured lights radiating from the centre, a great urn of exuberant foliage presides over a circular, stone dance floor. The milonga is named for its appearance: calesita means merry-go-round or carousel. All around the dance floor is a wide bank of tables and chairs. By the entrance, drinks are sold and tables groan with mouthwatering artesanal snacks, way more enticing than the bog standard sandwiches and empanadas normally available at milongas, but we had already eaten chez moi.

I tend not to eat when I’m dancing: on my previous visit I never did at all, for fear of feeling lumpen or smelling like an empanada, but realised when I got home that I had lost far too much weight. Now when I start feeling weak and empty, I don’t hesitate to hit the pies. Clean those teeth and wash those hands after and that’s the duty to be fragrant dealt with.

We did as much watching as we did dancing, but just being there was so pleasant, it didn’t matter at all. By the time we left, a couple of hours later, all the tables were full. We went on to Peru 571, where Tanghetto was performing.

El Gardel de Medellín

2009-03-21T00:58:00.000-07:00

Tried to get various roomies, acquaintances and friends to come out with me to the milonga recommended to me by a man with a ponytail I met at DNI, last year. They were either unwilling to go out at all or had made other plans. Feeling in my bones that somewhere out there was an adventure waiting for me to happen, I decided to go it solo, or should that be sola.

As I stood at the 91 bus stop (a pavement like any other, with 91 scrawled on the wall,) poring over my Guía, a porteño stood watching, then asked the inevitable question: ‘¿De dónde sos?’ We got talking and the conversation ended, as always, with him giving me his phone number. He offered to accompany me to my milonga, although he didn’t dance tango, assuring me he had nothing better to do. I protested weakly, he insisted, I capitulated. He seemed nice enough.

The Gardel de Medellín, when we found it, had a band playing, Los Siniestras. There were many people sitting cross legged around the edge of the dance floor and all the tables were full. I stood at the front watching with Enzo for a bit, when an elderly gent got up and gave me his chair. As usual, I tried to decline, then accepted. Then, his wife asked me if I had come to dance and got a young fella (whom I had met before, somewhere in San Telmo) to dance with me. That got things started.

A singer came on stage, while I was dancing. He looked a bit like a porteño Pierce Brosnan. Later, he came over to me and asked me how I had enjoyed the show. I presumed he was coming round with the hat, as entrance to this milonga is free, but he said no, he’d just come over for a chat. Then Enrique, that piece of Buenos Aires milonga furniture, came up and asked me if I wanted to dance. Any time I go to a milonga, there is good old Enrique, dancing with all the prettiest girls.

I sat for a bit with a bottle of Quilmes for a spot of people watching. It’s a young crowd with a few notable exceptions. There are few good dancers here tonight, but it doesn’t matter because I am enjoying the laid-back vibe about the place. It’s a small milonga with a dance floor big enough to take twenty couples at a squeeze. Most of the tables are at one end of the room, near the bar, though there are a few around both sides of the dance floor. There is a small stage at the other end of the room. Entrance is free and drinks are reasonably priced. People clearly come here to socialise, not just to dance. Those big, baggy garments, which are a cross between pyjamas and a gathered skirt are very much in vogue. I suppose they keep you cool, but I’m not keen on clothes that obscure the lines and movements of the body beautiful.

Halfway through the evening, a juggler comes on with his entourage. Initially, I think, ‘Oh no! Don’t cut into my tango time,’ but he is accomplished, charismatic and funny and pretty soon, I’m cheering him along with the rest of them. When the juggling finished, the singer returned to my table and seeing me with the Quilmes in one hand and a pen in the other, said in Spanish, ‘Are you writing the New Testament? It’s already been done. Let’s dance.’

He asked me a lot of questions and he was an appalling dancer. I don’t know what he was on, but it was an antidote for embarrassment. He said, ‘Well, I sing, don’t I?’ Amazing, isn’t it, what the pretty and talented believe they can get away with? Slightly anxious I might not be able to extricate myself from continuing to make an ass of myself on the dance floor, I made a dash for the door, when he was busy talking to a friend.

I got the 91 back home, without any trouble at all.

Tango Bax

2009-03-20T19:22:00.000-07:00

The lovely Caro is in Buenos Aires. She is one of my tango teachers in London. I should be showing her around, as I have been here longer, yet she’s the one opening my eyes to who is performing where and suggesting places we could go.

Last night, we went to Canning to see a homage to el Troesma, Zotto. From the social dancing point of view, it was not the greatest of nights, but as for entertainment, we were spoiled rotten. We were treated to singing and dancing by some of the city’s great performers and it was not till the end, when they all gathered together on the dance floor, that we realised what a glut of performers there had been. They included El Chino Perico, Andrés Cejas and Genoveva Fernandez, Leandro Oliver and Laila Rezk, Milena Plebs, José Halfon and Virginia Cutillo and Roxana Fontan. The show had gone on for hours. It was after 04:00, when we left.

Earlier in the day, we went to a class at the Mariposita and this led to a conversation about the correct way for the follower to hold her back in the close embrace. I have had this explained to me in many different ways and I’m still not one hundred per cent sure I’ve got it right. I guess it’s the thing I’d ask for, if I got to see the Wizard of Oz.

Some people say there shouldn’t be a dip in the spine, some that there can be. Some advocate the ‘happy bottom,’ (tilted upwards) others say the pelvis should be perpendicular to the floor. Some say the back should expand into the leader’s hand, others that the torso should incline forwards to maintain contact with one side of the leader’s chest , others still say you need to do both at the same time. At DNI, they say the position of the back is as if you are about to sit down and no further inclined than that. I should be interested to hear any other views on the matter of Tango Bax.

A feeling

2009-03-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

The clocks went back over the weekend and I remembered to adjust my watch, but not my mobile, with the result that I arrived for class at DNI Corrientes an hour early. Not a problem, as there’s nowhere lovelier to sit than their leafy, outdoor café with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Sheltered from the afternoon sun by a breathable canopy, surrounded by potted climbers, creepers, shrubs, tango music spilling out of the adjacent studio (Musica – una fuerza de naturaleza is written on the wall and afileteado.) There is the option of watching a dancer being put through his paces in a private lesson, against the backdrop of a faux pergola overgrown with vine, painted on a tall green stained glass window, one of the most gorgeous features of the building.

It’s not called Buenos Aires for nothing. Being here does you good. I find that I wake up feeling repaired, refreshed. I get out of bed and stretch in front of the mirror and think, ‘Hello, you’ll do.’ I see longer lines and deeper dips in my body and don’t feel compelled to put on make-up when I go to milongas, whereas in London, I go out not so much made-up as embalmed.

I adore being here. DNI is more than just a school – it’s a community. DNI has an unusually high cuddly factor. Nowhere else do you find so many beautiful teachers, so likeable, funny and warm, so able to show you how to use your body to make beauty. Here, there are tango dogs that sometimes wander into the studios to watch. One of them barks to a waltz. Recently, there has been a new addition, a tango puppy. And there is a tango baby. On my last visit, she was a babe-in-arms. Now she toddles around placidly in her exerciser. These are important details. They give you the feeling.

I could just sit here and write poetry. All I have to write with is a blunt pencil and the paper my empanada was wrapped in, but needs must.

More malingering than milongaring

2009-03-18T21:44:00.000-07:00

Last week, I went to class every day, but in the evenings, I must confess there was more malingering than milongas. It’s a long journey home from evening classes at DNI Bulnes, added to which classes frequently start late and therefore finish late. Excuses, excuses. All the same, enormous though my affection is for DNI, I will carry on with lunchtime lessons there, but I intend to start going local in the evenings.

I had planned to go out every night this week and would have done so, but tonight, I felt obliged to stay in and get my computer to behave, as it hasn’t let me access the internet all day.
On Monday, I went to a practica at Villa Malcolm with Chris, a double bass player from Boston, who doesn’t mind being led. It was his idea. Yet, of all the places in Buenos Aires we could have gone to, we found ourselves at the same venue as Jeff and Ching. Fate just keeps throwing us together.

Last night, I went to Porteño y Bailarín with Kemal. The teachers were Ernesto Balmaceda, (brother of Julio,) and Stella Baez and we did a very elegant spiral choreography, which Kemal liked so much, he kept saying, ‘I’ll never forget this, I’ll never forget this.’ I found myself feeling rather envious. As a follower, you don’t have anything like the same degree of control over what gets danced. If you have enjoyed a choreography and want to dance it again, the only way to do that is to learn to lead it. I am not capable of inferring a lead, just yet. For me, every bit of leading is hard won. I have to watch it, copy it, repeat it and once I can do that mechanically, only then does the logic of it begin to dawn on me. I look forward to having a breakthrough in being able to work out on my own how to lead the moves I love.

All for one, one for all or something completely different?

2009-03-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

I haven’t seen much of my Turkish friend in the last few days and I was getting used to having him in class. I guess one man’s ad nauseum is another’s heart’s content.

There is a distinct advantage in working consistently with the same person in classes and practicas. For a start, when the class isn’t gender balanced, you have a guaranteed partner, so there’s no dead time. Secondly, once you have established a background of relatedness, giving and receiving feedback becomes a whole lot easier. Thirdly, once you have adjusted to each other, you can give fuller attention to what is new, as you no longer have to start from scratch, each time. Fourthly, you can have the best of both worlds, as you can still continue to enjoy and stay sensitized to different leads or styles, dancing at milongas.

Peaches are in season and I ask myself, as I sink my teeth into my third, this morning, whether I shall ever tire of them. Years ago, when I was piss poor and lived in France, I lived on peaches and popcorn. When the last market stall had sold the last peach, I switched to figs. I also like playing an album over and over, till I know each last note and lyric by heart.

Last night I went to Plaza Dorrego. The demon dancer was there, as always, making women swoon. I had a few dances with strangers, then hooked up with Jeff, who was there with his friend Art from Alaska and a Korean tango deb, Ching. Ching has only had three tango lessons and is already a good dancer. Having danced salsa for years, her mind and body are programmed to move with control and precision. When we moved on to Torquato Tasso, she didn’t hesitate to get up and ask some of the finest tangueros for a dance and they appeared delighted to be asked. Either times are changing or it depends on who’s asking.

Art mentioned he was looking for somewhere to stay and as Zack, our resident genius, is leaving for Mexico, I mentioned there could well be a room available at my digs and did they want to come and see.

We sat in my tiny kitchen till 04:30 drinking coffee and discussing the nature of reality, life after death, the effects of assorted drugs, the relative merits of monogamy and polygamy and whether and to what extent men and women differ in their needs. I told them about my philosopher friend, Sarah Biggie’s solution: duogamy, a system permitting men and women to be in a committed relationship with two partners each. The virtue of such a versatile union is you get the nurture, stability and commitment of monogamy, but with a little more variety, (the chief advantage of polygamy,) as well as a built-in safety valve, should you find yourself at odds with one of your spouses.

Back on the subject of dance partners, wouldn’t two be twice as nice as one? Better still would be to be the variety: learn to switch roles and dance happily ever after.

More tango schools: La Mariposita and Escuela Argentina de Tango

2009-03-14T17:04:00.000-07:00

I was going to go to the Saturday afternoon practica at DNI (now at the new venue in Bulnes), but just couldn’t be bothered with the schleppe across town. So I decided to investigate the Mariposita tango school in Carlos Calvo, which is just two blocks away from where I’m staying. I went over for a shufti after breakfast, that will have been around 14:30, but it looked so inviting, I ended up staying till 20.30, even though I didn’t have my tacones altas with me.

I took three classes, Technique for Men, Technique for Women and Milonga. I also watched a Tango Escenario class in between. The classes are taught by Carolina Bonaventura and Francisco Forquera, both of whom are thrilling dancers and dedicated teachers. They work the body good and hard. Every school has a different way of warming up and I learn something new from each class. A block of classes at the Mariposita are comparable in price to DNI’s and are held in a large, high ceilinged, air-conditioned studio with an impeccable wooden floor, mirrored walls and plenty of natural light, situated in a tastefully converted old San Telmo building, which also houses a small hotel with swimming pool and café. I shall be spending a lot of time there. I asked to see the rooms and they were very clean, inviting and variously priced.

Yesterday, I went to Cristian and Carolina’s class at DNI. They have guru status in my book for the teaching of the ‘porte’ of tango (carriage, deportment.) Then I took a couple of classes at the Escuela Argentina de Tango at Galerías Pacifico. I took Tango Salon and Milonga con Traspié with Jorge Firpo. The classes were very instructive and included a potted history of the dances. Because the school is located in a very smart shopping mall in the heart of tourist territory in the centre of Buenos Aires, the classes are twice the price of many other tango schools. However, finding your way there is a treat in itself, tucked away as it is, on the second floor in the Borges Cultural Centre, which is a museum of art within the mall. If you are only here for a very short time and haven’t got the time to shop around for your tango, the school does offer a huge range of classes all day long, every day of the week, including Sunday. Tango on a plate for you.

Shamblin'

2009-03-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

Friday night milonga? The computer says, ‘No.’ Overcome by the slings and arrows of public transport (colectivos and the subte), private transport (tired feet) and fifty odd mosquito bites, I’m settling for a solitary steak and salad, washed down with Quilmes (my favourite) and an early night, smeared in tea tree oil.

Transport is the bane of my existence in Buenos Aires.

The subte is the lesser of the two evils, but it ends around 22.15. There’s lots of ‘life’ on the subte. Invariably a hawker, frequently a child or someone with a disability, will be selling you wares in the carriage, typically hair clips, stickers, pens and tube maps. Or there might be a musician performing or someone trying to raise money for a personal cause. It brings you face to face with your humanity or lack of it. Then there are the silent reminders of people's struggles to survive: loads of personal advertisements with tear-off phone numbers, tucked into window frames or stuck on the walls.

Provided you don’t need to change lines away from the city centre, which is the only place they intersect, the subte is pretty good. The city is planned on a grid system, so it is easy to find your way as the streets between stops are indicated on the tube map. The stations can get horribly congested. Don’t expect to rush up escalators: here, they stand on both sides. However, the entrances and exits of the different lines are decorated in distinctively coloured, ceramic tiles, some of which are rather beautiful. I can handle the subte.

Both the subte and colectivos are extraordinarily overcrowded and not just at rush hour. The buses make a range of cruel and unusual noises. There seems to be a strictly no silencers policy. Then there’s the great centavo drama. People can’t wait to rid their purses of their five and ten centavo coins. They are as annoying as mosquitoes and it is equally impossible to be free of them. To make matters worse, the minimum bus fare, which was ninety centavos last year, has risen to one peso and ten centavos. So, either you have that ten centavo coin, or you risk getting a whole load in change, every time you take the bus. Just when you think you’ve seen the last of yours, you spot the gleam in your grocer’s eyes and you just know your bill is going to come to X pesos and the obligatory ten centavos, which means you might be lumbered with anything between nine to eighteen of the little bastards again. Five and ten centavo pieces are virtually indistinguishable and you don’t check your change - though you know you want to, because coins are like gold dust if you are in the habit of taking colectivos. Also, they are minuscule, so that they slip between your fingers as you count out your bus fare and it would be positively infra dig to chase a five centavo coin as it rolled away under a bus seat. But when it’s a toss-up between your dignity and getting there, you just might reconsider your position. Or you can’t get on the bus. Now multiply this drama by ten for the ten or so people that get on at each stop. It’s a farce. Just not that funny.

You could walk everywhere, but be prepared. Buenos Aires does not respect the white man. (The ‘Walk’ light at street crossings is generally a white man, and occasionally, a green one.) White, green or red, the average Buenos Aires driver’s reaction is, ‘Am I bovvered?’ Walking more than is strictly necessary is not an option for me at present. My toots are all tangoed out. They want to be plunged in ice water and then forgiven and put to bed.

Chacarera

2009-03-11T23:21:00.000-07:00

Who did I have this conversation with?

‘Does it rain much in autumn in BsAs?’

‘Sure, but not as much as in London.’

‘So I won’t need wellies, then?’

‘No’.

You were mistaken. Crossing Independencia this evening, on my way home from a chacarera lesson at DNI, there were rivers about one foot deep gushing alongside the pavements. I was out in my walking sandals (I hear my daughters groan) and anxiously peering into the waters as I waded through, ready to jump out of my skin if some object, such as the contents of a bin, a rat or floating dog turd touched my feet.

I had my dad’s trusty brolly with me, though. It’s one that deploys at the touch of a button, but requires you to strain as if constipated, to close up again. Normally, I shun the attentions of the subte guard at 9 de Julio, who propositions me and makes kissing noises as I pass, but on this occasion, I was glad to see him as he rushed forward to help me close my umbrella, opened the barrier so that I didn’t even need to get a ticket out and carried my shopping through for me.

I will never be able to stop giggling about the way the men look at one in Argentina: the drawing up of the chest, the lowered head, the narrowed eyes, the flared nostrils, the pursed lips. This overt male posturing is an old school thing the under-thirties would probably be ashamed of.

Which brings me to the topic of chacarera, one of the Argentine folkloric dances, which is frequently danced at milongas and which I am determined to learn, because I love it. At Rosa’s pancake lunch, I met Scott, who writes a blog, who told me he had expressed his views on chacarera in his blog and caused quite a furore. Scott does not care for chacarera for three reasons, which as far as I recall are as follows:

1. It cuts into his tango time.

2. There is a choreographed and limited range of steps, so it becomes boring to watch, after the first few times.

3. He dislikes the male posturing and female wiles, which the zapateo and zarandeo parts of the dance express. It is now a more egalitarian society and these stereotypes are no longer apt.

This is my understanding of what he said. I have yet to read his blog, but I would like to express my own views in response.

1. If you liked doing it, this would not be an issue.

2. It’s not the steps but the unique way in which they are expressed by each individual that gives chacarera its appeal.

3. Zapateo and zarandeo are metaphors for the attention seeking part of the mating ritual, which is a timeless fact of life, however much the way in which it is done has changed over the ages. Now for zapateo, read fast cars, cool clothes, gym membership. On the other side, there’s make-up, sexy clothes, pretty underwear, no underwear. That’s the overt stuff. And then, there’s undercover posturing: researched conversation, popular or controversial website, proven skill of some kind, becoming a tango instructor... Then there’s piercings, tattoos and a whole bunch of other stuff I don’t even begin to understand. Whatever! We do stuff to pull and chacarera is a celebration of that game. Let’s celebrate!

Practica X

2009-03-11T20:45:00.000-07:00

I went back home to eat before going out again. My German flatmate, Guisa and I had just defrosted the fridge which had developed a wall of ice within, thick enough to build an igloo. I was dutifully working my way through the chicken breasts which had been left in the freezer. They weren’t mine, but they were only a month old with no claimant and I couldn’t bring myself to chuck them away, not when I see whole families rummaging through the bins of Buenos Aires every night, looking for something in edible condition.

Then I dressed up to go to Practica X with Kemal, a Turkish farmer I met at DNI. I had been to Practica X before with Iancito and knew not to go there without a partner. He, in turn, could speak no Spanish and wanted the moral support.

Practica X has moved from Medrano to a venue in Palermo on Humboldt 1464, between Niceto Vega and Jose Cabrera, which makes it almost impossible for me to get to from my home in San Telmo. Still, plucky bird that I am, I did it. It took two subtes, a colectivo and a walk. An hour and fifteen minutes later, I got there, in time for the lesson. The new venue is a humungous hall with stage lighting apparatus hanging off a high ceiling and wall lights that keep changing colour, the sort of venue one associates with wedding receptions, not dancing tango. There were many women at a loose end, even with a number of women leading other women, so I was ultra relieved to have a partner. Although Kemal has only been dancing two months, he is incredibly keen and a fast learner.

The class was interesting in that it was tightly produced and stage managed. In other words, there was a man with a stopwatch holding up fingers and whispering in the teachers’ ears. It was still far too heavy on teacher talk for my taste. I really didn’t like that they wouldn’t answer questions as they arose, telling students instead that there would be an opportunity to ask questions at the end of the lesson. Learning is not achieved by listening passively. Learning involves teaching yourself and this means getting things clear as you go. I like dance lessons to be heavy on demonstration, practice, monitoring and instant feedback and light on theory and explanation. Learning by watching and doing. That would be my way. We shared a table with Claudio, who teaches pedagogy to teachers and he totally agreed with me.

Whilst there is some merit in doing things the way they have always been done, there is also merit in going with the flow and making the most of opportunities. I don’t know why tango teachers don’t avail themselves of modern classroom technology to enhance their teaching. If I were a tango teacher, I would have a video camera to film my demonstration of the information I was trying to convey. I would then project that film onto an electronic whiteboard and have my students attempt to produce the movement themselves, with a model onscreen to follow and check themselves against, playing repeatedly, whilst I wondered around the classroom monitoring and giving feedback. I might even film students to show them what they were doing, so they could judge for themselves what they needed to work on. Whilst tango teachers may be unable to afford the technology, I would have thought that the milonga and practica venues and better established tango schools, would.

I have to say, however, that I really liked Gaston Torelli and Moira Castellano’s take on the giro. They had the man move around the woman and they said something along these lines:

‘Don’t think of the woman as being passively led. Don’t try and get her to do something. Dance and she will naturally respond to your dance.’

Confitería Ideal

2009-03-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

In the subte at Independencia, I bumped into Julio, a dancer from Chicago I met at DNI last time round. He told me about some classes (Tuesday at 15:30) at the Confitería Ideal, where the focus was on subtle moves for tiny spaces. As a prospective leader, I thought that sounded like exactly what I needed to know, so I went along.

The Ideal, if you’ve yet to go there, is a building in sumptuous art deco reminiscent of Paris, with a marble staircase leading up to a ballroom on the first floor. It has a splendid stained glass ceiling, doors and windows of bevilled glass, wood paneling, decorative mirrors, chandeliers, marble pillars, a pergola and a substantial dance floor.

The class was three hours long and the teachers were Eduardo Saucedo and Ivana Smolianovich, beautiful people endowed with an infectious sense of humour, blessings common to the tango teachers of Buenos Aires. The focus of the first half of the lesson was a choreography including barridas and sandwichitos. The second half was milonga : one – two – kiss – four – five. ‘Kiss’ represents the brushing of the man’s calf against the woman’s as he switches tracks in the box step.

Changes at Estudio DNI

2009-03-11T12:58:00.000-07:00

After a whole week in Buenos Aires, I decided it was time to start taking lessons again: lessons to improve my dancing as well as lessons to learn to lead. I dream of being able to dance with a partner and being able to switch roles - just like that - as and when we feel like.

There have been a fair few changes at DNI in my absence. They have now got a second site in Bulnes and are putting on additional classes including ballet and folklore. They have, at last, installed an overhead fan in the main studio in Corrientes – hooray! (My main reason for leaving Buenos Aires in November, instead of staying for six months, was how hot I used to get in their dance classes.) Classes have gone up in price by a third, like so many other tango places, but they are still excellent value for money at 130 pesos for 10 classes, each an hour and a half long and packed with tuition on technique. When I left in November, Jonny and Johanna were students at DNI. Now they are teachers, and very fine too, of Tango Level 1. I shall be attending at least once a week, to learn to lead. I have two members of the band Sexteto Milonguero, one of the most famous tango bands, in my dance class. That is so cool.

CC Torquato Tasso

2009-03-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

After pancakes at Rosa’s, I went over to Lili’s for tea and rock. I had been foolhardy enough to brag to her I was beginning to be able to lead salsa and rock and she pinned me down for a practica. I was reminded of my second driving lesson, all those years ago: getting in the car and going quite blank. I just haven’t been doing it long enough to be able to do it outside of a classroom context, so I left her with a chuckle at my expense, apologies and a tutorial DVD and it being Sunday, headed off to Plaza Dorrego.

I arrived around 21:30 and boogied down Defensa to the pounding and the throbbing of the batería, which is apparently a permanent feature of Sunday night in this area. When I arrived there, there was not much dancing before one of those government subsidised bands started up, the kind that play ballads that sound just like the one before, showing a scornful disregard for melody and rhythm, focusing rather on lyrics, which I could barely follow, in any case. I sat sleeping on a wall, wondering when it was going to end, then gave a little yelp of joy when I noticed Jeff standing in front of me with a leggy porteña and Mario mark 2. Jeff said they were off to the Torquato Tasso, which is where everybody pootles off to after Dorrego, to carry on dancing and did I want to come.

The Centro Cultural Torquato Tasso is named after an Italian poet. I liked it a lot. It’s the kind of alternative, informal night spot I would choose, to hang out, eat, socialize, take classes and to dance, with its dimly lit interior, blue, red and purple, and its moody vibe. Apparently it is well-known as a live music venue, but not that night. The piped music good, though. I danced with Jeff and Mario and sat down for a beer, when who should come up to me but CFBS: aka Daniel.

‘Why aren’t you in Washington, Daniel?’

‘Because I’m still here.’

It is always delightful to see anyone with a lithe body and a beautiful face. Even when they urged you to return to Buenos Aires before they had to leave for Washington, phoned you, skyped you and mailed you through November and December, and then, when you bought your ticket, suddenly stopped. So yes, I danced with him, of course I did.

‘Can I come and live with you?’ he said.

‘No.’

Because there’s a limit, isn’t there?

Pancakes on Sunday

2009-03-10T06:40:00.000-07:00

I was delighted to receive a text message from Rosa, inviting me to a pancakes on Sunday, a very Rosa-ish sort of thing to do. Why, what’s she like? Benevolent sunshine comes to mind. Warm smile, gentle voice, tanned skin, golden hair, an entourage.

I met her at Tango Brujo on my last trip, when a bunch of us trotted down Esmeralda to have coffee together. After that, we made efforts to meet, but only ever managed to meet by chance at milongas. Yet, she felt like an old friend.

An Australian, she now lives here and her home is in a typically moorish, old San Telmo building in the road called Venezuela, just blocks away from mine. The reception room, an enormous high ceilinged cavern, minimally furnished, boho chic, walls of exposed stone, with glassed in alcoves housing artwork, windows high up in the walls filtering sunlight through colourful liqueur bottles embedded in the glass, a wooden floor with a solitary rug and floor cushions in the middle, a table laden with mouthwatering aperitifs at one end and a settee full of interesting people beckoning at the other. Thoughtful touches and lovely colours, everywhere.

Rosa was in her element feeding the five hundred, tossing pancakes for what seemed like hours, while her guests mingled, nattered and munched. As far as I was aware, they were all tango dancers, a large proportion of them, enchanted (had come here for a shufti and found themselves compelled to stay.) This city is full of fascinating people, who have had interesting lives and meeting them is just one of its sublime pleasures. I met a couple of men I’d danced with and two other bloggers, Sally and Scott and I’ve been meaning to read them ever since. But when? Time is even shorter here than in London. In Buenos Aires, time not spent dancing feels like time misspent. Should I even be sitting here now?

Canning

2009-03-07T15:24:00.000-08:00

Got up at 09:30 to have coffee downtown with the muchachas, having gone to bed at 04:30. In order to make it in time, I would have to forego the daily routines to which I had become unusually attached, I suppose because they are grounding and familiar markers in an otherwise strange, new world. Making café con leche and toasting bread in a kitchen with no electric appliances other than a fridge, where only one flame on the hob can be bothered to light, I get off on finding ways to become ever more efficient and the strict order in which I like to do things borders on the autistic: ablutions, chanting, breakfast, emails, facebook, shower, tidy room, pack, out.

It took ages to get to the assigned meeting place on the colectivo, because the traffic was horrendous and just as I got off the bus at Callao, I got a text message saying they were unable to come because the builders had shown up and did I want to meet later in the day. I headed back, feeling sorry for myself, until I went down the subte and walked past a mother and baby and two adolescent boys asleep (shouldn’t they be at school?) on the ground in the underpass, their cheeks directly in contact with the dirt. I saw people, one after the other, touching a pillar in the subte and crossing themselves as they walked past and realised that embedded in its surface was a tiled picture of Nuestra Señora de Luján, with a prayer to the virgencita beneath. I touched it too on behalf of the family in the underpass.

Then, in the afternoon, Lucy, my dueña and I were supposed to go to a singing lesson (to sing tangos) in the same part of town and I suggested we either walked or took the subte. Lucy insisted it was easiest by colectivo, so we spent half an hour trying to locate the bus stop to catch the right one and then an hour on the bus, as here, the buses really go round the houses. What can be walked in half an hour can just as easily be bussed in half an hour. I know which I’d rather do. So we arrived at the Institute an hour late for the lesson, which turned out not to exist in any case. Still, that gave us plenty of time to discuss the cost of public transport, which has risen by nearly twenty per cent and to admire the personalised interior of the cab of the colectivo with it’s bevilled mirrors, tassels and inscriptions.

Two aborted efforts in one day. These things have a habit of coming in threes, don’t they? I should have known better than to presume to reserve a table for José and myself at Canning. The evening was barely passable, bordering on disappointing, not least because CFBS wasn’t there. Coming to think of it, the highlight of the evening was seeing that magnificent mural again and noticing how many of the people in it I already knew. José said I had sounded so enthusiastic, he didn’t like to spoil my fun, but that if I hadn’t been bent on coming to Canning, we could have gone to the Baldosa, a milonga I’ve never even heard of, where there was an amazing programme including a canyengue lesson, something I’m very interested in learning. Ironic, really. José is for ever saying to me, ‘You know everything about Buenos Aire. Is there anything you don’t know?’ Well, there you go.

I keep meaning to take pictures of the pink blossom which is still on the trees, though only just, what with the battering they keep getting from the frequent rain. There are aspects of the rainy weather that suck – like stepping on a loose paving stone and having slimy, black water spurt up your legs from underneath and Linea B of the maldito subte getting flooded, so the sweaty tube stops are some twenty minutes long at each and every station. Nevertheless, I love this weather. I can’t believe my luck. It has been mild and fresh most days, since I got here. Not a week before my departure, I got an alarming email from Lili saying Buenos Aires is very, very hot.

Niño Bien

2009-03-05T21:38:00.000-08:00

03:00. I fancied an early night. Waitresses Sandra and Paula at Niño Bien made my day by looking delighted to see me and coming over to my table to say hello. I’m famous for forgetting to pay my bill, (it happened twice,) but coming back the next day with a with a pleading smile, a sheepish apology and a tip.

This evening, I hooked up with a girlfriend I met last visit. I was really pleased to have re-established contact, but lost her, I fear, almost as easily as I found her. We were both on the overcrowded dance floor, when I made a small, low back voleo, (my toes stroking the floor) and accidentally spiked her ankle with my heel. I got a ticking off, I can tell you.

‘This is Buenos Aires,’ she said. ‘You keep your heels down.’

Having sustained an injury for months from a heedless tango teacher’s high voleo at a milonga at the Negracha, I sympathised. So when she left early, I felt terrible, but it had been an accident, a mistake. I had presumed low voleos were acceptable at a milonga. I hope I manage to wake up in time tomorrow, to meet up with the girls for coffee as arranged or I shall end up losing the lot of them. Friendship matters.

This evening, I danced mainly with an Italian called Mario – not the one I met at the Milonguita. No, this is Italian Mario, mark 2, who is only in Buenos Aires for two weeks. Another good dancer. As I left, he asked me where I’d be dancing tomorrow night and I said Canning, hoping for a final glimpse of CFBS, my irresistible, if faithless crush from the first visit.

I walked home. Scrawny alley cats gambolled and frisked between parked cars. Sleek, black rats, disappeared under front doors. Cartoneros sorted through the garbage or trailed flapping bundles of cardboard that looked like urban sculptures. There was a half-naked man, stretched out as if sunbathing, asleep on a discarded sofa on Humberto Primo. I got offered lifts by the cab-drivers queuing up for diesel at the gas station on Avenida 9 de Julio and even solicited for business a couple of times, as I walked home in my slashed trousers and décolleté. I sailed past with an understanding smile and arrived home to find a message from Jose asking whether I’d like to go out again tomorrow.

Peru 571

2009-03-05T08:55:00.000-08:00

Ah, my favourite! I was there both yesterday and the day before. Yesterday it was the Maldita Milonga with the rumbustious El Afronte band and the day before, it was Tango Queer.

The Maldita rocks. I raved about it on my previous trip and now, it is better than ever. The band was full on and the place was heaving, when I arrived at 23:00 to join a tanguero I met at Gricel. It wasn’t easy to spot José. The dance floor was chocker with slick movers, yet there didn’t appear to be a spare chair in sight. Within minutes of my arrival, the floor cleared and we were treated to an aesthetically thrilling performance. José showed up and we managed to find a chair to share. He is a swordsman and martial artist (taekwondo), who has been dancing for two years. Predictably, his lead was confident, smooth and elegant. He paused. And not just to Pugliese. I like. So many invitations to play…

Tango Queer is not such a different kettle of fish other than that gender is irrelevant in terms of who leads. However, as a matter of interest, there were loads of women and about two men there to start with and fifteen men by the end of the pre-milonga lesson. In spite of the large number of participants, the class was excellent and many of the women were sublime leaders. My first partner was Rosaline from Lancaster, who had something of the air of a headteacher about her, but turned out to be an earthy sort of woman with a deliciously mischievous sense of humour. An experienced ballroom dancer, herself, she was kind enough to let me lead her and I have to confess I made a pig’s ear of it. When she tried to lead me, I was reminded of a limerick about a young lady from Frome, which I can't quite recall other than the last line, which ran 'As to which would do what and to whom.'

Jeff showed up a little bit later and each of us led and followed the other. I felt very lucky to have him. He has a beautiful embrace: tender, yet firm, sensuous, yet not intrusive. I just love the feeling of having my hair touched and he unclipped and loosened my hair about my shoulders every time we danced. It was a very satisfying evening for me, not least because he was able to correct me and teach me, being an ace dancer himself.

So many good nights…

Gricel - if you're glad to be gray

2009-03-03T06:33:00.000-08:00

The people who gave me a lift home from Gricel asked me how I liked it.

‘A lot. It’s a nice-looking venue, it’s always buzzing and there are quite a few good dancers, there.’

‘Yes,’ she said, in her forties, ‘but it’s an old crowd, don’t you think?’

‘It’s not a young crowd, but there is a mix. I had three guys your age this evening I’ll be dancing with again and again.’

I get bored with people whingeing on about age. It’s a denial of possibility. It writes off a large proportion of the human race. Like it or not, the average age of the population is on the rise. Get over it! My grown-up daughter has got the hang of my thinking. When I challenge her about some things, she says, ‘Come on, Mummy, not everyone’s twenty-five, like you!’ But I have a friend, Christine, who assures me I’m ten. And we’ve all met middle-aged twenty-somethings. Age is clearly a matter of interpretation. It’s not about how many years there are in you, but how much life there is in you. Put that in the next dictionary of modern quotations. You saw it here first.

The Milonguita

2009-03-02T07:26:00.000-08:00

Thunder reverberated, lightning flashed and rain lashed Buenos Aires, yesterday. I spent the wettest part of the day indoors, as you do, prodding at the housework, worrying the computer, eating steak and looking longingly at my bed. How cosy it is to experience a storm from under the duvet, but I resisted the urge because lots to do. Just got on with my day, remaining ecstatically tuned in to nature’s son et lumière outside. Typically, Buenos Aires has a fairly open style of architecture. Passages between street door and accommodation are frequently open to the sky, so when it rains, it can be like fording a small river. Here, the same is true of the passage between my room and the kitchen.

This building is built like a doughnut, around an empty space and each floor has internal balconies as well as external ones. I like that. Music and the aromas of cooking drift up and down the building and it can feel as if we’re all part of the same community, all together at the same party. Sunday is particularly good.

It was weathery intermittently throughout the day and night. I finally went out around 18:00, to meet my beloved Lili, the friend of a friend of a friend, who first helped me settle into life here and who has come to be a much loved fixture in my porteño life. Lili had recently returned from Chile and she showed me her holiday pics, which included shots of the three homes of Pablo Neruda. Now there’s a guy who knew how to live.

Then, we had home-made pizza and some rather fine wine. Lili said she was going out later to meet Bety at the Milonguita and would I like to come. There is only one right answer. I was, however, dressed in jeans and flipflops. I remembered I had a battered pair of Comme il faut in the suitcase Lili had been minding for me, but I didn’t have the key. Lili got out her toolbox.

The Milonguita is located in a large hall at the Centro Montañes in Jorge Newbery. The style is elegant simplicity : high ceilings, white walls, a few coloured spotlights, tables framing a slippery, stone dance floor with a broader bank of tables, interspersed with widow chairs, by the entrance. It was the eve of Bety’s birthday, so at midnight, we had champagne and then, I had a lucky ticket and won another bottle of champage. We’ll be having that tonight at another milonga, to toast Bety on her birthday.

One of my first dances, I made the mistake of being Mother Theresa to a certain gentleman I had already looked away from twice. Ladies, be warned! Follow your instincts. I had misgivings about responding the third time, but I thought I’d give him one tanda. After all, one of my New Year's resolutions was to be kind. It was torture. When I failed to respond to the non-existent lead, he’d say ‘No importa, no importa’ as if he was the one being magnanimous. Not only was he an appalling dancer, he neither looked nor smelled right. One good thing came out of it, though. Dancing with him enhanced my appreciation of all my other partners.

Two of the men I danced with last night recognised me from my previous visit: Alberto and someone else, whose name I have already forgotten. I’m beginning to feel like I belong here, already. An Italian I danced with last night was a fragrant, skilful bailarín. Mario. He is going to be at Gricel this evening and I look forward to dancing with him again.

We tore ourselves away from the Milonguita with reluctance for beauty sleep – Lili and Bety have to work on Monday. I took a cab home, exceptionally, because lumbered with a bulky suitcase. When I got in, the street door slammed behind me, with my keys still hanging in the lock, outside. I raced upstairs. It was 02.30, but still I pounded repeatedly on the doors of three of the flats owned by my landlady, praying that no passer-by would make off with my keys in the meantime. Eventually, Sergio got up and came to the rescue. He was very kind. And the keys were still swinging in the door, glinting in the moonlight. They looked like treasure and I kissed my keyfob, a lucky shamrock sealed into a heart, given to me with plenty of glove by my machalach.

The Independencia

2009-03-01T07:48:00.000-08:00

Went to bed at 04:30 and woke up for no reason at all around 09:00. My eyes opened to the pretty vulva facing me. The one on the wall, reader, the one on the wall. So that’s where I was. Apart from the scratchy sheets and the aggressive pillow, it had been a good night.

I had ventured out around 23.00. Couldn’t get over the excitement of living within the reward, in the area that had been my El Dorado in the past, to be reached only after a sweaty, hard won bus journey. As I headed for Plaza Dorrego, how it warmed my heart to see my old, familiar friends, the 10, the 24, the 29, trundle past. I had expected to find a milonga in the plaza, but must have got the wrong day because a different world appeared to have landed there, the land of outdoor restaurants. So I sauntered back, past the Aladdin’s caves of the antique shops on Defensa, past the café where last year, Milwaukee Lauren and I were inducted by an elderly Argentino, into the special treat known as “the Jump of the Tiger.”

‘Ladies, do you know about the jump of the tiger? No? In Argentina, we love it. No one should die without experiencing this thing… The man stands on top of a wardrobe and the lady lies waiting on the bed and he jumps on top of her to begin… No, it is not funny. It is wonderful! Wonderful! Let me explain again…’

Bless him. We didn’t like to say, but only a man of unusually restricted growth could ever fit on top of our wardrobes. So small in fact, in order to have any effect at all, he’d need to dive straight in, lock, stock and itsy, bitsy barrel.

No Plaza Dorrego then, but there would be a milonga at the Independencia, situated just four blocks away from my flat. I would go there.

The Independencia is a hall on the first floor of an old building. It is a medium-sized, informal venue with tables scattered all around the dance floor. Apparently, it was started by Che Guevara’s family, of which the current dueña is a direct descendant. I walked into my first milonga at about 12:30 am and experienced a quiet despair. No one was dancing. There were a handful of couples dotted around the room and at four of the tables sat women, by themselves, smiling wanly into their mineral water.

At a table nearby, sat an ectomorph filming his head off. He wasn’t there to dance. He was just doing,“Egbert woz ere.” A Lenin-like character walked in and took a seat at the table next to mine. I glanced in his direction from time to time, with the faintest hint of exhasparation, to see him scribbling away for what seemed like hours, while us long-suffering women sat alone at our tables, clearly waiting for our cabeceo. After an hour of forever, an Indio gentleman recognised me from a previous assault on the Independencia and danced with me. Meanwhile, Lenin got up and asked a woman to dance and when I sat back down, he held a hand out towards me. Then he and I carried on dancing till 04:00.

When we started dancing I assumed he was one of those germanic Argentinos. We conversed in Spanish and I apologised for being less agile than usual, because out of practice, having fallen off my sledge in the early February snow and damaged a knee as well as having “callos” on both feet. He had trouble receiving me, then revealed he was in fact Jeff, a New Yorker. He loved his milonga . For the uninitiated, that’s a type of dance derived from tango. I love milonga too, so much so, I’m going to have it danced at my funeral. But it’s not my forte, so it was a great opportunity for practice. I mentioned I wanted to learn to lead and he let me lead him. All enthusiasm and no talent, I was, but that’s why I’m here. We’re going to Tango Queer together, next Tuesday and he’s going to introduce me to lots of gay women and I shall get a whole lot of leading in. Wa-hey!

When the salsa music came on, we did that as well. I showed him a move that turns me on and what do you know, he had to stand. If you’ll pardon the expression. We did a lot of laughing. We had a lot of fun. We did a lot of talking, too. Now, that’s not tango, but who cares? Actually, I do. What is tango? Now that’s a question that fascinates me.

‘How important do you think high heels are?’ I asked him.

‘I can tell you two or three places in Buenos Aires, where its commonplace to find women dancing in flat shoes. Having said that, all those things that women do? Eye-liner, mascara, stockings, high heels… They work.’

It was Jeff who told me about the Independencia’s history. Then we drifted into Argentina’s dark and dirty secrets and the miracles of technology and the sinister uses to which they are put by intelligence agencies. We talked about the antique shops of San Telmo, where Nazi memorabilia is sold. He told me about a very neat cane he found, which converted into a shot gun.

‘You wanted it, didn’t you?

‘You bet.’

‘Why do you think weapons are sexy?’

He thought about that for a moment.

‘They are sexy because they are about power.’

‘And power is sexy because it derives from the genetic imperative to survive,’ I concluded.

As I drifted off to sleep, I thought some more about the allure of tango. Is it just another expression of the genetic drive, an artistic take on insurance?

I'm back

2009-02-28T12:33:00.000-08:00

I’m back. It isn’t like the first time. The plane didn’t burst into applause when we landed at Ezeiza, the taxi driver didn’t kiss me, although he was very civil, I wasn’t bowled over by a bedroom in a penthouse, giving out onto a four hundred square foot private terrace... but it’s still all good. I still feel privileged to be here, having a second preview of tango heaven. And I’m getting better and better at being sweetly forgiving of all that glisters and is not gold. I must be careful not to get too saintly, though. When you reach too good, you die.

The planes took off and landed on time, but the journey was still about nineteen hours long - twelve hours to Sao Paolo, four hours in the transit lounge (including a massage, because I’m worth it! Yep, I know how to live...) Then two and a half hours to Buenos Aires. Counting the journeys to and from airports, that’s nearly one whole day of travel. ¡Caramba!

Thanks to Craig’s List, it wasn’t hard to find modestly priced accommodation. I was spoiled for choice and opted for a large double bedroom with a view, in a shared flat in San Telmo. It is situated in tree-lined Avenida Independencia, opposite the Church of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, near Avenida 9 de Julio, reputed to be one of the biggest roads in the world.The jacaranda has finished blooming, but I am happy to say there are still pink flowers in trees - I shall have to find out what they’re called.This is a transport-rich area, with four subte lines virtually at my doorstep and numerous bus routes. I have walked the barrio and discovered the local verdulería and panadería (fruit ‘n’ veg shop and bakery) and already run up a debt of one peso, because nobody likes to give change. They would rather risk not being paid. Lots of smiling and head shaking. No change there, then.

I have been here about twenty-four hours and have already moved house once! Yesterday, I was on the third floor, which was decorated twenties style, with gold wall paper (the building is about a century old.) I got to have a dinner with my Norwegian flatmate, Kristina, before having an early night. I had lunch today with the dueña’s mum, Lucia, and met her younger brother, Cristian. (I say ‘the dueña’ because I’m not yet sure what to call her. She appears to have a number of pseudonyms.) Then, later this afternoon, two French girls arrived, friends, who wanted to be on the same floor and I was asked if I would consider moving to the floor above, so I did. It’s quieter higher up, but now I can only see the church if I crane my neck out of the window and would have an unremarkable view, if it wasn’t partially obscured by an extraordinarily virile, triffid-like succulent, which rises out of a glass window box like the briars surrounding the Sleeping Beauty. Very apt. And very arty, you can see the roots through the glass and everything. I just hope it doesn’t harbor any creepy crawlies or iguanas, because I might just die. No gold wallpaper here. The room is painted white and there are huge, original acrylics on the walls, one of a mysterious tower with two tiny figures in the forefront (whatever can it mean?) and the other of two nude beauties having, er, a serious cuddle. The dueña’s brother, Sergio, is an artist. He lives upstairs in a typical artist’s garret, a gigantic room covered from floor to ceiling in pop art. It’s all very basic, here, but I’m happy.

Porteño y Bailarín

2008-11-03T07:27:00.000-08:00

Well, the chanting certainly paid off. I had the best evening at Porteño y Bailarín. I went there because Helena, (one of the Australians I went with to the Sunderland) had said she was going there and asked if I might like to join her. However, she had already left by the time I arrived. I got there at half past instead of midnight, having absent-mindedly hopped on the wrong colectivo. I liked the venue immediately. It is L-shaped with two dance floors, one in warm colours, the other in cool. Carlos, the host, seated me at a table where both sides meet, with Helena, a lovely Brazilian woman and I got asked to dance as soon as I got my Neotangos on and then, continually ever after. I tried not to derive too much satisfaction from dancing past a tango teacher, seated most of the evening, who at my first milonga had said to my partner, “Oh, don't concern yourself about your lead. She can't follow in any case.”

Porteño y Bailarín are celebrating their birthday and so they are hosting some quality acts there. This evening there was the most divine singer. Everything about her was exquisite: her voice; her expression; her white lace ensemble, split to the thigh; the way she moved, her arms lifting like angel wings, expressing the poetry of the tangos and boleros she sang. I experienced unadulterated rapture and a sharp stab of love for Argentina. I feel so strongly about this country, I can't bear to think I shall have to leave, one day soon. It's 4.00 a.m. and I've just got back and should go straight to bed, but want to capture the high.

The evening was not uneventful. A table toppled over with a crash just before I left. A proper fight had broken out between two varones. I came away with a bruised head from a far too young Columbian, pushing my head into a wall with his face, to press me with an unwanted kiss. There was birthday cake. All my partners tonight were Argentinos and danced in a variety of styles. A tall man in his fifties connected with me with his left hand alone. He appeared not to have movement in his right arm. I felt no more than the edge of his hand guide my hip, occasionally. Dancing with him was a challenge, but strangely enjoyable. They are all so warm and kind. They smell so good. They wear fine shirts that bloom under the fingertips. I luxuriate in the litheness and tone of their bodies and am mesmerised by the intensity in their faces. Oh, Buenos Aires, I love you!

The Buenos Aires Blues

2008-11-02T15:04:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I had a Shelley Berman LP (okay, little one, that's a big, black wax disc on which sounds used to be stored.) I used to listen to it over and over and crack up laughing every time. I knew it off by heart and chunks of it still surface in my thoughts, any time I board a plane (“...in case the plane comes to a sudden stop – like against a mountain” or have a hangover, “... my tongue is asleep and my teeth itch.”) Laughing was my preferred pleasure and up until very recently, I used to hope that when I died, it would be from laughter. But I've changed my mind. Diana, my new landlady, told me about a time at an open air Sunday milonga, the Fería de Mataderos, when she witnessed a elderly lady, leathery, yet luminous in her partner's arms, totter on her Comme Il Faut and slide to the ground with a blissful smile on her face as her soul floated up on a favourite air. As soon as the ambulance came and carted her away, they put the music back on and carried on dancing. Yep, I thought, sounds good to me. Please dance to Milonga Sentimental as the ambulance pulls away and write “Seguimos bailando,” my favourite phrase, on my epitaph.

I am at “I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth,” though not at "To be or not to be." The last couple of milongas have been a little bit dead for me. I don't know why. Perhaps sitting at a table with a group of friends is not the best thing to do. I get a lot more dances when I go out on my own. This is the ego being polite to itself. Maybe I've been having bad hair days or my shoes have had too much exposure. This is the ego being in denial. Maybe I'm just not pretty enough or young enough or good enough. Aha! That is the bottom line. Whatever the reason, today, feelings of frustration and abandonment have been surfacing, the Buenos Aires blues. So I have been chanting and pondering and here I am now, with a cup of tea. It's Sunday and like it or not, you're getting a sermon.

I could try to figure out why I feel the way I do, or I could just pick a different feeling, (like choosing chocolate or vanilla), but understanding something or choosing to feel different do not necessarily enable you be the way you want to be. Let's face it, we all understand what we need to do to lose weight or give up smoking and we might choose to do these things, yet we often fail to get there. Me, I find it more dynamic to chant, “to turn poison into medicine.”

In the Buddhism of Shakyamuni Buddha, “Desire is the cause of all suffering.” In other words, if you embrace life as it is and as it isn't, instead of wanting things to be some other way, you will not suffer. Naturally, this does not mean you should not be committed to progress, but that you should not be attached to any particular outcome. This is all very rational, but such restraint is no longer in fashion. It hardly sits right with modern living, which is founded on great expectations and instant gratification. If things don't work out the way you want, you sue. Now that's a popular religion. Or chuck it away and get another one. Also very popular. This is the kind of competition we're dealing with.

The Buddhism of the Soka Gakkai, on the other hand, is designed for modern life, or “the Latter Day of the Law” as it is called in the writings of Nichiren Daishonin. It takes a different stand: “Desire is enlightenment.” Ah, that's more like it! I hear you think, but how? I find a breakdown helps to get there:

There is no enlightenment in caves, not even in the Himalayas: enlightenment exists only in thought, word and deed, within the context of our relationship with our environment.

Enlightenment has to be desired before it can come into existence.

Desire is part of the human condition.

If you are a human being and you have no desires, you are not Buddha, you are dead.

Because you have desires, you earnestly seek the way to realise your wishes, hopes and dreams. (You get up for yoga, dance more tango, eat fewer empanadas, seek guidance, have therapy, pray, meditate or chant, for instance.)

It is this desire-driven seeking spirit that leads you to enlightenment.

Enlightenment is therefore latent within desire.

If it is latent, it already exists.

Therefore, desire is enlightenment.

Enlightenment in this Buddhism is referred to as Buddha nature, which manifests as the combined qualities of Courage, Wisdom and Compassion. These are the universal qualities we summon forth when we chant before the gohonzon. Mindful of these, there is no room for suffering. It can inform your way of being in any context, even your tango and its spin-offs: the milonga, the cabeceo, the embrace, your touch, the way you feel and make your partner feel, move and use the space, smile, talk, walk, look, dress... Oh, I feel good already.

The Plateau

2008-10-28T13:43:00.000-07:00

Revenons a nos moutons. I set out to write about tango, self and possibility and went off at a tangent, as you do, but I have an hour to kill before my vals class, so here goes:

When I first arrived, I felt as if every lesson was taking me forward and this was deeply satisfying. My posture improved and consequently my balance. With the help of my skilful tutors, I started to see my body as an instrument of tango and began to see that it needed to be played in a particular way in order to produce tangoesque movement. I started to work with my breath, as in yoga and martial arts, for smoothness, effortlessness and control of movement. I started to understand the importance of the expansion and contraction of the spaces in my body, for instance between my dorsals, between my ribs and hips and within my shoulder joints. I started to become aware of dancing within my frame. I started to use my palms and fingers as crucial points of connection to lever my movements. I started to acquire a deeper understanding of the lead and the anatomy of tango moves.

Then, I reached a plateau and I felt as if nothing much was changing, that I was no longer feeling excited about my rate of progress. I realised that this was partly down to the state of my body. If tango dancers had to have MOTs, I´d be the one that looked passable on the outside, but that needed its chassis welding, motor tuning and new tyres. I have not been getting up in time to attend yoga classes and this has been a big mistake. Being fit and flexible is a prerequisite of dancing good tango. I also decided it was time to be test-driven by an expert, to have my dance scrutinised for bad habits. So, I booked a short series of private lessons and practicas. The only way is up.

The Metaphysics of Sacadas

2008-10-20T19:42:00.000-07:00

Today in class, we were made to understand that the sacada doesn´t exist. There is no such thing. No saca la pierna. The word merely describes an effect. The man projects his leg. He transfers his weight onto the projected leg. He doesn´t do anything to the woman, but his action has an effect on her leg.

Characteristically, I thought, Love is like a sacada. It doesn´t really exist, yet we all know what it feels like. Nobody actually does anything to you. He just stands in front of you and your legs give way.

Now I know what it feels like to be mauled by a lion, I feel complete. I wish I could say more, but I´ve learned my lesson. For the moment.

The Phone and the Full Moon

2008-10-20T19:27:00.001-07:00

This is a few days old and not even about tango, though I might just dance it later:

For hours, I anguished about whether to apologise. I argued with myself.
My brain said, "Forget him. He´s a heart breaker."
My body said, "Who needs a heart?"

But it turns out no one has read anything. I was mistaken. I´m still safe. But I´ve learned my lesson, I think.

Me and my phone have just about fallen out. First it screwed up my first two dates with CFBS: it wasn´t until the third attempt to make contact that we actually managed to meet up. Then, yesterday, the phone didn´t ring when it was supposed to and I couldn´t access my voicemail. Nor could I tell from whom I had received messages. And in spite of having credit and some battery power, my phone refused to connect with his number. I discussed all this with a friend and we came to the conclusion he had read my blog and barred my calls, being a grown-up in high places. The full moon kept me up most of the night, so I feel wrecked, but all wrung out (no more tears,) because - Ta-Raaaaa! [FANFARE] - we meet tonight...

Life as Entertainment

2008-10-16T13:22:00.000-07:00

Pens stop working when I've had them a couple of days. I could easily make that mean something, but I won't. I thought I'd adopt Life as Entertainment as my philosophy during my time in Buenos Aires. And why not? I would keep this a secret so that I could comment on real experiences involving real people without them becoming unduly self-conscious and altering their behaviour. Not that there's any point in trying to make sense of life, because it happens anyway. I believe I know all there is to know about love and infatuation, but that still doesn't prevent it from jumping up and biting me on the bum and I still catch my breath when I see someone of the same build or a sign over a shop bearing his name. I didn't reckon on anyone bothering to google my name, discovering my blog and finding themselves reading about... themselves. It was not intended that anyone should feel ridiculed or maligned. I'm not a bad person - just a shallow marshmallow. But now, the moon is full and I feel like weeping.

Sex in the City - Not

2008-10-12T18:00:00.000-07:00

I caught myself feeling bored at a milonga for the first time ever, last night. I was sitting at a table with CFBS and his friends, a situation devoutly to be wished, you would have thought. We'd been to milongas together, but this was our second time sitting together. The first time, it had been electric. Romantic to be kissed by him after every dance, on the cheek or the forehead, with lots of little kisses, the way you'd kiss a baby. But then he went too quickly, said too much, too soon and once it's out, it can't be unsaid and that is soooo exhasparating. CFBS is gorgeous as a moviestar, can dance, is intelligent and amusing, we have chemistry, but skipping straight to the after party? Why? What about the game? The conversation we had is only possible in Spanish:

"Why not?"

“Because I'm far too British. For me, this is like a game of chess and I'm not sure I'm ready to lose my queen.”

“I'm not sure I want to lose my tower. And I definitely don't want to lose my horse.”

He's quick, that one. So, we sat for a bit, looking straight ahead and I realised I'd done it again, most likely, killed off a favourite. First the demon dancer, now him. Groundhog day. He's gone to Cordoba for a week. He asked me to mail him, but that's like torturing the tea bag after the water's turned cold. I don't think I will. If he's my horse, he´ll gallop back to me.

I remember having a conversation with my previous landlady about the demon dancer and she said, “But that's how it works, here. Argentine men like their women. There's nothing unusual about expecting to go to bed the day you meet.” “Hello I like you I'd like to know you better you can have my number I want you do you want to come back to my place” is not that unusual an opening gambit. This is true and I am definitely not showing off.

Another time, I told her about how embarrassed I felt on a collectivo when I was groping for my bus fare and a condom fell out of my purse. I only carry one because.

“Oh, there was no need to feel embarrassed,” she said, “ they've probably never seen one before - Argentinos don't know what condoms are...”

Well, there's always a first time. Standing in a queue, waiting to get into a concert, I heard someone say: “Well, this is Buenos Aires, where half the population is crazy and the other half are psychologists.” But which half? I've noticed a lot of the psychologists I've met have been women... er, that's all I have to say on that subject.

He just phoned. He's already reached “I love you” and we both know what he's up to, but his voice is like cognac and he has me giggling like a schoolgirl. I'm afraid we're both running out of moves and my queen is in jeopardy.

Plan B

2008-10-08T12:43:00.000-07:00

Stay one step ahead: always have a plan B. I am learning. I don't think this is being cynical or skeptical. Being Buddhist, worry is slander: but there's no harm in being practical about achieving peace of mind. As the Arab saying goes, Trust in God, but tie up your camel first.

I have been a little too glib, a little too smug and I've been caught out a couple of times. For instance, I have gone out to a milonga with just enough to pay my entrance and buy a small round, then on the way back, I have waited for the carefully researched collectivo, having made a note of the best one to take, only to find I had to wait in the freezing dawn for one hour because it didn't show and I hadn't enough money with me for a taxi. I now know to take my bus guide with me everywhere, so I can figure out an alternative route if necessary and to take taxi money just in case.

It's worth keeping your ears open for good accommodation even if you have already got somewhere wonderful to stay. You just never know when circumstances might change and it's no fun suddenly finding you have nowhere to live.

As for men, sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, guapos, hermosos, lindos are everywhere in BsAs and they are all waiting for you. Devote yourself to one, by all means, but there is no harm in having a Plan B. I haven't seen anything of the demon dancer for over a week, but ColinFirthButSexier is present and correct and standing by ready to take my breath away as are twenty other chicos. It hasn't required much effort to generate a tidal wave of desire across Buenos Aires. Porteños are extremely friendly: many of the men I've danced with have said things like “I like you. I would like to spend time with you. I want to know you better. When shall we meet again?” This is definitely not London. My favourite anecdote is about an old virtuoso I danced tango nuevo with, at La Viruta around 2.00 a.m. After a tanda, (and the tandas are very long there,) he looked me in the eye and said “I'm going to bed, now.” I was slightly alarmed and thinking, why is he telling me this. Then he said, “I'm telling you this because I am seventy-two years old and I have two grandchildren and it is now my bedtime.”

Moving house

2008-10-08T12:39:00.000-07:00

It's been almost a week since I last blogged and there have been all sorts of ups and downs, but mainly ups. Of course. I / eye!*

I had planned on staying in my flat in Recoleta for the duration of my visit to Buenos Aires. I liked my spacious room with its oak armchairs and marble-topped dressing table, its marble and brass en suite bathroom and green and pleasant terraza. I had always gotten on really well with the landlady. We had long conversations in Spanish and she went out of her way to make me feel at home, even offering to lend me her own frocks. The rental included cleaning services, but as far as I could make out, the room was only ever swept with a glance. Last week, I asked her for cleaning materials and was offered an antediluvian hoover, which blew out more than it sucked in, a brush, but no pan and a scrawny, bedraggled, ponytail of a mop. I said, delicately as possible, if I could be provided with the wherewithall to clean my rooms, I would be very happy to do so. Whereupon, the landlady suddenly decided she didn't like me being in all hours of the day, as if I were the 'dueña de la casa,' while she was out at work. The thing is, I could hardly help queening it. After dancing all night, I needed to sleep in. She informed me I would have to vacate the room within a few days.

After a whole day spent looking at flats to let on the internet, I went out to dinner at a restaurant in Recoleta to dine on Lomos Monstros (giant Filets Mignons) with my two lovely flatmates from Germany and then to a milonga at La Viruta. I needed cheering up. There, I met an Porteño guy, who happened to be a taxi dancer, but off duty. We danced most of the evening and when I mentioned I was looking for somewhere to live, he said not to worry, he would definitely be able to help me out. He had a friend who was an actress, who had a double room upstairs with its own bathroom. If that wasn't available, I could live at his sister's. I moved out the following day. I had a conciliatory chat with my landlady and we parted on good terms: all's well that ends well.

Ironically, my new home is in Palermo Queen's. I live with Catalina, who is an actress, and her ten year old daughter, Guadalupe (Guadi.) They are sunny and relaxed as a day on the beach. Being gregarious by nature, I couldn't have wished myself better circumstances. We speak Spanish and English on alternate days, so that we all profit from the arrangement. My accommodation is reasonable, very clean, has a well-equipped kitchen: there is even a water filter, which makes tea taste just divine, a filter coffee machine and a toaster, whereas in Recoleta, I had to pour my Columbian through a tea strainer and heat my bread on the gas stove.) It is also next to three of the best milongas in town: Canning, La Viruta and Villa Malcolm, home of Tango Cool. Catalina has bought me a brand new music system, given me a tour of the area in her car and shown me all the local amenities, including two swimming pools. I am happy.

(*Refer to Plaza Dorrego - September)

Gricel A Go Go

2008-09-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

I glanced at the news headlines and followed a couple of threads in the Amateur Economists blog to try and make sense of Black Monday (as if!), when I saw this, posted last week by one Evelyn Black:

OK, I know Lehman Brothers just tanked, Fannie and Freddie have been seized, and AIG has been taken over by the Fed, but can we put all that aside for just a few minutes and talk about me for a change, please?

I had so much fun, last night. I joined Liliana at Gricel. I danced every single tanda from 10.00 p.m. till 2.30.a.m. - that's a first for me. I wasn't even naked and afileteada from head to foot. Just lucky. Didn't I have a bad back, yesterday? Dancing for four and a half hours on 8 cm stilettos and walking with a 55 litre rucksack all day long are two of my favourite back remedies. A third is aromatherapy, which is a given when you dance up close and personal with a well-groomed varón: subtle notes of leather, cedar, ginger, vetiver, rosemary, moss, musk, frankincense, amber, liqueur, fresh towels... Argentinian men believe in perfume and so do I.

I danced a few tandas with Colin Firth But Sexier and I should think we'll be dancing again. Let the texting begin!

Fear and loathing at El Beso

2008-09-29T15:05:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine said he was going to El Beso on Sunday night, so I decided I'd brave it a second time and may be, just may be, it would be better this time round, with the guarantee of at least one man I could dance with. My three flat-mates decided to join me. One of them has just started taking tango classes, another is about to start and the third has never danced tango, but is able to follow a lead in most other dances. On this basis, we booked a table. Meanwhile, the guy whose idea it had been in the first place, decided to go elsewhere.

When we arrived, we were designated a table at the back and had to push quite hard to get a table right next to the dance floor or we might never get a look in. We succeeded in obtaining one. Sadly, sitting at the front doesn't make you a dancer, any more than sitting in a garage makes you a car. We sat there coyly waiting to be invited, but rapidly got bored and started chatting, making ourselves increasingly ineligible for eye contact from los varones*. Most of the men were pushing seventy and most of the women were young and the women far outnumbered the men. The four of us were at least presentable and they didn't even know whether we could dance and still, the señores wouldn't look at us. A most provoking thing. We just couldn't figure it out. I spoke with an American woman sitting at the next table and she said El Beso was notorious for this, like the Dome, in London. The three flatmates left in disgust around 1.30 a.m., but I stayed on another hour or so and finally got in a few tandas. All the same, to go back for another dose of snubbing would be downright perverse, but knowing me and my designer realities, I probably will.

(*varón = male. Pronounced like 'baron,' but with the stress on the second syllable – makes them sound rather dashing, don't you think?)

Ouch!

2008-09-28T10:25:00.000-07:00

I've done my back in. I'm wracking my brains for the silver lining: some life-enhancing lesson to be learned. There are several possibilities. None of them is fun:

1. All things pass.
2. Things could be a whole lot worse.
3. There is no pain without gain.
4. This is the hell without which there would be no heaven.
5. There's more to life than tango.
6. I am my will, but I am also my body.
7. Would this have happened if I'd bothered to go to yoga?
8. Lying down is OK.
9. There's a great, big Buenos Aires out there, waiting to be discovered – in flat shoes.
10. The museums are free.
11. The weather's not that good today, anyway.
12. I still haven't finished reading Evita.

Hmmm. I think I'll put the kettle on.

La Viruta

2008-09-27T19:49:00.000-07:00

I went home last night after a dance class, had some food, chilled out on my terraza, had a nap then got up and got ready to go out at 3.00 am. Can you imagine doing that in London? I danced from 3.30 till 6 a.m., went to a café in Barrio Norte for some coffee and conversation and finally got to bed at 7.30 a.m. It's a hard life!

On Friday nights, people pour out of Canning, which closes around 3.00 a.m. and head for nearby La Viruta, for a moratorium on beddy-byes, for a few more hours of tango. And not just tango. Today, while I was there, there was also chacarera and rock. I'd been meaning to go to La Viruta for some time. I had come across it in the lyrics of a tango and the venue had also been mentioned to me in the context of dancing salsa.

When I arrived, there was a band playing and I sat alone at the front at a table marked Reserved, though not for me. I immediately recognised the double-bass player as someone I had danced with one evening at Negracha, in London and when I saw there were six musicians in the band, I knew I was not mistaken, as I frequently am. It was none other than the Sexteto Milonguero, one of the most popular bands in Buenos Aires. I went up to say hello, when they stopped playing and no, he didn't recognise me. For a splinter of a second, I saw an omelette on my face. Then I mentioned Negracha and he remembered and was sweet. Phew! A moment later, a couple of guys I had danced with in Cochabamba came up to greet me and I was absorbed into the milonga. I danced with lots of lovely people. The demon dancer was there. We didn't dance. He danced beside us: See what you are missing, girl. I think it's called an entente cordiale. That story is on hold. Faces from other classes. Everybody in high spirits, smiling at familiar faces across the crowd. Moments of intensity. And finally, the Cumparsita. This is how I imagine Judgement Day. It's when you find out you have been in heaven all along. Only you didn't know it. Not unless you ran away to Buenos Aires for a sneak preview. The milonga is heaven on earth.

Four bandoneons

2008-09-25T17:26:00.000-07:00

Oh... my... God! It's 8.00 p.m. I've overslept three hours and missed the 6.00 p.m. class at DNI I was so looking forward to. This is the first time since I arrived I've permitted myself a siesta. Yes, it is. My time here is precious and I tend to steer clear of illegit encounters with the duvet. I guess I had an excuse, this time. I took a different collectivo home around 3.30 a.m., this morning, told the driver where I was going and as I started spotting familiar territory, asked, 'Are we there yet?' He said, 'Soon.' A couple of minutes later, I asked him again and he said, 'Oh, er... we've gone way past it. Don't worry. It's about four blocks away.' So I got off and retraced the bus route four blocks, but everything was still quite unfamiliar and it was pretty dark for reading minute print on a diddy map. Fortunately, I found a policeman and it turned out I'd been dropped nineteen, not four blocks away from my road. Just like India, where it is not uncommon to tell tourists sweet little lies, with an enigmatic waggle of the head, rather than alarm them with the truth. Anyway, I had to walk back all the way home. Then, at about 9.00 a.m., Alfonso, the concierge, knocked at my door to request access for the plumber, so I got up after just four hours' sleep. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

But the evening was worth the annoying journey back. I went to the Buenos Aires Club (again!) last night with Paola, an Argentinian girl from my class. There was quality live music: a band with three violins, a double bass played with a bow, a piano and four bandoneons! I didn't close my eyes to lose myself in the power, passion, pathos of the sounds they generated, because utterly enthralled just watching these big, beautiful men wielding their instruments, as if interacting with another human being or god in some dramatic dance, their arms held out as if in supplication, faces lifted to an invisible other, the hands coming back together as if in prayer, their faces studies in intensity. Sometimes, they would lift the instrument and bring it crashing down on their knees and the bandoneons would cry out. Indescribable.

Paola is in her twenties, has one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen, is tall and willowy and can really dance. I was very puzzled therefore, to be the first to be invited to the dance floor by the jeune premier. I raised an eyebrow and touched my chest. He nodded. I don't like to be cynical, but perhaps he was intimidated by Paola's beauty or perhaps he preferred not to dance with a tall woman. Who knows? The politics of the cabeceo* are still opaque to me. We both got to dance plenty after the first half hour, in any case, and both loved the gig.

(*invitation to dance, by making eye contact)

Club Gricel

2008-09-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed my evening at Gricel. I like the venue, the way the tables were set out around the dance floor, the size (about the size of upstairs at Negracha), the lighting (particularly the pink neon Gricel sign above the bar) and the buzz of the place. Here, they dance in the milonguero style and there are plenty of fine Argentinian dancers, many of whom are keen to speak English and do so very well, although I wish they wouldn't as I'd sooner increase my opportunities to speak Spanish. I danced with an Argentinian Colin Firth there, and although I prefer the type in the Eyelit ads (an Argentine brand of masculine underwear), dancing with him was divine and if speaking English was the price I had to pay, then happy was I to do so. I have had a couple of lessons with Oscar (of Youtube fame) at El Beso , who teaches this style as well as one superb lesson with Puchu in a tiny village outside Buenos Aires, after the asado on Spring Day and am beginning to dance more smoothly, to respond to the lead more decoratively. I look forward to going back there.

On the way back from Gricel, I had a disturbing encounter with a radio taxi driver. I was standing at the 118 bus stop in a deserted street around 2.00 a.m., when a taxi drew up. The conversation went something like this:

'Thank you, but I don't need a taxi.'
'Get in, it's dangerous for a woman to be standing alone in a place like this.'
'I'm fine, thanks. I don't have money for a taxi and the bus will be here any minute now.'
'Don't worry about the money. I'll take you. And there is no bus, today.'
'What do you mean?'
'The 118 isn't running today, didn't you know?'
'Yes it is. Thank you for your kindness, but I'm fine. Good bye.'

He wouldn't leave. I ignored him and he still carried on talking and even opened the car door, at which point I remembered the time I was abducted by a man, who stopped to ask for a light, then dragged me into his car and locked me in. He drove from Theobald's Road in central London to somewhere near Arsenal tube station and got out on the passenger side, holding me tightly in front of him, when I swung my heel on the out breath to you know where and bolted. I was nineteen and practised taekwondo, back then. I returned to the scene later, with a policeman and was able to identify the vehicle. A happy ending. Now, I was calculating how I'd deal with this one, when the dear old 118 pulled up and I leaped aboard. The taxi sped away, tyres screaming. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the number on his licence plate.

Grumpy

2008-09-22T12:42:00.000-07:00

I've just come home from a dance class, very hungry and very angry. I have had to eat into my day's budget unnecessarily because of the ludicrous lack of coins in this country. I allowed an extra half hour to get to my class, this morning, so that I would have sufficient time to stop off at a bank to exchange a note for a few coins. Some banks will exchange as many as five pesos – enough to take five buses, but many will only do three, so you just have to accept that you may need to kill off two half hour slots in one day, before three o'clock, queuing at a bank. You can be lucky and get to the front of the queue within a matter of minutes, or you can be unlucky, as I was today, and queue for half an hour. At the end of the half hour there were still six people in front of me, so I had to abandon the queue and take a taxi to class. After the lesson, I stopped off at three different places to buy things, just to get some change: a kiosk, a grocer's and an internet cafe. At each of these places, I bought or tried to buy something small: chewing gum, a prepared salad, a phone card. Not one of them was able to give me a single coin in change. Unless I can get some change somehow, after lunch, I won't be able to go to a milonga tonight. I was supposed to be meeting Lili at Club Gricel and that's too long a distance to walk and another cab would just screw up my budget. As for my afternoon class, I'll walk there and back and resign myself to writing off an extra hour.

I talked to the cab driver on the way to class and asked him why there was such a chronic shortage of change. He said it was because the Chinese buy all the coins for one and a half times what they are worth. I asked him how he knew this and he said he had a friend who worked at a bank. It does sound highly improbable, but then so does the coin shortage. He also said that if I wanted coins, I would have to get myself to a bus terminal: it was the one place you could count on getting change. The thing is, I would still need a coin to get me there!

I am eating a solitary meal at home, on my terraza, as I type: a portion of Argentinian shepherd's pie from the local grocery and a readymade salad. I am airing my gripe simultaneously, because if I didn't, I wouldn't have any appetite. The meat, as everybody knows, is excellent. And the cheese is divine. I do find that there is a tendency to over-salt and over-sweeten food, though. I have looked in a couple of supermarkets for freshly squeezed juice and there doesn't seem to be any: only sugary fruit 'nectars'. But I am not complaining, merely observing, for 'We hae meat and we can eat / for it the good Lord be thankéd.'

Feliz Primavera

2008-09-21T21:21:00.000-07:00

At my tango school, yesterday, you could either pay a fee or bring a plant. The founder of the school had just returned from an extended tour and to celebrate Spring Day, the practica was interspersed with spectacular performances of show tango by the advanced students. Watching tango is no passive affair. We clap to the rhythm, ululate and call ¡Eso! and ¡Esa! (literally this / that, but equivalent to Yes!) at especially original or complex moves. Then, when it's over, everyone kisses everyone and there are heartfelt hugs. Sometimes, tears. It is intense.

All the teachers were afileteado, yesterday. El Fileteado is a popular, decorative art that is typical of Buenos Aires. It bears some of the characteristics of the painting on English canal boats with the flourishes and curlicues of art nouveau. I asked the man doing the painting to paint me too, to show off at the evening's milonga at the Club Independencia. He painted my throat and shoulder with yellow, orange and purple flowers, dew drops and embellishments. Very pretty! So pretty, I made do with a showerless bath, this morning, so I could enjoy it for one more day.

Today was terrific: a day spent at the country house of one of Lili's friends', with about thirty other guests, all local people. We had been invited to an asado (charcoal roast) dinner and there was a sign on the gate saying Bienvenidos a enfasis en tango.

Lili drove. The speed limit here is 130 km per hour, but nobody respects it. The country house was about an hour's drive away from Recoleta, my barrio (neighbourhood). They told me that many of the workers of Buenos Aires live in this region and it takes them up to two hours to get to work - by bus: it can be chastening to learn about the lives of others.

With us were two ladies, fondly reminiscing about learning English many years ago. They came out with a stream of unmentionable expletives with much enthusiasm and asked me to teach them some more. Then, we arrived and Lily parked outside, so everyone could put on their Spring Day gear: hats and scarves covered in flowers or baby birds, the motifs of spring. There was to be a competition and one woman would be chosen by the men to be Queen of the Spring. Being afileteada, I was covered.

When we got there, I noticed there were loads of women and a handful of men. One of the women said that there were far more women in Argentina than men. Just like England, then. They were a jolly bunch with a robust sense of humour and it was a most convivial lunch. Guests would call Arre, arre, arre! to announce they had a joke to tell and just about everyone had one. Half-way through lunch, our host put on a CD and everyone burst into song. I was delighted when two of them were romantic songs I had learned in Madrid as a girl, from my schoolfriends' mother and I was able to join in lustily with the rest of them: Samba de mi esperanza and Corazon, porque no amas. The host was wonderful. He said, You know my house has no door. It really didn't.

The garden was vast. The flora tends to be grey-green in this area and I noticed wisteria, lemon trees, yucca, palms, a fig tree and a variety of parasite plants including ivy. I met some new plants, native to Argentina: a seibo (the national tree of Argentina, which bears red flowers), some nispero and glisina. Our host's five year old grandson enjoyed tearing around the land on his estate buggy and gave me a bracing round of the perimeter on the back of his vehicle.

In the evening, we went to a nearby village for a tango milonguero lesson with a very handsome tango teacher, who had been one of the guests at lunch. The class was in a tiny café, where we watched the end of a private lesson: two teenage cousins were learning tango as a surprise for their grandmother's birthday. We were just three couples, including the teacher and we had a very good lesson in milonguero posture and style. An extremely elderly lady sat looking on: she was the owner's mother and our teacher danced with her at the end of our lesson. May I have someone like him to dance with me when I'm ninety-three, please.

Cochabamba 444

2008-09-18T17:28:00.001-07:00

With a lot of help from the patient, helpful and extraordinarily caring local people, I am managing to make do without taxis. Any hour of the day or night, (including between 2.00 and 5.00 am, although this is not something I would recommend to the fainthearted, as I have been harrassed by the occasional, seedy kerb crawler), I get around on collectivos (buses) and on foot, and in the daytime, the occasional subte (underground). The bus guides are useful, but only up to a point. The trouble is that each bus, whilst having a fixed starting point and destination, often has several different routes in between. This makes it difficult to figure out where to look for bus stops. Because the city is built on a grid system, most roads take only one-way traffic. This makes it impossible to predict which of the two parallel roads flanking the outbound route, the bus will take on the return journey. I get by, asking my way around and risk walking up to a dozen blocks, rather than take a taxi. I am taking a calculated risk, living this way. My Buddhist chanting gives me the courage: worry is slander (a slander of faith.)

Cochabamba 444 last night was pure blissikins. I got to hear of it from a man I met in Plaza Dorrego, last Sunday. The milonga isn't even listed, although the class is. I gave the class a swerve and went down there at 11.00 p.m. to meet up with friends. It is a small venue, where the punters are mainly Argentinians and not many tourists lurk, which is unusual for San Telmo. The décor is local kitsch; the lighting, bright; the vibe, friendly and the drinks, cheap. There was a small band consisting of a cellist, pianist, and guitarist and singer/percussionist, playing the most exquisitely poetic, vibrant interpretations of familiar tangos. Their music was a gift, given freely for love. They played a la gorra. Dancing, live music, good company, sipping mate, drinking wine... Oh how I love being here!

Phones, pivots and pooches

2008-09-18T17:28:00.000-07:00

Last night, at the Buenos Aires club (again!) my phone kept cutting out. I was supposed to be meeting someone and somehow I managed to miss a key text of his, the one in which he mentioned where he was going. I had sent him a text message suggesting we meet at the venue I had chosen and presumed he'd be there. Both our venues had an “upstairs with live music” and we both spent time searching our respective “upstairs” for each other, sending 'Where are you?' texts, in vain. But it didn't matter, because the people are friendly and even though I have been here for under two weeks, I find I inevitably recognise at least one person from a previous venue. The Republic of Tango, although it spans the planet, is a small world. I met a man and a woman, on separate occasions last night, each of whom mentioned close friends in London, both of whom I have danced with.

Today I went to a technique class for women at Tango Brujo. The first part of the class was about about pushing off and landing securely, when taking a step. The second part was about finessing the musculature of the lower hips and inner thighs for pivoting. A group of us (three Anne's, a Rosa , a Donna and I) went to a café to wind down afterwards and we all agreed that it was a very worthwhile lesson and that this delving into minute detail was exactly why we had come here to learn. I am discovering that Buenos Aires is full people for whom tango is a religion, who have made this pilgrimage, just as the sick visit Lourdes, with the difference that there is no cure: tango is a fatal obsession. I thought, coming here for six months, I was coming here for a really long time, until I realised that people who are here for one year are commonplace. I have met people who have been here for two and three years, just for tango. They are too busy dancing to work. They would sooner starve and dance, so that's what they do. I can't imagine how I'm going to feel when it's time to tear myself away from Buenos Aires – it doesn't bear thinking about.

I live in Recoleta, (the Kensington of Buenos Aires), where everybody and their dog has a dog. One of the most endearing and typically Porteňo sights in the city streets is the dogwalker. Any London child visiting Buenos Aires would give their Gameboys to live here just to see this on a regular basis. There are of course people who walk their own dog(s), but it seems a great many turn their pooches over to the professional dogwalker. Typically, they are young people in sportswear, but sometimes, they look like retired army. So far, I have seen them walk, jog and (my favourite) cycle with with their packs, which can be as large as a twenty, (in which case, of course, they are working in two's.) The dogs come in all shapes and sizes, but what they all have in common is they are always impeccably well-behaved. I have yet to witness a dogfight, display of humping or dog turd on the pavement.

Stock-taking

2008-09-16T06:26:00.000-07:00

I am taking stock of the new things I've learned in my first week here.

Firstly, I have discovered how to warm the body up properly for tango. Most of the warm-ups in the London classes I've been to, do not limber up the body for all the tortions involved in tango. The warm up here really and truly addresses those tango needs.

Secondly, I am beginning to be serious about the three most important things in tango: technique, technique, technique. I am increasing my awareness of the individual functions of my toes, heels, knees and hips in taking a step, forwards, backwards and sideways. Let me give you an example of what I've learned about taking an elegant step forwards:

Flex the weight-bearing leg, drop the hip of the stepping leg, then lift the knee, begin to trace forward with the toe but continue the projection leading with the heel, the toes flexed back – six steps before even beginning to shift the body weight through the middle to the front, (a stage during which both knees are flexed,) lowering the rest of the forward foot to the ground incrementally, whilst straightening the back leg.

Hips, knees and heels are new friends and I am looking forward to getting to know them better. I don't think I was even aware of the need to drop the hip in taking a step backwards, nor that there is a stage during the step back during which both knees are flexed. Nor of the importance of dropping the hip in performing a giro, to give it stability. I was aware of the cork screw nature of a pivot, but I never had anyone actually hold onto my rib cage and open it outwards, so that I could feel the difference between disassociating the different parts of my torso and moving it as a block. There were, of course, classes in London, where there was a lot of one-to-one input, but there does seem to be more hands-on teaching in BsAs and both men and women get to dance in the teacher's embrace with regular frequency, which is extremely enabling.

Thirdly, I have learned some exciting, new, tango flummery, but that will serve me only when I am dancing with partners who are able to lead these moves.

However, if I am to make the most of my time here, I shall have to do regular practise by myself, just like anyone learning anything, anywhere.

Plaza Dorrego

2008-09-15T04:40:00.000-07:00

'Woke up early this morning thinking: I am eye. Eye am I. Reality exists in the eye, in the I of the beholder. What happened yesterday? Rather depends on which eye / I is looking. The glad eye / I, the miserable eye / I , the angry eye / I ... Oh, aye.

I went to Plaza Dorrego to meet up with a friend and the demon dancer for an open air Sunday evening milonga, which kicks off around 7.00 pm, once all the market traders have cleared the square of their wares and stalls. I had to negotiate my way through a samba batteria, over a cobbled street, to get to the square on time for my rendez-vous. By the time the procession reached the square, the milonga was in full swing and for some fifteen minutes, there was the feverish pounding of drums over the howl of the bandoneon, all rather surreal under the full moon.

There was the delight of live music for part of the evening and yesterday, at any rate , there was an exuberant performance of Peruvian folkloric dance, all a la gorra (with a hat for donations) and a speech, which I was not able to follow entirely, but was a political protest against the corruption of the government. There was a steady stream of heckling from one old borracho (boozer), to the delight of some and the annoyance of others. Eye / I.

They put down some kind of lino floor to dance on, at one end of the square, so it is possible to wear your Comme il faut's, if you can be bothered, though there is a grave risk of catching your stiletto on the edges, when you get crowded off the floor. I wore mine to start off with, then put my trainers back on to keep my feet warm. We had coffee to warm up our insides, but sitting around was not a viable option as it was bitterly cold. I danced with my trainers, coat and cap on, for some of the time, but found that the trainers made me clumsy, the coat made my body less sensitive to the lead and the cap poked my partners in the eye. Fortunately, there was a dome tent set up at one end of the milonga for dancers' bags and coats.

Dancing with my friend is normally a huge pleasure, but his heart didn't seem to be in it, yesterday and he sauntered off after a few dances and appeared in the distance, from time to time, like Banquo's ghost, a forbidding presence, I felt, best left to his own devices. Eye / I.

The demon dancer appeared an hour later than he'd said, but neither of us mentioned this. If we had, it would have become a reality and we would have had to deal with it. He claimed me for a savage tanda and once again, I luxuriated in being swung around the floor in his vivacious embrace, played like a saxophone, a double base, an electric guitar. Lili's teacher, a woman in her sixties, does not think the demon dances well, that his embrace is too intense, but surely the test of quality is how he makes the woman feel? Eye / I.

I enjoyed watching two little girls, the children of tourists, dancing their idea of tango in the midst of the milonga and an elderly gentleman leading his grand daughter around the floor, a most accomplished couple. I danced with another few dancers, including an American from the dance school, an Argentino from last night's milonga and a very charming man, whose Croatian girlfriend I met, who recommended the Cochabamba milonga on Thursday nights.

I considered going on to another venue, but thought better of it, so as to be in a fit state to do a good day's dancing on Monday at the dance school.

Buenos Aires Club

2008-09-14T13:04:00.000-07:00

'Went to the Buenos Aires Club last night, some time after midnight. I didn't get in till five a.m. and don't feel the least bit tired. Funny the way the body adjusts easily, so long as there's a good enough incentive. I'm reminded of the story someone once told me about having a raging toothache, which disappeared the instant he was informed he was being released from prison. I went there to dance, of course, but also specifically to dance with the demon dancer of the night before. Of course I did.

I felt slightly intimidated at the thought of going out alone at that hour, so I took a taxi, but this can't go on for much longer or I shall run out of funds. A taxi costs as much as eating out. I shall just have to get the hang of the routes of the various local collectivos, (buses.) The bus guidebooks are easy to use, so long as you have plenty of time to trace the route on a map, before setting out. The trouble is, I'm always in a hurry. The other reason it can be hard taking a collectivo is that they only accept coins and there is a critical shortage of coins in Argentina. I talked to a lady at a kiosk about this and she said the reason for this is that it costs more to mint a coin than the coin is worth. I still don't get it. Why then do the buses insist on accepting only coins, when there aren't sufficient? I shall have to get to the bottom of this.

Anyway... the Buenos Aires Club is a chilled out, boho joint, where they have live music and if you're lucky, a cabaret, thrown in with the milonga. I met a Frenchman who had given up his life, house, car and all other belongings to move to Buenos Aires just for tango. I also met up with a couple of guys I'd danced with in other milongas as well as meeting a few new faces. I danced all evening and had a satisfying number of tandas (sets of dances) with the demon dancer. It was easy, it was fun. I've been here just over a week and already I feel at home in this city.

At around three thirty, the dream dancer approached me with his flashing eyes and said that he was off and would I like to leave too. We left.

Opportunity is confronting. Fear is not 'real,' yet it feels more real than reality. Expectation is informed by habit. Therefore very likely misinformed. I know this. And yet, I feel compelled to deny possibility, to stay with what I know, to be safe inside the box, inside my comfort zone. Like many people I know, I don't tend to get close to someone just because I can. I need to construct a conventional context, to invent a story, to safeguard and to justify. Tango is a such a context, and an exquisite one. Connecting with another in beauty is the pleasure of tango. But outside of such a context, ooooh, I don't know. Best weave a circle round him thrice.*

(Kubla Khan, by S. T. Coleridge)

Canning

2008-09-14T11:51:00.000-07:00

Wow! It's nearly 4 a.m. and Maria-Amelia and I have just returned from Canning and there's absolutely no chance of me getting any sleep. I didn't stop dancing all evening. And I danced with an unnecessarily thrilling dancer, probably the best dancer I've ever danced with, tonight. Not once, but five times – that's about twenty dances. Lili saw me dancing with him and said the Spanish equivalent of “I've been watching that man with my tongue hanging out for years and he's never asked me to dance, you jammy bitch!” How can I explain what it was like? He didn't dance with me, he danced me, possessed me, invaded me and played me like a musical instrument, with a virtuosity and a tenderness and a virility bordering on brutality. I felt like a rag doll in his arms and my legs flew of their own accord into perfect voleos and ganchos. At least they felt perfect. I wasn't watching. A big, beautiful Argentino and yes, he had the obligatory ponytail. What's more, he spoke English well and made good conversation. He said where he'd be tomorrow and gave me his contact details. Huh! He was too good to be true and quite frankly, I don't care if I never dance with him again, though it would be nice. I could become possessed, the woman wailing for her demon-lover*. If I were to get used to him, other guys would only disappoint. All the same, I can't sleep.

(* Kubla Khan, S.T. Coleridge)

Tango Brujo

2008-09-10T12:15:00.000-07:00

Todo is going well. Last month at Negracha, I got talking to an Italian girl and discovered we were going to be in BsAs at the same time, so we arranged to meet up. Francesca is lucky enough to be here as part of her PhD project, interviewing economists, sociologists and politicians. She suggested we meet today at another tango school: Tango Brujo (Tango Wizard, in case you don't speak Spanish.) It was a beautiful studio, spacious and serene, with dark wooden floors, burgundy drapes and cushions, but no mirrors. (I like mirrors, me.)

The class was superb. The school is quite a long way from where I live. I had to take a taxi to get there, but I'm still going back for more, next week. There were just ten students in the intermediate class. The teachers were José and Natalia and they really looked after us. The focus was on the technique of colgadas, specifically changing direction with a colgada turn. I've not done these before and they took some mastering, but by the end of the lesson, I was doing them well. What am I going to do when I get back to London? Please, guys, come over and learn how to lead these moves, or us chicas will end up forgetting everything we've learned.

Francesca and I leched at the shoes downstairs on our way to have some lunch: we had a very tasty spinach and pumpkin tart and I had my first Quilmes, a very morish Argentinian beer: crisp, dry and very hoppy. Naaaice!

In the evening, I joined Lili and friends for a practica at the Western Hotel. I went early and joined the beginners class - as a leader. I learned how to lead the repentida, which is a kind of ocho cortado. The women were very patient. Predictably, people had difficulties pronouncing my name. The teacher, Carlos, kept calling me Sasín and Sasí, which reminded me of Zazie as in Zazie dans le Métro, a novel written in the sixties by Raymond Queneau (a must, if you haven't already read it.) Being a newbie in Beunos Aires, I feel a bit like the eleven-year old, wandering around Paris. I might just adopt her name. Zazie danse le tango. Hmmm.

The real highlight of the evening, however, was the parilla*, where over a dozen of us went to dine around eleven pm. (* A restaurant specialising in charcoal-grilled meat – the Hispanic equivalent of the Tandoori.) I ordered lomo de bife (loin of beef), because I'm worth it. And because I never permit myself to pay for one in a London restaurant. The steak (big as my face, it was), with salad and wine came to seven quid, including the tip. The company was great. Lili's friends were very interesting. Near me, there sat an architect, a lawyer, a university lecturer and Lili, who is a psychologist. I conversed in Spanish all evening and I've been invited to a parilla with tango outside Buenos Aires on the first day of spring.

DNI: This is what I came for

2008-09-08T21:34:00.000-07:00

My first day at DNI tango school was everything I had hoped it would be and more. It has completely soothed away the sting of the milonga at El Beso. In fact, quite a few of the dancers from El Beso were in the classes (I did three, today, but no milonga) and I danced with everyone. The teachers were god-like in form and movement. Also, extremely nurturing. Sometimes, they even kiss you when you get it right. Yes, they do. The standard of dancing and teaching is, over all, much higher here than in London and I experienced none of the snobbery I have experienced in classes in London. Thanks to Danny Israel, whose book about tango is soon to come out, as well as my friend Flor, for telling me about this incredible place.

El Beso: Merry Christmas from the very smug

2008-09-08T21:29:00.000-07:00

My second milonga, I went to El Beso with my Brazilian flatmate, who has been dancing tango for fifteen years. Headstrong from the success of my first milonga, it didn't occur to me that this one would be any different. In fact I even sent an email to a friend, who is about to come out here, saying something like: “I must have danced with about fifteen men... they say the Argentines won't dance with tourists, but that's just a load of old hooey.”

Once, a long time ago, in Camden Lock, I found a bunch of Christmas cards that said, “Merry Christmas from the very smug”. They amused me and I thought they expressed perfectly the way I felt about things, that year. That was just before the most painful point in my life. I have to say that Sunday night at El Beso was the most excruciating milonga ever and I sure as hell wish I hadn't tempted fate, sending that email. Let me tell you what it was like: we were shown to seats furthest back from the dance floor. No one made eye contact with us for the first hour. Nobody had seen us dance, which in my case, would have made little difference, but in my flatmate's case, would surely have made some: she's a good dancer. I made an internal vow that if someone asked her to dance, I would go out of my way to do something good the following day. At last, someone made eye contact with her and she rose to meet him on the dance floor. When she sat down, her partner asked me to dance. At El Beso, (the Kiss) I loved that when people met to dance on the floor, they first exchanged a kiss, even with strangers. Other than him, I had one other person ask me to dance. One. That's a total of two partners all evening. We left early, around one a.m.

The first few days

2008-09-08T21:24:00.000-07:00

I spent the first night at Lili's. We had lunch the next day with quite the most delicious wine. After that, it took me half a day to move in. Then, in the evening, I joined Liliana and her friends at an Open Mic night at Bar Canto Afiche, where we were in a room full of artistes. We were the only four people who didn't perform. The compère came round to talk to everyone, including me and to my astonishment, at the start of the evening, she made a special introductory speech about me to the audience. The food tasted home-made, the wine was good, the music was Bolero and Tango and they sang with such emotion, such passion, I fell even more deeply in love with Argentina, if that is possible. Oh yes, and one of the singers announced that his song was about me. Flattery works, every time.

On Sunday, I did my first supermarket shop and then went to San Telmo with Maria Amelia, my flatmate. We ambled around the markets, ate pizza (Argentinian pizza is superb: better than Italian or even American) and pressed our noses to all the antique shop windows. I couldn't stop wondering how I could bring some of those gorgeous, antique chandeliers back home with me. If my sister were here (and I could get her to agree), I'm sure she'd have found a way. Maria Amelia and I had hoped to go to the outdoor milonga at Plaza Dorrego, but it didn't appear to be happening, so we went to a charming cabaret café called El Balcon by the plaza, for a tango show. I loved it. The audience was invited to dance on the stage with the performers: I'd like to do that one day, but in the mean time I'll make do with watching American tourists have fun making fools of themselves.

This morning, I went to the fridge to find the stuff I had bought for breakfast and it was nowhere to be seen. I couldn't understand what could have happened to my groceries and everyone was out. Then on my way out, I noticed the dining table had been beautifully laid for breakfast with all my things arranged appetisingly on plates, and a flask of boiling water prepared for my coffee. How thoughtful is that! As no one was about, I took it up on a tray to the sun terrace and had my first breakfast at home exactly the way I think breakfast should be – serene, outside, under a clear, blue sky, surrounded by plants. I think I'll do this every day.

Day One

2008-09-08T21:23:00.000-07:00

My first day in Buenos Aires was perfect from start to finish. As we landed, the whole plane burst into applause. I found that strangely touching. We arrived on time; it took a couple of minutes to get through Immigration; my suitcases were on the conveyor belt within ten, intact; Aldo Escobar, taxi driver extraordinaire, was there to greet me and to my amazement kissed me on both cheeks. They don't do that in England, taxi drivers, do they? He kept calling me Nathnaynay and I let him. He'd heard I was here for tango, so he talked about La Boca and San Telmo, advised me to go to the Feria de Mataderos on Sundays, reckoned I should go to the area surrounding Abasto to buy tango things. He showed me the road separating Greater Buenos Aires from the capital, he pointed out a cable factory and I found out that San Casetano is the patron saint of work. I might just download a picture of him for the wall paper on my desktop.

Lili was waiting for me in her bijou flat in Palermo Hollywood. I'd never met her before - she is the friend of a friend of a friend – and yet, it was just like meeting an old school friend. Her spare room is an elegant shoe box, so I said to her that it would make more sense to find somewhere to live on day one itself. She made me lunch and spent most of the day poring over the websites of letting agents with me and making calls on my behalf. We found something pretty soon and went to see it later on, but not before seeing her Podiatrist, a lovely guy, who also kissed me on both cheeks. You don't get that on Camden's Podiatry service – they asked me to fill out a questionnaire, just before I left, and I didn't think to mention that their Podiatrists were failing to kiss me.

My new home is a penthouse flat with a large sun terrace, on the 9th floor in salubrious Recoleta, the Kensington of Buenos Aires. When we went to check it out, I was very impressed with the posh entrance and the rather attractive concierge, but when I entered the crimson living room, with it's elegant drapes, the kind you see in stately homes, I knew I had landed on my feet. I chose the room with the better shower, rather than the one with the jacuzzi. I can always be friends with my flatmates and what's to stop us sharing? The landlady lives in and is a total sweetheart. I emerged from my shower the following day to find a note slipped under my door, saying “Breakfast is free – please join me.” She has expressed an interest in showing me round and she and I are going to go out together and see the sights. She, my Brazilian flatmate and I speak to each other in Spanish, as it is the language we have in common. If anyone knows anyone who is coming out to Buenos Aires and needs somewhere to live, there are about to be two spare rooms here.

Lili and I went out to dinner and I had my first succulent Argentinian steak. Pure blissikins! We then went on to a dance class and milonga at Canning, Palermo. Canning is very reserved, very bourgeois and only traditional tangos are played and the milonguero style is the order of the day. Lili thought my top was a bit risqué, but I wore it anyway. She introduced me to all her friends and she had many. Some fifteen men asked me to dance. I was in tango heaven.

Reach for the duvet

2008-09-07T10:40:00.000-07:00

[Yes, this is two days old.]
I am writing this as I sit on the 747 to Buenos Aires. This is what it can be like rocking on a cocktail of anxiety and euphoria, forty-eight hours before making a dream come true. An endless loop of reaching for the sky and reaching for the duvet. I booked the ticket a month ago, so I've had plenty of time to prepare my head and to paper pack my non-existent bags. I imagined the real packing wouldn't need to be done until the eve of travel, so left buying them till a few days ago, when I spotted a set of matching luggage for just £40 at Poundstretcher, (the Harvey Nicks of the incorrigibly thrifty.) I didn't notice the cunningly-worded small print on the seductive three year guarantee till I got home, but hell, at times you've just got to suffer what there is to suffer. I invited my sister over to help me pack as she is not terminally whimsical. Naturally she stood there tutting and all vainly sighing as I protested, “Yes, I do need to pack the hole-punch – I couldn't possibly live without one, nor without double-sided sticky tape, nor Columbian coffee.” I managed not only to use up the extraordinarily generous 46 Kg allowance for checked-in baggage, but also to go over by one Kg on each bag.

Later that evening, I had an instinct to double-check the baggage allowance. What if I had misread the information and the 46 Kg applied only to Business Class and I hadn't noticed? If I arrived on the day at the Alitalia check-in desk to find the allowance was in fact 20 Kg, I'd have rather a generous portion of egg on my face. We checked the Alitalia website and guess what? The allowance was 20 Kg for all economy flights other than flights to the US and Canada. But what about my sister's packing? It's an art form! Mortified, I phoned the Alitalia contact number to raise my concerns with a rep, who answered soothingly, “Don't-a worry. Is not a problem-a. For Buenos Aires, two bags-a 23 kilos is fine-a.” I could have kissed her. Still, the fact remained that I was still overweight and stubbornly refusing to jettison a single item. I think I hoped the check-in staff would turn a blind eye to the extra weight or accept a sob story about dodgy weighing scales and false readings. There was also the worry that the stitching on my budget luggage might not be able to cope with all my crucially important belongings straining to get out. I could always have the bags swathed in polythene. John Burningham's “Would you rather...?” came to mind. If they did turn a blind eye, there was the prospect risking a Tracy Emin - over the apron of Ezeiza airport. If, on the other hand, I got them wrapped, I would have no choice but to pay for excess baggage because it would then be too late to shovel the sh** into a backpack, which my girls could then take home. Such are the preoccupations of my vacant mind. It was all right in the end. The bags went through and nothing burst. But we did have to turn back on the way to board the Piccadilly line at King's Cross, when I suddenly realised I'd left my mobile at home, on the chest of drawers. Then at Heathrow, as I headed for Gate 28, a phone went off in my hand bag, a phone with an unfamiliar ring tone. Isn't life eventful? Clearly one of my daughters had put it there and forgotten to retrieve it. Anyway, I managed to sprint back to Security, return the phone and catch my plane.

Later: I'm back. We're just flying over Casablanca, having eaten a very acceptable dinner. “Pasta o carne?” I chose carne. Although it was more well-done than I'd have chosen, it was beautifully tender. I think it's a miracle how they manage to feed the five hundred all at the same time to the standard they do and have no time for sybaritic snobs who pooh-pooh airline nosh.

With so much trivia to occupy me, I didn't really get to use the last few days to reflect on my life to date or to set any goals. I feel an existential crisis looming, so I think I'll just reach for the duvet, or rather, the Alitalia stripey, blue rug, even if the colour doesn't really suit me. Goodnight!
I

Reach for the sky - because

2008-08-24T07:22:00.000-07:00

Last night, my niece and I went to the cinema to see Man on Wire and were completely blown away. You need to see this film. It is a most extraordinary tale of art, passion, faith and possibility. I guarantee it will purge you of any trace of smugness or fear, for ever. Well, for at least an hour. It certainly cleared me of both in relation to carpe-ing my diem, upping sticks and prancing off to BA for six months to brush up my tango. However, if you'd like a second opinion, you could do worse than read Peter Bradshaw's article about the film in the Guardian, Friday August 1, 2008.

Philippe Petit's coup reminded me of words I'd once come across that engraved themselves on my mind, in a speech wrongly attributed to Nelson Mandela, because he had once quoted them:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light , not our darkness, that most frightens us..."

(Our Greatest Fear by Marianne Williamson from her book A Return To Love)

Is my thought for the day. Now, put that in your banned and socially unacceptable pipe and smoke it. Be inspired. And get on with your day.

Falling into place

2008-08-19T02:31:00.000-07:00

Aaaooooo! [Howls at moon] Things are looking up! I now have a den to hole up in as soon as I get to BsAs. It's in posh Palermo, near all the milongas, with a tango-dancing psychologist, no less - yeah baby! I get to have all my needs satisfied at once.

As I'm going to be hanging round there for a while, I want to socialise with Porteños, not be restricted to fleeting encounters with passing tourists or lost in space. She will be my gateway, my runway, my take-off into BsAs society. She'll gen me up on her city and I'll do the same for her when she visits London. We'll also be leaking languages into each other as I need to brush up my Spanish and she, her English. Right now, we can just about understand each other's emails.

It came about through good, old-fashioned social networking - she is a real friend of a real friend of a real friend, as opposed to a Fakebook acquisition or some fictional correspondent invented by a bored thirteen year old. I had been prepared to arrive there with no plans, to take a taxi to San Telmo, stop at a wi fi café and browse the net for my new home over a breakfast of chocolate con churros - that might have been tedious, rather than adventurous, when lumbered with luggage and full of sleep. Speaking of which, I need to go out now and buy myself a lightweight laptop and tri-band phone, whatever that is.

Hasta mañana, or pretty soon...

In praise of ponytails

2008-08-18T03:01:00.000-07:00

Life is gorgeously unpredictable. Yet it is a universal perversion to speculate, anticipate, expect. I expect I shall meet a man with a ponytail in Bs As. I expect the city is peopled with them. Certainly, a fair few of the Argentine, male tangueros in London sport a ponytail. So that would be a fair assumption to make.

Of course, it has to be worth the name. There is nothing wrong with having a few sweaty strands tied back in a rubber band, but that is not a ponytail. I am talking abundance. There was a fine ponytail at the milonga yesterday; it belonged to a North London man. I obsessed a little about it as I drifted off to sleep. What is it about the ponytail that grabs me? Let me see.

Perhaps there is a subliminal connection with horses and it triggers the awe and doting first experienced in the context of riding, as an adolescent girl. As children, a poem my sister and I would recite over and over again with ever-increasing gusto, was the unabashedly romantic The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes:

"Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding __ riding __ riding..."

Then again, maybe I associate it with the gallantry of the courtly tradition, honour and valour, Lancelot and Guinevere, the knight at arms rescuing damsels in distress. Maybe, like so many nice women, I'd really rather be La Belle Dame sans Merci toying with the heart of a palely loitering knight with a ponytail. But I haven't researched this at all; perhaps they never wore ponytails, other than in school plays.

Few men wear a ponytail, nowadays, so it has to be a deliberate choice, which suggests there is an unspoken declaration going on, something like: Look at me. Enjoy me. I am a magnificent male. It intimates confidence, which is always attractive; possibly vanity. Though it might not be not everyone's cup of tea, vanity can be both entertaining and endearing in a man.

And here, I must quote the song, My Conviction (from Hair, the musical ):

I would just like to say that it is my conviction
That longer hair and other flamboyant affectations
Of appearance are nothing more
Than the male's emergence from his drab camouflage
Into the gaudy plumage
Which is the birthright of his sex
There is a peculiar notion that elegant plumage
And fine feathers are not proper for the male
When aaaaaaaa-ctually
That is the way things are
In most species

And then there is the heady experience itself that escapes description: the luxurious sensation of connecting with a man in tango, your hand resting on a masculine trapezius muscle cloaked in the lush silk of his mane.

Then again, perhaps I just like the way it looks fanned out over my hips.

Mmm... Come right back!

Connecting

2008-08-17T04:54:00.001-07:00

This is my blog - una inquietante mirada, (a disturbing look) at my latest bid for world domination. Because, let's face it, world domination is what it's all about. Ain't it the truth? It is what drives us - even the suicides, the feeble-minded and the genuinely lovely people of this world.

On this occasion, it is about going to Buenos Aires to improve my tango. To be better than. And also because I love tango. Really want to believe that I'll be doing more than eating steak and buying shoes in Argentina, that I'll be loyal to this new love. Being projectoholic, have flirted with loyalty before. See, I'm even avoiding writing "I" too often in order to make you like me, so you'll read on. World domination. Just can't help myself.

I'd like to share the adventure with you. I want you to read it as if it is written for you alone and I'd love you to respond. I'm booked to fly out on 4 September. Gimme glove. Y'all come back, now.