TangoSpam:La Vida Con Deby

Are you listening La Presidenta? The people have spoken.

I love politics.  I love politics the way some people love movies or television.  Only to me politics are real.  I have loved politics since I was a teenager.  I don’t remember exactly when it was I began my love affair with them, but I suspect it was when Lyndon Johnson ran for President. I was mesmerized with the entire process.  It was much more interesting than the Miss America contest.  At least to me, young as I was.  I was too fat for a bathing suit, although I loved the talent contest. I never wanted to be Miss America. Never.  The bathing suit thing was a real hangup. Besides, listening to all those senators was much more interesting.  They really had something to say.

I never remember a time where I was not involved in politics at some level, national, city, state, and even neighborhood.  I was always fascinated by how the machine moved and who moved it.  It was like playing checkers. 

Now I live here, in Argentina. I am happy Obama is the president of the U.S., but to be honest, I am not really all that interested in U.S. politics anymore.  They do not affect me on a daily basis.  It is the politics of Argentina that affect me.  They cause my daily expenses to go out of control.  Make life a little less secure.

Argentine politics are complex.  Especially when you need to learn about them in another language.  I don’t read the Wall Street Journal and Mary O’Grady to get my opinions. She would probably prefer to colonize Latin America and be done with it. The Economist is another.  While maybe they don’t want to colonize Latin America they certainly think that the Western world is the only world that knows how.  (They certainly do, just look at the mess they created.)

I read both papers – Clarin and La Nacion.  I read Perfil, Pagina 12 and my all time favorite, the magazine Noticias.  Noticias is not afraid to come out and say what they really think about the government. Then there are the taxi drivers.  They always have an opinion.  I am a news junkie.  I started watching Argentine TV news when I got here to better understand the accent and pick up the language. TN, AN, TeleFe, C5N.  I watch them all.  Little by little I started to understand.

What was becoming obvious is that the media was not printing or broadcasting was was really going on.  The emperor’s new clothes was becoming the reality of living in Argentina. The government would quote figures that were unreal.  Prices were going higher and higher, yet the government said they were not.  The signs were all around the economy was going to “baja” and La Presidenta was saying how great things were.

Christina and Nestor wanted to rule forever.  They had this dynasty thing going on. Along with Hugo in Venezuela they thought they had things figured out.  It was amazing to me how a President would continually ignore the demands of the people. It is amazing to me how arrogant she and her husband are, and how they think they can get away with it.

Then things began to change. First Julio Cobos the vice president voted against her and voted with the “campo”.  It was a historic vote.  Amazing when you stop to think about it.  Rather than hold out the olive branch and take a step towards healing wounds, “La Presidenta” raccoon eyes and all chose to ignore the situation as well as the vice president.  To this day she has refused to speak to him and has turned him into a hero.  He is adored throughout the country for taking a stand on principle. He has continued to speak in favor of the people and go against the president and her policies.

Little by little the support for the old Peronist party was falling away.  We needed change here.  The old way of doing business was not working.  People here admired Obama and felt sorry for him having to deal with years of corruption.  “We need an Obama.” is what they would say to me.  To preserve the dynasty the President decided to move up the October elections to June figuring the opposition would never have time to mount a reasonable campaign and her husband, the other part of the dynamic duo decided to run for diputado. (Congressman of the lower house)The official excuse was we the people would be too bothered with a bad economy in October to deal with elections.  Huh?

What they didn’t plan on was Francisco De Narváez a wealthy businessman running a well organized campaign.   He admired Obama.  He spent time analyzing the Obama campaign and met with representatives of Obama’s campaign staff.  He patterned his campaign much like Obama’s.

He is an interesting guy.  He dropped out of school, yet Harvard Business School uses as a model his company Casa Tia.  He owns many companies including American TV. He is a Colombian by birth.  He came to Argentina when he was 3 and is a naturalized citizen.

He united with Mauricio Macri the mayor of Buenos Aires and Gabriela Michetti to run his campaign.  People were doubtful he would win.  “They will pay people to vote for Kirchner.” is what my friends said.  “They will falsify ballots.” “They will do what they have to win.”  I did not want Nestor Kirchner to win.  I did not know anyone who did.

What was the turning point?  Was it when Christina helped Hugo buy an Argentine business in Venezuela?  That seemed to scare the hell out of the business community here.  Finally.  De Narváez asked people “Do you want to be like Chile and Brasil?  Or do you want to be like Venezuela?” No one wants to be like Venezuela and the sale of Techint to the Venezuela government pushed the envelope. It was a wake up call.

Or maybe it was when they tried to make De Narváez look like an ephedrine drug lord because one of his 350 employees used one of his 350 company cell phones in his name to make drug buys. They were trying to get a hearing against him 2 weeks before the election. Jeesh! Even my cleaning lady saw through the dirty politics of that maneuver.

When all fails in dirty politics you can always use the flu.  Five days before the election the government was going loco publicizing the swine flu.  50 times a minute were the perils of the “gripe porcina.”  Along with the travails of the “gripe porcina” were the dangers of voting.  Explicit instructions were given on how to best vote during this horrid epidemic of flu.

What effect do you think this had? In my building I overheard a conversation between several neighbors debating whether or not to go vote because of the flu. La norteamericana stepped in “You have to go vote.”  I told them.  “You have to. They are using the flu to manipulate you to not vote.”  Can you imagine?  All eyes were on me.  “Look,”  I told them, “This flu is bad, but last year in Argentina over 8,000 people died of the flu, this year there are 17.  My HMO is not full of people.  It is the same as always.”

My neighbors are shocked.  How come they never think of these things?  Too many years of living in the Bay Area.  “You can check the numbers on Google.”  I tell them. “They don’t want you to vote.  Intelligent people are not going to vote for Kirchner.” They laugh. “Vote.”  I tell them. “You have to vote.”

On Sunday at 6:00 pm I turn on the television.  At 6:02 all the stations except the American network are declaring Kirchner the winner. “KIRCHNER GANO” blares across the screen.  How disgusting.  They are paid to do this.  The government subsidizes the media and therefore on some levels controls it.  It was a law that went into effect during the crisis to help when advertising revenues went down.  Now it is used to control the media. 

The returns are starting to come in.  I am glued to the TV and channel surfing – TN, AN, TeleFE, C5N, Cronica, 26.  The center of the country has gone completely for the opposition or other parties, the same for Santa Cruz, home of the Kirchners.  Then at 8:00 De Narváez takes a lead that never lets up.  I watch anxiously.

At 10:00 pm it is obvious the President and her husband are getting the pants beaten off of them.  What is most amazing is the attitude of the news media.  Before they were cautious, pro-government, but when the returns were overwhelming for Santa Fe, Cordoba, La Pampa, Santa Cruz, and Buenos Aires, one newscaster broke into a huge grin and said “Oh well, tomorrow we begin with a new country.”  At that point the news media on all stations became no holds barred.  They began to report the news, not the sanitized versions, they were supposed to report.  The Kirchner loss was a gain in other areas.

I stayed glued to the television.   Like everyone else I wanted to know if the lead would stay and if there would be any word from the “K” factions.  None came. De Narváez  was out and visible thanking his supporters.  There were t-shirts that said “895 days until De Narváez is governor” others that said “Mauricio for President.” (Mauricio Macri, mayor of Buenos Aires) Daniel Scioli on the K side canceled his press conference. De Narváez never lost his lead.  When they interviewed Macri his comment was he hoped the president was watching.

Finally at 2:00 am or so the Pinguino (Kirchner) came out to concede. He said he would not contest the election. He said his wife would not step down.  He was pretty boring.  Argentines are not good losers.  At 2:45 am I finally went to bed saturated with the news.

In the morning when I woke up the headlines were blaring.  De Narváez told the president he hoped that she reads well the results of the election.  That remains to be seen.  Nestor stepped down as President of the Peronist party.

The president does not have the majority any more.  But in her press conference this afternoon when she had all the opportunity to once again hold out an olive branch, she harped on how it was only 2 points between her husband and De Narváez .  Perhaps Christina needs to be reminded of another President who was trounced in mid year elections and didn’t want to listen.  His name was de la Rúa.

10 pesos menos

It is Saturday.  A friend is leaving to go back to Europe.  She has been here 9 months.  She plans to come back in 3 or 4 months to live here.  Today is her despedida. I have no idea who is invited.  I am bringing masas from Las Violetas.

At 11:00 pm I leave to go to her house.  She doesn't live far from me.  I decide to treat myself to a taxi rather than take the bus.  This is a luxury.  Money is tight.  Prices keep going up.  I rationalize the taxi to myself.  It is the only money I have actually spent today other than the subte or buses.  It is only 10 pesos.  I should take the bus because I know I will want to take a taxi home, and then that will be 20 pesos.  Counting centavos.  Milonga?  Taxi?  Comida?

I enter my friend's apartment.  It is beautiful.  She tells me that when she comes back she doesn't want to live here.  "It is too dark, there are no windows."  This is the problem with a ground floor apartment.  You might get a courtyard but no windows.  "I want to buy something." she tells me.  I advise her to wait.  Prices are still artificially high here.  Americans and Europeans do not understand Latin American real estate markets.  One day your property is worth $250,000 and the next it can be worth $50,00.  Rampant inflation has always been a part of life here.

When I enter the living room I see many familiar faces.  I am surprised.  I had no idea she knew some of my long time Argentine friends. I go around the room and say hello.  I introduce myself to the few French people I do not know.  I am thrilled to see Carlos and Lilia.  The last time we met I forgot to give them my phone number.  Lillia is wearing an orthopedic boot on her foot. "Nena, que paso?  I ask her.  She tells me she fell and fractured a bone. "Pobrecita." I say to her as I hug her.

I see my friend Jorge.  I have not seen him for ages. I met him I think in 2002 in one of the milongas. We see each other from time to time.  ¿Como estas? he asks me.  He motions for me to sit next to him.  ¡Que cambiaste! he says to me.  I laugh and ask him how he means this.  He looks me up and down.  "My hair is longer." I say to him. "Pareces muy Argentina." he says.  "Ques estas hiciendo?" he asks me.

"I got my residency."  I tell him. "Mira vos!" he says to me. "You were lucky.  Everyone I know has had a problem.  I tell him the story of my trip to Migraciones.  He is shocked when he hears about the accident.  I don't really want to talk much about that.  I am done with it.

"Are you still dancing?" he asks me.  "Of course.  But only in the milongas.  Sometimes I dance in small cena/shows, or at a party.  Pretty much I have stopped the other stuff.  I don't like the life.  I can't support it.  I have adapted to this culture, but some things I will never adapt to."  I don't have to explain this to him.  He has his years in the milongas.  He knows what I am talking about.  He goes to the tourist milongas.  It is why I never see him anymore. 

"You know," he says, gesturing towards the Euopeans who are here, "they come here thinking they have found something incredible. They want to live here.  I always ask them why.  The answer is always the same.  They tell me how different Argentina is, how friendly the people are. How everyone kisses and hugs.  They always tell me how "cerrada" the people of their country are.  It doesn't matter what country, it is always the same."  he  says.  "The one day "sufren un golpe de la cabeza fuerte" and that is the end of the milonga, tango, and Buenos Aires for them.  They learn what it is really like."

"I always tell people who want to live here they need more than tango, but they think the idea of spending every day in the milonga dancing is a day in heaven. They have this idea of what tango is and isn't, and unfortunately it is not always the reality of what it is.  The people who live in the milongas are either retired people or those who make their living off of people in the milongas.  People who work cannot afford the time to live in the milongas, no matter how much they love to dance."  He nods his head. "You learned."  "I knew this before I came here. I have always been a person who has done multiple things. My golpe came with the accident. It reinforced what I already knew." I tell him.

Our attention turns to the conversation of the party.  One woman an Argentine is talking about tango.  "I don't understand how the foreigners learn." she says.  She is talking about steps.  "They think they know all about our dance and they know nothing." I interrupt, "It isn't so much that," I tell her.  "At least in the U.S. You need to understand American culture." She starts to argue with me when someone tells her that I am American and she should listen. "In the U.S. people dance for different reasons. In tango it is rarely for the music. Maybe they saw Scent of a Woman, or Forever Tango. They want to be able to dance like that.  To show their friends.  Here, people dance tango because they love the music."

The Argentines nod their heads in agreement.  The woman says "I am Argentine, I love the tango music and I express my love of the music when I dance.  I don't understand this need of having to have all these lessons and steps."  "Because," I tell her, "You are Argentine, and they are not. In my culture we always want to be the best. It doesn't matter what it is. We strive to be number one and that includes things we are suppose to do for pleasure, like dancing tango."

Do I tell them about the American woman who stayed with me who told me she loves dancing tango but she hates tango music?  Or the young man who told one of my partners in a lesson that he didn't care if he didn't know how to lead, he needed to know more steps because that was what got the girls?  Or the dozens of students I have had that cannot turn properly and when taught say condescendingly when they cannot do it on the first try "No one ever taught me to turn that way." (Meaning their teachers) Or the American woman who could not follow and informed me that tango is too sexist for her and she is not used to having to follow a man.

I have hundreds of conversations with foreigners about tango and none of them are about the music. It is always about lessons. Lessons. And more lessons.  Somewhere someone has convinced these people that if they take and pay lots of money for lessons, they will be incredible dancers.  Return on Investment.  There is an almost religious fervor, a frantic need.  To be the best. The music?  What about it....oh yeah, the music.  What music makes me look the best when I dance.

You never find an Argentine who hates tango music in the milongas. My Argentine friends who don't dance tango either think I am crazy because they hate the music (it's too sad, it's something my grandparents did)or they just don't don't see the point.  Foreigners are always shocked when I tell them most Argentines do not like tango.

I am talking to my friend.  "I know people who have come here for years.  They pay all this money for lessons and they never improve.  They talk about their teachers like they are Gods with coveted information instead of 8th grade drop-outs who have good street sense. I am constantly amazed at how they believe when these guys continue to lead them on and they keep buying it.  There is a reason why many of them cannot get passports."

My friend laughs.  "Tango is big business.  You know that."  " I can't stand to listen to it.  It drives me crazy."  I tell him.  I go back to listening to the group conversation. It seems universal among the Argentines, they learned to dance because they liked the music.  They took lessons to a point and then just went to practicas and milongas.

Again I interrupt, "You have to understand, in some places in the US they might only have 1 class once a week and a milonga twice a month.  So it is different.  They learn with videos or travel to congresos. They are more limited.  They think show tango is tango." 

My friend says to me "The issue is tango is growing in the world and the other cultures are changing it to suit what they think it is. But it is not our tango and that is what upsets us."  I agree with him.  "They lose the perspective that it is the music, not the dance.  The music drives the dance."

After dinner there is dancing.  I watch.  No one invites me.  I don't really mind.  I would rather watch. I know how most of these people dance.  If invited I would of course dance out of friendship.  I watch the Argentine woman dance who was very vocal.  She flexes her feet so much I want to break them off.  For one who was very negative about foreigners she has tried to copy Geraldine exactly. Whatever.

I have to be careful who I dance with.  My back is doing well, but dancing with too many men who cannot is not good for me.  I dance one tanda with a friend.  He is a big bear of a guy.  I adore him. He is pushing and pulling me through the dance.  I am afraid I am going to go through a wall.  I give him a big hug when the tanda is over. "Un placer." he says to me. "Siempre." 

During dessert I go to sit with a friend who has a milonga.  We watch two women dance together. I comment to him "I cannot dance with a woman." He smiles at me.  "For me the tango is an embrace. It is a dance between a man and a woman." "I agree" he says, "although I have learned to accept this and not criticize."

"You know,"  I tell him, "You almost never see Argentine women dancing the lead. Yet American and European women have this great need to learn how to lead."  He thinks a minute. "Well they say it is because they don't have enough men in their communities."  I laugh and I look at him. "Look at our milongas, sometimes it is like 80 women to 10 men."  He nods his head. "The milongas are always more women than men. Yet you don't see Argentine women running to learn how to lead. We wait.  We talk to our friends. We have something to drink.  If there is no one to dance with, we leave.  Can you imagine an Argentine woman getting dressed up to go to a milonga to dance with a woman?"  He laughs at this. "No, I cannot."

"I think it is because we are so used to getting things the way we want it as American women, that if we can't find a man to dance with, then we will dance with other women. Europeans are probably the same.  I have never wanted to dance tango with a woman."  He allows the women to dance together in his milonga, but the other Argentines frown on it.  I told him this.  He says he knows it. They have told him.  He doesn't have to stop them.  Once the women see the looks they get, they stop voluntarily.

"You are lucky." he says to me, "You always dance. It is not always that way for every woman." "It is not always that way for me either."  I tell him.  "Look at tonight, no one wants to dance with me. It happens in the milongas too. It is OK.  I have learned to enjoy the music, my friends. It is not that important to me to dance."

He smiles at me.  "I remember when it was." I wave my hand at him, like an Argentine "Para" (stop) I say to him.  I am tired.  I tell him I am going to go. He tells me he and his lady are leaving too. "Where do you live?"  They ask me.  I tell them. "How are you getting home?"  I tell them by taxi most likely. "No, no," they tell me. "We will take you."  Que suerte...an interesting evening and 10 pesos menos.

The Milonga Chronicles: Night of the chamuyos

Tonight is Kathy and Peter's last night.  Tomorrow they leave to go home to Vancouver.  "OK you guys," I tell them. "You have to stay up all night."  They both laugh.  Peter says "No problem, I want to sleep on the plane." "Two or three milongas tonight?"  I ask them.  They look a little worried. Peter volunteers "Two I think is enough."  "OK then, after we go for cafe con leche and medialunas."  We have a plan, although I will be amazed if they make it to 3:00 am. 

These guys are so much fun,great people.  I will truly be sorry to see them go.  I adore them.  When they first came here they told me they go to bed at 10:00 am and get up at 8:00.  That lasted 1 day living with me.  By the end of their trip they were sleeping until noon.

Tonight we are celebrating while we get ready.  Peter bought champagne and I bought good miga sandwiches as opposed to bad ones.  A new bakery opened up and a couple of weeks ago I bought migas there.  They were bad.  How do you make a miga sandwich bad?  Well they managed to do it.  Tonight I bought them from a bakery that has good ones, and they are big too.  Now they see why the other ones were so bad.

I want to wear my new shoes from Leo.  We all have new shoes from Leo.  Peter is thrilled with his shoes.  For the first time he has shoes that fit and are comfortable.  I am not sure what I am going to wear.  Nothing in my closet really fits me well.  I always feel like I am arguing with my clothes. They just don't want to behave.  They bag in all the wrong places.  I have tried shopping for new things but prices are so high and I don't like anything lately.

Finally we are ready to leave.  I tease Peter and Kathy about staying up late.  They insist they are going to do it.  First we are going to Leonesa, to the milonga of Luis and Lucy.  Then we will go to Lo de Celia.  At Celia's we will meet up with Sandra, Ana, Pia, and Marta.  We are changing our milongas again.  They are tired of Luis.  I like them both.  I don't go to Gricel much on Fridays.  I miss Gricel, but the crowd has changed.

There is something about climbing the staircase to the milonga in Central de Leonesa that gives me a thrill each time.  I don't know what it is.  The sounds of a milonga are wafting through the air.  I have been climbing these stairs for 9 years and I still get that little thrill of anticipation.  The hallway is packed.  Not usual at this hour.  Lucy throws her arms around me "Porteña!" She cries out to me.  "Felicitos!" "Gracias amor." I say to her as I hug her back. 

Once inside the milonga she leads Kathy and me to my table. We have one seat saved for Gina.  I met Gina in the bathroom at El Beso.  She is going to come stay with me starting on Sunday.  She was complaining about her apartment not having heat and being noisy.  By the end of our conversation she wanted to come see my rooms. 

I look around the milonga. It is packed.  I see Chiche.  He has not been here for ages.  "Me estrañaste?" I ask him. (Did you miss me) "Por supuesto!"  He gives me a big hug.  I go to greet my friends.  I see Peter is at a table alone.  I asked Juan Carlos if he can sit with him.  Juan Carlos says no problem. They can geek out together.

I dance a few tandas.  It is very crowded.  Almost impossible to dance well.  Kathy is also dancing.  She finally has the cabaceo down.  In comes Gina.  She sits with us.  She shows me her new shoes.  She asks me if I have been dancing a lot.  I tell her not really. She is surprised.  I explain to her that it is not that important to me to dance all the time. I prefer to enjoy the music, my friends, and to dance when there is someone I want to dance with. "It must be nice to be so choosey." she says to me.

I laugh, "Maybe, maybe not."  I say to her.  It is different here.  In the US the focus is on the number of dances you have and then to analyze them.  Here it is a social event for us.  I want to dance, but it is not the only reason why I come to the milonga. I come to see my friends too. The dancing is important but not in the same way."

Gina makes me laugh.  She reminds me of many of my friends in California. She has great taste.  she is horrified by some of the outfits. "Don't these women have mirrors?" she asks me.  Before I can answer she adds "They probably don't care."  I agree with her.  It is not unusual to see a woman from behind with long blond hair to her waist wearing a short dress.  You might think she is 20 or so and then she turns around and horror of horrors she is probably 70 with way too much makeup on.  Or a size 14 squeezed into a size 8 dress complete with sequins. It's not like women in other countries don't dress badly, it is just here in the milonga you see so many bizarre outfits.

I look around to see who I can dance with. Oscar a sweet old man is at my chair. "Come nena."  He says to me. Lately he has been asking me to dance quite a bit. "How come you don't come to El Arranque on Mondays?"  he demands.  "Because I come here."  I say to him.  He asks me all the milongas I go to.  I tell him I can't go to dance every day.  It costs too much.  "I have to."  He says to me. "I don't want to be alone. I would just be alone in my apartment and I cannot be there alone."  I know this is true for many of the older people in the milongas. "Besides," he says to me "I can have a beautiful woman in my arms whenever i want."  

I see a friend of Amanda's come in.  She loves to dance with him.  I had a run in with him 6 years ago. Un baboso.  My friends had to peel him off of me.  He preys on foreigners.  The woman at the next table points out to me that he wants to dance with me.  I tell her I really am not interested.  I tell Gina to look at him.  He has me in his sites.  When I am dancing with another friend he comes over to the table of men across from mine.  He is talking to Chiche.  When I come back to my seat, Chiche winks at me.

At the next tanda I accept a dance with him.  He starts right in "Que hermosa rubia sos."  I tell him thanks.  He does not shut up for a second.  He asks me where I am from.  I tell him I live here.  "No where are you from?" he demands.  Before I can answer he reels off a list of countries, Inglesa, Dinamarca, Suiza, ..."  When he stops to take a breath I tell him, "Soy norteamericana de California." "Me encanta a vivir en Los Angeles." he tells me. "Que bueno," I say to him, "Soy de San Francisco."  "I want to live there too." he says, then without missing a beat "With a beautiful blond like you."  Jeesh, this guy is terrible.  Someone ought to tell him how to pick up women.

By this time we are only finishing the first of the four songs of the tanda.  I cannot believe I am going to have to listen to this for 3 more songs.  His lines get worse and worse.  Finally he asks me if I am married.  I tell him I have a boyfriend.  He tells me it isn't important. "You and I can dance forever."  He tells me.  I have stopped answering him.  He has his script and that is that. Thank God the tanda is over.

When I get back to the table Gina decides she is too hungry to stay in the milonga.  She wants to go to dinner.  I tell her I will see her on Sunday.  Peter moves to our table.  We decide it is time to walk down to Celia's.  They still have energy.

We maneuver the broken sidewalks in our heels.  I tell Peter he is lucky.  They are not used to walking outside in their dance shoes.  This is not such a great barrio.  I don't mind walking it by myself, but with them, we really stick out.  I ask them not to speak because there are small groups of guys hanging out.

We get to Celia's.  In my heels I bounce up the stairs.  This is another place I always anticipate even though it has changed. I have so many memories of this place and of people. Although maybe the best dancers do not always come here anymore, the best DJ is still Dany Borelli.  I kiss Mario at the door. I enter and Dario starts to lecture me about being late.  I ask him if Sandra is here.  He says yes, but he put her in the back at another table. I don't dare ask El Rey de la Puerta why.  I can only guess.

Dario grabs my hand and leads us to the table in the center.  I love this table.  I can only sit here when we are mixed-men with women.  I go to find Sandra.  She is sitting with Marta.  She is furious with Dario.  He would not let her sit at the table because I was not there.  Que loco! I give Marta a big hug. "Que flaca sos!" she says to me.  I tell them how on Thursday a man told me I was getting fat. They both are shocked.  This is the same man who has been asking me if I am sick because I was getting so thin. 

I greet people I know on the way back to the table. Ana and Pia are seated across from us.  I introduce them to Kathy and Peter. I go to dance with Oscar who has come down here to dance. "Nena,nena" he says to me.  I get a full tanda of what it is like to dance with me and how he loves to dance with me.  I tease him and call him "Joven".

Kathy and Peter are dancing with each other.  We order tostadas.  I have my glass of champagne. While Kathy and Peter dance, Sandra comes over to the table.  She is still unhappy about where she is sitting.  I tell her she should move.  She doesn't want to.  She asks me if the woman dancing with Emilio is his girlfriend. I look over "No!"  I say to her, "La mujer con el queda linda, ese es como una cartonera."  Sandra laughs.  We are both a little shocked to see him with something that looks like that.

We watch the floor.  Always checking out the dancers and floor. I see a man I have never seen before dancing.  He is very smooth. I keep my eye on him. Sandra goes back to her table. Kathy and Peter come to sit down. We are watching the dancers.  They notice the same man.  They ask if I know him. I do not.  I look at his embrace, it is perfect.  His feet are perfect.  Who is he?  He has a familiar look, but I know I don't know him.

I decide to go to the bathroom.  I look at the bar.  I remember all the years Pocho and his friend Tito sat there.  I have't seen Tito for years.  Every once in awhile Pocho makes it to a milonga.  It is not easy for him anymore.  Next to the door of the women's bathroom are a line of men.

When I come out I say hello to one of the men who works at Celia and to Emilio.  Emilio calls me Twiggy.  Then he starts on me.  I make him mad "WHAT?"  I say to him.  He answers "Que WHAT?" The man next to him says to me "How do you do?  Very nice to meet you." "Ha!"  I say to Emilio "Un maestro para vos."  As I walk away, the man whose dancing I admired is sitting on the first stool. "Quiero bailar a proximo tango con vos. I smile at him "OK, un tango."

I go back to the table and wait. The next tanda starts. He doesn't bother to invite me.  He comes to the table for me.  I go into his embrace. If I thought he looked like a good dancer now I know he is. Smooth. Perfect balance. Between songs he says to me "Es un placer a bailar con vos."  "Vos tambien" I say to him. I comment to him "Sos nuevo a la milonga."  He doesn't say anything at first. He tells me he goes to dance.  He names milongas I don't usually go to. "Where do you go to dance?" he asks me. I smile and name a few places. "I am going to implant a chip in you. Then I will know where you are dancing."  I laugh.

When the tanda ends he tells me he wants to dance with me again.  I smile and walk away.  I go to dance with another friend. Anti-climatic after that guy.  I go back to the table.  Kathy and Peter look a little tired. "How are you guys doing?"  I ask.  "OK, OK."  They say. I look up.  My "new" friend wants to dance with me again.

I float into his embrace. It is so easy to dance with him.  "Donde aprendiste a bailar?"  I ask him.  "Aqui, aca, en la pista."  He tells me.  "No lo creo."  I say to him.  I do not believe it. His dancing is too polished. "Where did you learn to dance?"  he asks me.  "Here,"  I tell him.  "On the floor with the milongueros."  "No lo creo."  he says to me.  The game begins.

I do the unthinkable.  I dance the next tanda with him. "Are you married?"  He asks.  "No."  I tell him. "I cannot believe it.  You are so beautiful, sweet, and a wonderful dancer.  I want to dance with you the rest of my life."  "Chamuyero."  I say to him.  He laughs. "I am going to implant a chip in you." he says to me again.

He asks me where I live.  I tell him "Palermo."  "Te llevo. Vivo en Belgrano. Tengo taxi." "Gracias."  I say, but I am thinking noooo way.  I tell him I have all these people with me.  "Don't worry, I can take you all."  We finish the tanda and I go back to my table.  Kathy asks me if I know him.  I tell her no.  I tell them he told me he learned to dance on the floor.  Peter laughs. "No way."  I agree.

I go sit with Sandra so he won't come for me again.  "Conoces este chico?" I ask her.  "Tiene cara conocida." She says.  I tell her how he says he never took lessons, that he said he learned on the floor. She laughs.  I tell her how he is pushing to drive me home.  I don't want him to know where I live. We hatch a plan.  I give her a hug.

I go back to the table.  Kathy and Peter look tired.  It is only 2:30.  "You guys are tired."  I say to them. They look sheepish. "OK, we will go in a bit.  I have to escape from this guy." They smile.  They are playing a tanda of vals.  My friend looks at me and I nod. 

"Who taught you to turn that way?"  He asks.  "Some guy."  I tell him.  "I can't believe you are alone."  "Believe it"  I tell him.  "You don't know me."  "I want to."  He says. "I want to see you again, where are you going to dance."  I am not too sure about this.  I like no attachments in the milonga.  "Niño Bien, El Beso, Gricel." "Let me take you home."  he asks.  "All of you."  "No, gracias. On Thursdays I go to Gricel."  I say to him.

I go back to the table.  Kathy and Peter are falling asleep.  "Come on kids."  I say to them. They have made it to 3:00 am.  As we walk out the door, my friend touches my arm "Gricel on Thursday."  I smile at him and go through the curtains.

Life in Buenos Aires: V-Day

It's Tuesday.  My stomach is in knots.  I have to go to Migraciones at 10 to talk about making my visa permanent.  This is my only chance.  If they do not accept it, I have no other choices.  On May 1st Argentina pretty much shut the door on immigration for all Non-Mercosur residents.  There are no more permanent visas unless you marry an Argentine or have a baby. God forbid.

I look at Maxie.  "What are we going to do?"  I ask her.  "We could move to Santiago."  I say to her.  Same climate as San Francisco and I could work with Juan Carlos."  Maxie is not interested in Santiago.  She is an Argentine doggie.  I continue to get ready.  "What about Colombia?"  I say to her.  "I know how to cook the food and dance salsa."  She yawns.

I have been agonizing for the last month about my residency status.  I don't want to leave Argentina.  This is home for me.  I also do not want to be here illegally either. When the US or most countries change their immigration policies it is front page news.  In Argentina no one knew about it.  They still don't.  I had to go to the Migraciones website to get the update.  My friends and most Argentines I spoke to were shocked.  Argentina has always had an open door policy for immigration.  But policies can change, and Argentina's did.

One form of the visa program was completely thrown out.  Many of my friends were in their 2nd or 3rd year to getting their visa.  Their lawyers advised them to get married or have a kid.  I was in a special program.  After 4 years we were to be made permanent.  They posted all the requirements on the website.  They changed. 

I made my millions of copies, I put everything into a new plastic envelope. The only thing more dreadful would be an IRS audit.  I took the subte to Retiro.  I remember doing this in 2004.  I kept getting lost.  In 2007 it was a little easier.  This time I knew exactly what short cut to take to get across these horrible roads not made for pedestrians to cross.

I see the large yellow building looming.  I always call this place the "gulag."  I go into the entrance where there are huge lines.  I have an appointment.  I try to find someone to ask.  Hidden behind a counter is a woman.  She tells me the next building to the right.  There is no next building and she is not willing to discuss it.

I walk outside and go up to one of the Prefectura that guard the building.  I explain that I have an appointment to make my visa permanent and do not understand which building I am supposed to go to. The man is a doll. He offers to accompany me.  How can I refuse?  He is also quite handsome.  He asks me where I am from.  He tells me Argentina will be much better off to have me as a resident.  The funny thing is I am led back to the same building.  She could have just told me to go on the other side. The man told me they do this all the time.  He wishes me luck.

In this side I am asked what I am there for.  I am told to go join another line to get a number.  "Please have your document open and ready." I am told.  They want to verify that I really do have an appointment.  The line moves fast.  I am given my number.  I take a seat and prepare to wait.

I watch what is going on.  In front of me a Swiss woman is being denied her visa.  She is being told that she does not have the documents to be made a permanent resident.  She is angry.  She tells them she did until they changed the law.  The immigration person says nothing.  The Swiss woman leaves.  I notice only Americans seem to be there with their lawyers. 

I have a conversation with a man behind me from NY.  He is really uptight and nervous.  He is going through culture shock.  He does not speak Spanish and is letting his lawyers handle everything.  He has no clue that there is no permanent residency here anymore.  People focus so much on the DNI.  They don't realize it is like a driver's license.  It expires when you are temporary and then it is useless.  You need the visa.  You always get the DNI if you get the visa.

A German couple in front of me has just been denied residency.  The woman is furious.  She is arguing.  She will not leave.  The Immigration representative politely tells them they have no reason to be here permanently.  They are not retired, they don't work here.  The woman insists she does have a right. Finally she is told to go to her embassy and see if she can get a letter that will state that she has reason to be here.  Good luck.

I feel so alone.  What will I do if I don´t get my residency?  I think of all my friends; Sandra, Jorge, Anna, Ana, Alicia, Pia, so many friends I have.  Even the ones that drive me crazy. I love Buenos AIres, I can't leave here.  I almost wonder if Sol should have come with me.  Sol is my activist lawyer friend.

Now it is my number.  I feel my stomach clench up.  I will get through this.  I walk up to the desk.  There is a serious looking young man.  I don't think my new hair matters to him.  I sit down clutching my envelope.  "Why are you here?"  he asks me.  "Because I have decreto 1169.  I want to make my visa permanent."  I say to him. "Why?" he asks.  I look at him and tell him the truth "Porque aca es mi casa, si no puedo vivir aca, no tengo otro lugar."  This does not faze him a bit. "What documents do you have." he almost barks at me. 

I open my envelope and pull out my papers.  I am well organized.  I hope that counts for something. He asks for my documents.  I give him both my passport and my DNI.  He checks my passport against the copies.  "When was the last time you went back to the USA?" he asks.  "January 2006."  I answer.  He goes through my passport page by page.  "Do you miss your country?" he asks.  "Not really,"  I answer. "This is my home now."

He looks at my DNI.  Then he asks me what I am doing here for work.  I explain my work with the company I am at.  He looks at my monotributista declarations, my tax payments.  I show him the letter from the VP of Human Resources that states my position and my value to the company.  He reads it. Then he asks what I did during before this. 

I show him the letter from my lawyer that chronicles the accident and has my medical records.  He asks how I lived.  I told him I taught English in my apartment. The accident unsettles him.  "This must have been terrible for you." "It was."  I tell him. "And you still want to live here?"  "Yes, I do." I tell him. "What did you do before the accident?" he asks.  "I came here to dance tango and teach. That is what I did."  "What about now?" he asks.  "I am still in pain."  I show him yet another authorization from Swiss for more physical therapy.  He asks me to wait.

He comes back with a supervisor.  She tells me that she has looked over my documents.  She asks me the same questions. I answer them.  She asks me how I lived before.  I tell her.  They ask me to write everything down.  "But my Spanish grammar is terrible."  I tell them.  "You speak well." she tells me.  They give me a piece of paper and I write my history, all the time mumbling about my bad grammar.  They tell me not to worry.  I am told to go pay my 600 pesos and come back.

In the end I am told in a month to come back for my final papers. "En serio?"  I ask. The young man almost smiles.  I am so happy I want to cry.  I thank the young man.  He asks me if I have any questions.  I tell him no.  I lean over and kiss him.  "Muchas gracias."  I say to him.

As I cross the dreaded highway I think about how different this trip to MIgraciones was over the previous years.  Everything was computerized.  All my records were online instead of in a green folder. The wait was minimal. Better than that, I realize that I am truly bilingual now.  The process was natural and easy, at least for me.  

I send a text message to all of my friends.  "Brindamos amigos, recibo mi residencia."  I sent it to almost everyone I knew. All the home my phone goes crazy with responses.  All afternoon I receive text messages, phone calls, and emails.  I call Diego, my partner at work to tell him and all the guys.  They are waiting to hear from me.   He is thrilled.  "When can you go to the US?"  he asks.  I tell him I cannot travel until after August 31.  I call Marta my lawyer and thank her. Ever the lawyer she says no to lunch until I have the final papers in my hand.

"Well Maxie," I say to my doggie, "I guess we don't have to move to Santiago after all."

Life in Buenos Aires: Girls in the beauty parlor

I am in a terrible mood.  I have been worried about my visa status.  Up until May I didn't think about it.  Then the government changed all of its policies.  My visa was supposed to become permanent under the program I was in.  Now I was not sure.  I was making myself crazy thinking about what might or might not happen.  Tomorrow was V-day.  My day in Migraciones.

I needed to do something to make myself feel better.  Eating chocolate was out.  I already ate the whole big box of chocolate Peter and Kathy gave me for my birthday.  I didn't dare touch the 4 gourmet chocolate bars my friend Donald brought me from NY.  Last weekend's birthday binge was enough.  I want to keep those 10 kilos off.

I tried going clothes shopping, nail polish shopping, and lipstick shopping. I looked at boots and shoes.  None of them did anything to twist my mood.  I looked in the mirror.  I want to do something with my hair.  I am growing it but it looks so choppy and unstylish and it needs to be straightened again.  What to do....

They have this straightening method here that is something that girls like me only dreamed of when we were teens.  All my life I had this horrible wavy curly hair.  I hated it.  If my hair wasn't short I was a candidate for clown college.  Humongous hair in all directions.  Medusa hair.  Frizz ball Medusa hair. I was a real charmer as a teem.  Frizz ball Medusa hair, glasses, and braces.  Eventually the glasses gave way to contacts and the braces came off.  I was still stuck with the Frizz ball Medusa hair.

Until I moved here.  For 300 pesos more or less (depending on how long your hair is) you can have your hair made straight and beautiful.  Really straight.  Like Alice in Wonderland. It NEVER frizzes. It stays that way, and only the new hair is ugly.  So you only have to have it straightened when you have enough new hair to turn you back into a frizz ball.

Walter was the first person to straighten my hair.  I was never so happy in my life.  My last hairdresser did it too.  But I wanted changes in my life.  So I wanted to find someone new.  I wanted new hair. Felipe doesn't do this kind of straightening.  At least he never used to.  Plus I don't want him touching me.  It doesn't matter if I can have "free haircuts for life."  He blew it.

This kind of straightening is not done in salons.  The fumes it creates are horrible.  It will probably kill us all early.  I don't care.  At least I will die with beautiful straight hair.  You have to hunt for hairdressers who do this.  Most of them buy the product and do it after hours at your house or theirs. Argggh....

Then one day I was walking down Thames past the salon where these two queens work.  One of them was outside with the blow dryer, his client was wearing a mask, and there was the unmistakable smell of those acrid fumes. I filed it away for future reference.

I could not imagine myself in this salon. When I first moved here their clientele seemed to be mostly Jewish and Italian grandmother types.  I didn't see much in the way of creative design touches coming out of there.  Then suddenly last summer things began to change.  They started opening late, like around 5 in the afternoon and were working until sometimes 3 in the morning.  Those clients, mostly worked in the Palermo Parks....at night.

Finally I decided, what could these guys do to my hair?  I didn´t want to think about it.  The straightening part didn´t really bother me.  I knew they probably couldn´t screw that up.  I watched them do that one woman with Barbie hair.  It was the haircut.  Besides Walter and Felipe, my experience with Argentine hairstylists has not been 100% and one was the absolute haircut from hell.

I get up the nerve and walk myself down there to find out at least how much it costs.  When I ring the doorbell their two toy canisches fall all over me.  (How cliche, right?)  I have been waving hello to these guys for 4 years.  They probably think I am a mirage.

I ask them about the straightening and how much it costs. They tell me.  They are proud of their product, it is imported.  All of them are imported.  They tell me theirs is better because it has more silicone.  Whatever.  They give me a price.  I take a deep breath...."Does this include a haircut?" I think they are really excited "You want me to cut your hair? Yes, of course."  I feel a minor freakout attack coming on.  I ask when they can do it and they ask if I can come back later at 10 tonight. I say yes before I chicken out.  "What am I doing?"  Maybe going to Felipe wouldn't be so bad....NO!!

I go home and work on some documentation for work.  At 10 I say good bye to Maxi and head down the block.  I hope I know what I am doing.  I get to the salon.  Only now instead of the two queens there are two more... people.

Rudi welcomes me and Dani says hello.  I look at the two other people. They are transvestites.  They are a little nervous about me.  No big deal.  I used to live in San Francisco.  These are South of Market type girls or Tenderloin.  One is getting these hugh extensions put on her hair.  They are like a brassy florescent yellow blond.  The other girl is more demure.  She leaves shortly after I get there.

Rudi starts to comb through my hair.  "You are going to look great." he tells me.  I am thinking I will kill him if he screws up my hair.  "What are you thinking for a cut?" he asks eagerly.  I tell him "Just a little bit, I am growing it. Do you understand?" He continues to comb through it and starts to pin it up. I am a little nervous. "I am growing it out, ok?" I tell him again.  He tells me "I understand, but it needs to be cut, it is all different lengths, there is no style to it."  "Yes, yes, I know," I say to him, "but I am growing it."  "Seguro," he agrees, "but you can have a nice style to it."  I always thought the same thing, but somehow it never happened.  I guess that is why I am here.  He starts clipping.  I try not to have a nervous breakdown.

While Rudi is cutting my hair he says to me "I always loved looking at your hair.  I always wanted to work on your hair." I think to myself "Funny, I never wanted you to touch my hair.  But now look where I am. Doesn't life have its funny twists?"  He is still clipping and cutting.  It is starting to look good. I actually like it.  "Do you like it?" he asks.  I smile "Que lindo corte."  Then he blows it dry. Hmmm, now I am not so sure. He tells me "Wait until I straighten it, you are going to look wonderful."  I sure hope so.

Now comes the straightening part. I am informed we are going to do this outside. "Estas loco?" I say to Rudi.  "Hace 2 centigrados. Voy a morir." He tells me I can put on my jacket.  We go outside.  He starts sectioning my hair and puts the straightening gook on it.  He works it into my hair. I am freezing to death.  He tells me that the cold weather is actually good for this process.  Que felicito.  People walk by and stare at us.  I am not exactly thrilled to be on display.  I recognize some of my neighbors.

Then comes the drying part.  I have to use this ventilator mini-gas mask.  Don´t I look cute?  I don´t think so... The smell and the fumes are horrible.  Before we start Rudi gives me an anti-histamine. "Just in case you are allergic." he says to me.  He starts to blow dry my hair.  In the middle this guy comes up to talk to him.  He turns out to be another stylist who works at a top salon. (Or so he says)  He is young.

So here I am getting my hair processed and these two are having this conversation.  They talk shop.  Actually it is kind of interesting.  I find out Rudi has had his shop here for 24 years.  He has really seen the barrio change.  He started the shop alone and then Dani came in.  The young guy talks about starting his own shop.  Rudi is very supportive and gives him lots of advice.  It is interesting, the young guy feels encouraged and thanks Rudi for taking the time to talk to him.

Finally my hair is dry.  We get to go inside.  I can't wait.  We say good bye to Young Mr. Hair Dude and go inside.  I am thrilled.  Rudi is heating up the straightener. I am watching Dani finish up the blondie transvestite.  I say to him "I always thought that those were extensions." He tells me "No, we call them hair curtains."  The dark hair girl returns in a taxi.  She is a transvestite too, but very sweet and subdued looking.  She has a grace about her.  She reminds me of transvestite I knew years ago in my disco days in San Francisco - Frankie.

While Dani is getting her ready for hair curtains, Rudi comes back with the straightener.  This is the worst part. By now I have been here for almost 2 hours.  This part takes forever.  Rudi starts ironing my hair, section by section.  I can't fall asleep because I am sitting up.  Instead I watch Dani through the mirror apply hair curtains to the other girl.  She actually looks like she could be his sister. (brother?) The "girls" finally relax around me.  I complement them on their jewelry.  They tell me they buy it in Once. 

Rudi in the meantime is into my hair.  He is a master at work.  I am watching him transform my hair. He is talking about some shampoo I should buy.  I am too tired.  I tell him about my visa problems. "Don't worry," he tells me. "You will be so beautifull tomorrow, they will give you a visa."  I wish it was that easy.  My hair is looking incredible.  I almost cannot believe my reflection. I continue to watch the transformation of the girl with the dark hair.  She now has hair to her waist like the girl with blond hair.  Those hair curtains look natural. I tell Dani that.  He tells me "I only use good quality human hair."

Now my hair is done.  It is stunning. It is a little bit Veronica Lake.  But I like it.  I know once I can play with it, it will be fun.  "Planchita, planchita, planchita."  Rudi tells me.  He wants me to use my straightener everyday until Saturday when I can finally wash my hair.  They take pictures of me.  This one is pure Veronica Lake.  I feel much better.  I like my hair. Actually I love it. The "girls" like my hair too.  It is  almost 2:00 am.  I cannot believe I am in the beauty salon at 2:00 in the morning.  I have to go home. What a night.  Only in Buenos AIres.  They have to let me stay here.  Where else would I get my hair done at 2:00 am with transvestites?