TangoSpam:La Vida Con Deby

The Gods are Crazy...or something

From where I sit on my balcony I will give you a tour of the nightmare that will probably happen here in Buenos AIres.  A city full of unfinished apartment buildings.  The other part of the nightmare.  The first part. The destruction of all the beautiful buildings destroyed to make room for all these modern nightmares.

See this ugly tower apartment? I think the architect who designed it should have his hands chopped off.  Besides being ugly, it does not,  like the rest of these mammoth buildings belong in this barrio, especially in this part.  I am not sure where it belongs, just not here.  It is like there was a contest to design the ugliest apartment building.  Rather than just one winner, there are several.  Or are they losers?  No, we are the losers.  We have to live with them.

Every day I sit out on my balcony.  I drink cafe.  During the day I bring out my computer sometimes or I chat on the phone.  For the last 3 weeks there has been no one working on this building.  Not one contruction worker to be found.  I have walked by and the lot is empty.  Quiet.  The only thing that has changed is that there are now two salespeople in an office where there was once one.  They sit there bored.  Eating, talking, smoking.

To the right down the block on the corner, an old restaurant was bulldozed to make way for an apart hotel for tourists.  This is a hotel that has apartment like qualities. Up until about 2 weeks ago it was full of busy workers.  Now I notice just a few walking around doing things.

The other building now blocking my view has been open for over a year. It is still half sold.  White paper now adorns the windows of the empty apartments.  On Charcas across Scalabrini is another monster apartment building.  Painfully obvious that it is mostly empty.  The guard sits there day after day.

Two blocks down there are some smaller buildings.  I have started to keep an eye on them as well.  Same thing almost nothing.  This seems to be a trend in the neighborhood.  Of course it did not stop the sign from going up on the near corner of Guatemala and Oro for another nightmare building.  What is wrong with these people?  Can't they see that construction is starting to stop around the barrio?  That no one is buying these ugly, low quality, expensive apartments?  They are not crazy, they are out of their minds.

Argentines will tell you that they are being sold.  That foreigners or farmers are buying them.  If that is the case, then why are the ones in construction just sitting there?  Why are the finished ones sitting empty?  And the biggest question of all?  Why are they still trying to build more of them?

All pictures were taken from my balcony on a sunny day at 11:45 am

Something Old, Something New

"What do you want to do tonight?"  Sandra asks me.  I tell her I am tired of the same old milongas.  I want to go somewhere different. I suggest we go to Las Glorietas Argentinas.  "That place? It's full of old people and couples."  "Well then, you should love it."  I tell her.  "You like old men, so it should be perfect."  We have a running joke about how she loves the men 20 years older than she, and I like them 20 years younger.

Las Glorietas is out in Mataderos.  This is the barrio where the slaughter houses are.  This is an old barrio.  The streets are still cobblestone in most places.  It is not all that charming.  Most days the smell from the slaughter houses is overwhelming.  We decide we should go in a taxi rather than the bus.  Sandra calls Marta to meet us there.  She lives in Floresta which is close by.

Strangely enough, Marta is a mutual friend.  I have known her for years.  One of those people that whenever you see them, you say, "We should get together."  But you never do.  At one of Sandra's birthday parties, Marta showed up.  What a surprise. 

Neither one of us have been here in years.  I think I last came in 2001, Sandra says maybe 2003 for her. The milonga is far from the central.  Our taxi driver is adorable.  He finds Sandra and I a great comedy team.  Here we are all dressed up.  Going to a part of the Capital way far out.  Me the foreigner giving directions.

When we get there, I wonder if we are overdressed.  The truth is we are.  The people here are very humble.  Las Glorietas is in a recreation hall, a community center.  There is wood paneling on the walls, the floor is tiled.  The tables line the floor.  The place is packed.

It turns out the organizer knows us.  I know lots of people, but I don't always know their names.  A name in a book means nothing to me.  A face is a 1000 words.  "What have I done to have you two beautiful girls come to my milonga?"  He asks.   We both laugh, until he tells us that there is no room to sit.  Sandra tells him we are with Marta.  He tells us there is no room.  Sandra pouts.  He puts us at a table in the back.  She is mad. 

The girl at the table Natalia is beautiful.  She says we can't sit there.  Her friend has reserved it for 6.  We explain we are waiting for Marta.  We look around the room.  Lots of people I know.  Men who play single during the week are here with their wives.  I always love to see what the wives look like.  I am sure they come out here so that the women they play with during the week do not see them with their wives.  We do not exist to them here.  How could we?  They would have to explain to their wives how they know us.  Better to pretend they don't.

I see Nido.  He comes to the table to greet me.  Dany Garcia is also here.  There is to be an exhibition  Marta comes in, we see her and wave her over.  Sandra immediately starts to whine about the table.  Marta tells her not to worry.  She goes up to the organizer and before you know it we are at one of the best tables in front.  Now Sandra is happy.

We look around.  There are all ages here.  There are babies, children, all the way to probably great grand parents.  No comme il fauts here.  No Neo Tango.  These are not people who spend $1000 of pesos on private lessons and shoes.  These are people who were taught by an uncle, a mother, a cousin.  Simple plain tango. They come here to eat dinner, dance, and socialize.  No histeria.

The exhibitions are sprinkled throughout the night.  Some of the dancers are so bad, you wonder how they have the nerve to perform.  One young woman advertises herself as a teacher.  Her dancing is so poor, I feel like I should offer her lessons.  Her partner shuffles her around the floor while they look at each other's feet.  What is even sadder is they tour outside the country.  I can just hear Americans and the British saying "But they are Argentine."  So what.  They can't dance. Dany Garcia, Pibe Avellenada, and Luna Palacios are spectacular. 

I dance with Mario.  He is surprised to see me here.  This guy must be 85 years old at least.  He asks me if I know the orchestra.  I tell him "Yes, Miguel Calo."  "Do you know the singer?"  I shake my head no.  He tells me who it is.  Then he tells me that in the late 40s, he had a girlfriend who was from Paraguay. Her sister was the girlfriend of Miguel Calo.  On Saturdays he would play on Corrientes.  He and his girlfriend would go to hear Miguel Calo play.  "After", he tells me. "We would go to eat.  Miguel would always fall asleep , his head on table."

Horacio is here from La Baldosa.  He reminds me that I have not been to his milonga this year.  We have a running joke about how I go to his milonga once a year.  I tell him it is only February, I have 10 more months.  Maybe next month.  I can only take so many barrio milongas.

Marta orders pizza.  When it comes to the table our eyes are huge.  The pizza is worth the trip out here, and it is cheap!  We drink cheap red wine and eat pizza.  Before we know it, it is 3:30 am.  We ask the woman at the door to call us a remise.  We stand outside and wait for it.  Pibe and Dany come to greet us.  Pibe wants me to come to La Viruta with them.  NOT!  Dany laughs.  He knows I will not go.

Sandra and I agree it has been a fun night.  Something different to do. Something old, something new. It will probably be another 5 - 7 years before I come out here again.

The Milonga is the Best Teacher

It is Monday night. Usually I go to Gricel to dance.  Their air conditioning has been almost non-existent.  It is more like going to a Turkish bath than a milonga.  People start to get crabby.  I think I would prefer to stay home and go to bed early.

My phone rings.  It is Kara.  She wants to know if I am going to go out tonight.  I hesitate.  "No,"  I tell her. "I am pretty tired.  I think I am going to stay home."  She is disappointed.  I can hear it in her voice.  I feel bad.  I know she doesn't want to go alone.  "Let me take a nap, and call you."  I tell her.

I think about it after I get off the phone.  "Oh why not just go.  Who needs to sleep anyway?"  I call her back and tell her we should meet outside Gricel at midnight."  I won't have my table.  But that is OK.  We will find somewhere to sit.

I meet Kara outside.  We go in.  The place is over-crowded.  The air conditioning is still not working.  I feel like I am in a sweat box of crowded bodies.  We have to sit up front.  I go to greet my friends. They all want to know where I am sitting.  I point to the front.  Everyone is complaining about the lack of air conditioning.

Someone touches me from behind.  "Deby?"  I turn around.  It is Pampa Cortes.  He used to be in the cast of Forever Tango.  When they came to San Francisco, he ended up staying.  He taught for years in the Bay Area before moving to Europe.  I haven't seen him for awhile.  He told me he is here in BA until the 22nd of February and then he will be going back to the U.S. to do two shows.  One in San Francisco and the other in Houston.  He may stay in Houston awhile. "I will see you later" he says to me.  "We will dance."  "Yeah right"  I think to myself.  Pampa never invites me to dance.  He is one of those teachers that always says that.  I understand.  After dancing with students all day, they do not want to dance in the milonga.  When they dance, they want to enjoy it.

I go back to my table. It is almost impossible to dance.  Jorge and Ale come in.  They drive Kara crazy. I adore them.  They are my buddies. I tease Jorge that Sandra and I are his "madrinas."  (Godmothers) I am still looking around for dances.  I have a couple of tandas.  Tonight would be a night I have to wait until later to dance.

A tanda of my favorite vals come on. I really want to dance. I look around to see who might be able to dance to this tanda. These are not easy valses. I look across the room. Pampa is inviting me.  "Cool"  I think to myself.  I wait for him to cross the room to get me. He leads me to the floor.  This is heaven.  He turns me.  I can make the full disassociation with him, and I can do my favorite step.  I stop mid giro and balance on one foot and slowly come out of it. 

When the first song ends we look at each other.  At the same time we both go "Wow!"  It has been 7 years or more since Pampa first (and last) danced with me.  It was after a class with him.  I guess that was enough!  Every time I saw him in San Francisco or here, he would always say that we would dance later.  Later never came.  I guess that fated dance from 7 years ago was still burned into his memory. I have improved a lot since then.

Each song is better.  I never want this tanda to end.  It is rare than I am able to dance with a bailarin.  I dance with men who dance, but few who are bailarins.  He has cadencia and passion.  He is fluid.  He moves like a cat.  I feel free.  I can turn, I can move. Yes, he danced in Forever Tango, but show dancers are rarely social dancers. Most of them cannot even lead.  La marca de Pampa es un sueño. (Pampa's lead is a dream)

When the tanda ends Pampa takes my hands.  "Deby wow!" He says to me. I laugh.  My friend Stuart in San Francisco, once told me dancing with me is like driving a Ferrari.  "I think I have improved since we last danced." I say to him.  Pampa looks at me.  "The milonga is the best teacher," he says.  I nod in agreement.  It was where I learned to dance.  " You can take 100s of lessons" he tells me.  "But the milonga is the best  teacher."  Lucky Houston.