Pancakes on Sunday

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?