La Vida Con Deby

On The Road Again: Tourists in Bali - Tango in Buenos Aires

It has been a month since I left Bali.  My body left, my mind and soul, well, they might still be there.  I loved Bali.  It is such a special place.  I would love to go back and spend more time there.  It is one of those places I could see myself living if it were not for a big problem..you cannot bring animals into the country.  That means JerryBrown and Maxi. 

When I started planning my trip to Bali I had no idea what to expect.  I chose to stay in an Indonesian style guest house rather than a tourist oriented villa or hotel.  My hosts were a married couple with a child.  She is originally from Austria and he is Balinese.  They have been married 10 years.  Birgit came to Bali on vacation and fell in love..literally.

Their home is very traditional.  It has an outdoor kitchen, no air conditioning, and no swimming pool.  My bathroom was more modern and semi outside but private.  I had hot water one time during my stay.  I chose this guesthouse because I wanted to be a part of Balinese life.

There are plenty of hotels, guest houses, and villas owned by foreigners that are full of luxuries. (To be fair there are some owned by Indonesians) You can insulate yourself from Balinese life at whatever level you want.  Most have sanitized the Bali experience.

There are two distinct Balis.  There is the Bali that is lived in by the Balinese and the Bali that is for tourism.  I travel because I want to see another culture and learn.  Everyone has their reasons. 

Ubud is a center for health and healing.  It was made famous by that putrid book and movie (IMHO) "Eat Pray Love." In the eyes of many Balinese this book did a lot to ruin their culture.  It was interesting to talk to them about it.  I found many parallels to the tango in Buenos Aires.

When my guides took me to a roadside Warong (restaurant) that was fly infested, I closed my eyes.  I kept hoping the parasites from my days in Mexico would take care of me. The food was delicious.  There was no silverware as the Balinese eat with their hands.  It was the hot rice that would get me.  There is an actual art to eating with your hands.  I was happy that I didn't get sick from eating at that place. After that experience I figured I could eat anywhere and I did.

Most tourists pay for a tour for the Rice Walk.  This is a 5 km walk through the rice fields.  I walked myself.  It was amazing, peaceful, and something I never experienced before.  The sad thing is the walk begins with tons of little shops trying to sell things. Unfortunately this is everywhere you go in Bali, including the temples.

When I got to the middle of the fields there was an old man selling coconuts. He would lop off the top and hand it to you with a straw. It was 10,000 rupees or $1.00.  He told me how he shakes to the trees to get the coconuts to fall.  In a few moments two European tourists came by on their way to their expensive hotel that is situated in the rice fields.

I cannot imagine staying in a luxury villa watching people do back breaking labor. The villa is owned by a Swiss man according to my coconut friend.  The two women began to explain to me what a coconut was.  They were so condescending.  I told them I was from South America, I know what coconuts are.  They just keep going on talking about coconuts.  People in Switzerland must have coconuts. They told me the old man climbs up the tree every day to get his coconuts.  I looked at Mr. Coconut. There was no way he could climb that tree.  He smiled at me.  I bet they don't pay 10,000 rupees.

After they left Mr. Coconut invited me to sit down.  In his limited broken English he brought me over some lemon grass to smell.  Then some citron.  He was delighted I knew it would get rid of mosquitoes. He brought over fresh cumin plants and other herbs growing along side the rice.  We watched frogs play in the rice paddy.

When I finished my coconut juice he hacked open the coconut.  The flesh was more like meat.  I was used to coconuts that were harder.  This was a completely different texture. It was such a huge coconut I could not eat it all.  I wish I had a plastic bag on me.

My guides were a trip.  They were not polished.  They didn't drag me to any shopping outlets.  They had their opinions.  The waiter in my favorite restaurant Eve's Kitchen introduced me to them.  Scooby makes his living from tourists among other things.

"Bali has always had tourists."  He says to me. "Only the tourist now is different."  I asked him in what way.  He told me before the tourists came to Bali to enjoy Bali and to learn about Bali.  Now they come to be entertained.  They don't really want the real Bali.  They bicycles down a mountain.

Many Balinese that I spoke to talked about how they could no longer afford to go to yoga. The yoga masters no longer wanted to hold sessions for the Balinese.  Why should they? The tourists are willing to pay 100,000 rupees or more for a class.  There are yoga retreats for $2000 USD.  "Every day a new yoga master is born." they joked.

It reminded me of the tango in Buenos Aires.  Many Argentine teachers no longer want to teach Argentines.  Why should they?  Foreigners will pay 2 - 3 times more than a local for private lessons.  One only has to pick up the tango magazines to see all the new teachers.

When I found my accupuncturist it was by accident.  I had no idea if the 350,000 rupees he was charging me was a good price or not.  When I asked Birgit she told me that usually the foreigners are charged 500,000 rupees. Just like tango shoes or tango lessons.  Tourists are charged more than locals.  She said he was the best accupuncturist in Ubud and that I was lucky to find him.

She like the others I spoke to told me how many foreigners have now come to Ubud to set up shop.  Yoga teachers, acupuncturists, and other business people are starting to push out the Balinese from their own culture.

When I asked about a restaurant where the food was typical, Birgit's husband laughed.  "You have to go outside the city."  He told me.  "Here you can find Turkish food, Mexican food, Italian food, and a version of Balinese or Indonesian food.  The tourists have ruined our restaurants."  This reminds me of some of the older milongueros when they talk about the milongas.  They blame the tourists for ruining them.  For destroying the codes, lowering the levels of dance.

In the book "Eat Pray Love" the woman talks about going to a healer.  These people in Ubud are known by word of mouth.  They set no price.  People pay them whatever they can.  They feel their ability to heal is a gift and accept whatever donation people want to give them.  True healers never ask for money.

I was referred to Pitu.  He used reflexology.  He was amazing.  He was able to tell me exactly the issues I had with my health with no prompting from me.  In our sessions he would talk to me about my soul and visions.  It was an amazing experience.  I am still feeling the effects of his healing.

Now Ketut Lyer, the healer in EPL has gone commercial.  He charges a fixed amount and basically tells everyone the same thing.  He is an old man.  One person told me he just wants to earn lots of money to leave to his family.  People wait hours to hear the same thing and pay for the priviledge.

When I first came to Buenos Aires, it was not easy to find people who really taught tango. There were those that would rush you in the milongas, but most of them, were just after the tourist buck.  When one found the true milonguero who loved their tango, it was something different.  Most of them had no idea what to charge.  They loved to talk about their tango and show it to you.  To be paid for it?  Wow, that was something.

Times have changed.   If you are 75 years old you are a living legend.  Even if in your day you were not known as one of the better dancers, it doesn't matter.  You get marketed as a "true milonguero" and people pay you for it.

It is sad what success can do to a place.  The people who do not live there always see it differently.  Some tourists think the Balinese are now lucky because they are getting a more Western way of life.  More tourists and more money.  Many Balinese I spoke to see themselves as losing their culture.

In the tango I constantly hear from foreigners how the Argentines should be happy that their dance is everywhere.  That they should be willing to change.  The codes are stupid, old fashioned. 

It makes me sad.  I hope to never lose Bali, just as my tangos still play inside my head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On The Road Again: Bad Hair Days in Brisbane

Brisbane is not like Sydney. In the words of my friend Ian, it is not set up for tourists. For me it is still a very beautiful place. When I booked my room with Airbnb the room was advertised as being 2km from the city. I suppose it would be if you could walk on water. The apartment was beautiful. Completely different than the place I was in in Sydney. Modern and clean with fantastic people. At first I was to stay with different people, but they moved. Then the new people in the apartment agreed to take on their guests. So even though I was much farther from Brisbane than I would have liked, in the end it all worked out for the best.

 My first day in Brisbane it rained. Everyone thanked me for bringing them rain. They said that it had been parched there. Thank God it stopped that night. I had this fear that my time in Brisbane would be marred by torrential downpours out in the middle of no where.  I took the ferry into Brisbane from Hamilton where I was staying. It was a 30 minute ride. I felt like I was in fairyland. The woman who worked inside the ferry gave me a map and explained all the stops to me. How Australians can complain about their customer service is beyond me. The ride was beautiful.

 My friend Ian met me at the South Bank stop. I met him in Buenos Aires a few years ago when he came with a group to dance. He was kind enough to meet me and give me a tour of this part of Brisbane. Not only that he gave me tons of information on where to go the next day. Australians are so friendly and nice. We walked around looking for a reasonable place to eat dinner. 

I am still amazed that the price of food in the restaurants is about the same as the prices in Buenos Aires.  Most of the time you can eat for between $10 and $16 AUD. ($12 - $19 USA) This is about 50 - 60 pesos ARG.  The same for food in the grocery store.  This tells you how expensive Buenos Aires has gotten.

 We ended up in an Indian restaurant that was amazing. The food was fantastic. There is not one Indian restaurant in Buenos Aires that comes close. It took me forever to figure out what I wanted to eat. The menu was extensive and filled with many things I had never seen before. I had a prawn dish that was so rich and flavorful. I can no longer eat naan which is a shame. It looked so good.

 After we went to a tango practica. The people were so nice, and so welcoming. The dancing was a little different. Many people dancing in open embrace. There was one lone Argentine who was very happy to dance with me. I spent quite a bit of time talking with the Argentine man and a very interesting woman who was originally from El Salvador. It was not really important for me to dance. I loved talking to the people. I found the people to be so warm.

 The next day I took the ferry into the city again. I spent the whole day walking around. I picked up a map at the library. There is a long street called Queen Street that has been turned into a pedestrian mall. There are tons of shops and some beautiful old buildings. I wandered around the Art museum, Griffith University, and I kept getting lost.  I got excited when I saw Target.  Further investigation proved to be disappointing.  Australian Target is not like USA Target.  A cheap imitation.

 I love the clothes in Australia. They have a wonderful sense of style. I see that my design of short in front and longer in the back has been copied. I did this in my dresses two years ago. I sold it to many people who were from Asia and now it is all over the place here. I am the only one not making money from it. Sigh..

 At 6 I meet with Ian. He takes me to a more bohemian part of the city. I love it there. We go to a Vietnamese restaurant. I am not real hungry as I ate a sushi roll a couple of hours earlier. The menu looks wonderful. I miss having all these kinds of restaurants. I know I will be able to eat Vietnamese food in Melbourne. Maybe even in Cairns. I have shrimp rolls. They are excellent.

 We head for tango. They are playing modern tango when we enter. Once again, people are friendly. They dance very different. Open and with some step I have never seen before. Lots of boleos, ganchos. Stuff I would never dance. When in Rome... A man asks me to dance. I can dance open embrace, but it is very difficult when the other person is like a jellyfish. When he finds out I live in Buenos Aires, he proceeds to tell me that “everyone” dances this way in Buenos Aires. He has been there. I ask him where do people dance this way in Buenos Aires. He tells me La Viruta. I keep my mouth shut. I do not want to argue.

 When I go back to the table, the woman there, tells me to learn to say no. I do not want to say no the whole night. This is not my style of dancing. I am a milonguera. I dance with another man who is very nice. He talks about his style of dancing. I politely listen. Then he realizes who I am. “You are Deby.” he says. He reads my blog. To me, my opinions do not matter here.

 My body is killing me. My arm, my waist, my feet. I have been dancing less than 2 hours. In Buenos Aires I can dance for 6 hours with no pain. I wonder if I can make it until 11:30. I have not been in this much pain since I started dancing or when I was teaching.

 A lovely man takes me to dance.  He says to me “I bet you are wondering when we are all going to learn to dance.” I smile but I don't respond. I tell him that they have their own style. He is so sweet. This is the thing. Although I feel like I have been through the war, people are so nice here, it is impossible to say no to dances. Although it is difficult to explain to another man why I do not want to dance to Pugliese. When I watch the dancers, it reminds me of my days in the US.  I would have ended up dead on the floor.

 I am happy to leave early with my friend Ian. I do not think I could dance another tanda. It makes me sad. I would love to dance more. Perhaps it was all the walking I have been doing. My friends here see their version of tango as an international version. It is really interesting to listen to them talk about tango. This is when I realize why I cannot leave Buenos Aires...for all the faults, the inflation, the government.  Even the garbage on the street.  There is no substitute for the milongas in Buenos Aires..for the men I dance with there, no matter how angry they might make me at times.

 On Saturday, Nicol and her husband ask me if I want to go with them to the mountains with them and their friend. I am still having a difficult time to traffic being on the other side of the road. I try to get into the car on the “wrong” side. I look at the road and get a rush. I don't think I would ever try to drive here. 

 We pick up their friend and head to Mt. Tamborine. It is lots of fun. They are all from Rumania. The drive is spectacular. We have two GPS. The electronic GPS and the friend Michaela. She knows the mountain very well. I am amazed at all the wildlife. We stop at a Polish restaurant and have coffee. The parrots are gorgeous. The day is spectacular.

 We drive through little pockets of shops and stop. The homes are secluded. I cannot imagine living here. We stop so that Nicol and Michalea can buy avocados. I am astounded. There is a stand filled with avocados, bags, and what they call an honesty box. People fill their bags and put their $3 into the box. I cannot believe it. I tell them in Argentina people would just take the avocados, probably any money, and maybe the stand, and all the bags. They laugh. I tell them it is true.

 We stop at a distillery. The people are lovely. An English man married to a Russian woman. They give us a tasting of 6 different liquors. I love the ginger liquor. I don't buy it because the truth is, I would never drink it. The place is charming. They even grow many of the fruits that they distill.

 We stop and take a 3 km hike into the mountains. It is so beautiful. My friends tease me and call me a Japanese tourist for all the pictures I am taking. It is true. I am taking lots of pictures. I will load them in Facebook when I get a chance. Australia is so beautiful I cannot imagine not taking lots of pictures.

 At the end of the day we go back to pick up Paul, Micahlea's husband. We go out for Indian food. Another wonderful dinner and spirited conversation. Paul is very interesting. People always have their ideas and opinions of what South America is like, without having been there.

 Now my time is ending in Brisbane. Today we are going to drive to Noosa. One of my dearest friends Kat lives there with John. I will spend 4 days with them. Everyone tells me that I am going to love Noosa. I cannot wait to see it.  Brisbane has been very nice.  The only thing is I have had bad hair days.  The air is so dry here I feel like I am drying up.  The opposite of Buenos Aires... My Australian Odyssey...will be continued.

On The Road Again: Me and My Fake Ray Bans Explore Sydney

As soon as I can leave the apartment I do.  Last night my Airbnb hostess with the mostess and I had a spirited discussion about Buenos Aires and Chile.  She informed me that she thought the food in both countries was terrible.  She hated the beef and the empanadas in Argentina.  Excuse me?  She went on a tour package arranged by an Australia company.  Her tour guide in Argentina was of course Argentinian. When I asked her where she ate in Buenos Aires, it was a joke.  Most of the time it was in Puerto Madero.  The worst place you could ever go to eat..over priced and not that good.  How do you spell tourist trap?

She refused to believe it, instead arguing that Argentina one of the largest exporters of beef had a false reputation.  Then we spoke about tango.  Her idea of tango show tango.  She went to a show and thought it was lovely and passionate.  Her guide also took her to Ideal.  She thought is was a smelly old place with people shuffling around on the floor. Bueno.  To her that is not tango.

So you can see, we have different ideas of traveling.  I do not do tours.  I like to find out what it is like to live in a place.  I prefer to have a more local experience.  Good or bad.  That is the only way you really learn a place.  Whatever.

I head for Chinatown.  Another discussion.  "Why do you want to go there?" She said.  They are all alike. Not true.  I take the bus down to central and walk over to Chinatown.  This Chinatown is modern, more like in Paris than in San Francisco or LA.  It is so cold out I can barely stand to look around.  It is drizzling.  A nasty day.

I walk over to Paddy's Markets.  "A bunch of junk, don't bother."  She sneered at me.  I enter the old building and am greeted by a cacophony of sounds and sights.  On one side are vegetables and fruits and on the other are vendors selling everything you can imagine.  I walk up and down the isles.

I spy a stall that has cosmetics at incredible prices.  More than half of what I can buy them for in Buenos Aires and less than what I have seen for here in Sydney.  I love Loreal products.  I stop to look.  I see the lipstick colors I usually wear.  I keep it in mind and decide to look a little further.

Out of the blue a Chinese woman grabs me and asks if I want a massage.  They are 5 Chinese people with a stall set up to do massage.  I was going to wait until I got to Bali but my neck and shoulders really hurt.  I cave.  Of course the neck and shoulder massage soon turned into a full body massage but it was worth it.  I have not had such a great massage in years.  The woman told me I should come back again."You have many knots."  That I know.  There just does not seem to be good massage in Buenos Aires.  It was a Chinese massage which hurts.  They kill you.  But when you are done...you feel so good.  I should check in Chinatown to see if there is anyone that does Chinese massage in Buenos Aires.

I buy a hat.  The young Chinese girl finds me pretty funny.  She has a stall with her dad.  After yesterday in the sun, I decide I need to buy a hat.  I will need one further along on my trip.  I buy a modified female crocodile dundee lady Jane hat.  It looks cute. I guess.  I always looked good in hats, I just hate wearing them.

I see more makeup stalls, but the first stall had the best prices so I head back there.  The girl smiles at me.  She is a reserved Chinese girl.  I realize that she speaks limited English.  I buy lipsticks, eye color, and some other things.  The lip colors are $6 AU.  This would be about $30 pesos.  In Buenos Aires they are closer to $100 pesos.  You can imagine why I am so happy.

I head out the door and walk to the Powerhouse Museum.  My Airbnb hostess demanded I go there. Her famous last words were "It is free on the 1st Saturday of the month.  YOU MUST GO."  I walk down some really wonderful streets.  I love the architecture here.  It is raining.  I have my umbrella out.  I must be a little crazy.  Well, I am a tourist.

The museum is in a lovely building.  It is a science and industry museum.  I see nothing about it being free.  There are tons of rug rats running around.  I wait in line for the entrance.  The woman informs me that the museum has not been FREE FOR YEARS.  I decline an entrance.  I do not want to share my Saturday with rug rats clamoring all over the place. I have now self confirmed that my Airbnb hostess is out to lunch.

I now walk to Darlington Bay.  The last place she told me was not worth going to.  It is a beautiful walk, even in the rain.  I cross over a bridge and into a park.  I hear salsa music.  There is a latina fiesta.  It is too bad that it is raining.  Now it is just drizzling a bit, but still.  There is a bandshell set up with a kickass salsa band.  There are food stands with food from Colombia, Ecuador, Mexico, Argentina, and Brasil.  I stop to talk to some Colombians. 

What I find most interesting is South Americans who leave their countries are more arrogant than the people who stay in them.  How do I explain this?  It is like I am an American who lives in South America. They have left their countries to live elsewhere.  It is almost like they are ashamed in a way.  Not all but some.  So they cop an attitude.  That I cannot possibly know what it is like to live in Argentina after 9 years of living there, but they can, even though they have not lived in South America for 22 years.  Strange.

I walk down towards the ferries and take pictures.  I decide to check out the Aquarium.  I would have gone in, but it was $36 and also full of kids.  I decide to hold off.  I decide to just start walking.  I love the architecture here.  It is such a fabulous blend.  There are some really gorgeous buildings.

I decide to get my museum fix in the Australian Museum.  I spend a couple of hours there wandering around.  The best for me was to learn about the aborigines.  It was a very interesting exhibit.  I cannot spend too much time as tonight I am going to dance tango.

I walk the rest of the way home.  My airbnb hostess asks where I have been.  She is a little miffed that I did not follow her recommendations.  I tell her about the makeup.  She immediately without seeing it tells me they are fakes.  I tell her I have worn Loreal for years, it is not fake.  I do not want to argue with her. 

I get ready to go dance tango.  I have my computer out with the address.  I ask her how to go.  Google maps and the Sydney Bus site have given me two options.  She tells me how to go.  I ask her about the second option.  She yells at me "WHY DON'T YOU JUST DO WHAT I TELL YOU TO DO?"  I am shocked.  I cannot imagine ever talking to any of my guests that way.  I have guests that want to do many things I would never do in Buenos Aires.  I tell them my opinion, but also tell them, that they are tourists and they should go.  I would never ever yell at them.  That is it.  I will never ask her again.  A woman who eats in Puerto Madero is not my kind a person.

I go for the bus.  I am freezing to death.  It is so bloody cold here.  I change buses on Oxford Street.  When I get off the church where tango is, is right there.  I hear the music.  I enter and pay.  I sit alone.  There are many women and a few men.  I am very concious that I look different.  The music is very good.  An Asian couple comes in.  It turns out to be Mimi, someone I communicated with on Facebook before I came.  She and her husband have a milonga on Sundays.

I go to sit with Mimi and her husband.  They are lovely people.  The first man I dance with tells me it is a pleasure to dance with me.  "You really love the music."  He is very nice.  I dance with a few others.  Mimi introduces me to people.  A man comes and sits down next to me.

"So, how many lessons have you had?"  he says to me.  I look at his shoes.  They are not dance shoes. I know this kind of guy.  He thinks I am a new dancer and he is going to teach me on the floor.  I look at him. "Almost none."  I say to him.  He gets that glint in his eye. "How long have you been dancing?" he asks.  I look at him, "15 years.  I live in Buenos Aires."  He is not sure that he believes it, so he asks me to dance.

He is of course a disaster.  No balance.  He cannot stay in front of me.  Almost no lead.  He is killing my body.  This is not Buenos Aires.  I cannot walk off the dance floor.  After the second song he says to me "We only dance 3 songs here. So the ladies all get a chance to dance."  I tell him I know this.  Thank God.  I am happy when this tanda ends.

I am happy to be in this milonga.  Not for the level of dancing, but because I love to listen to the music. I have met some very nice people.  It is hard to explain to foreigners that it is not always about the dancing.  It is about the music.  I love my tango.  For me the milonga is a place to meet my friends, to listen to the music, and maybe to dance.  Here in Sydney...that is what I did.

 

The 5 Stages of Tango

The other day after seeing yet another tango blog on Facebook that whined about a man who had done this dancer wrong, I clicked and asked not to see any more posts from this blogger.  I couldn't take it anymore.  After awhile, all these blogs begin to look alike.  They either whine about someone who did or did not dance with them. Hero worship. The absolute correct way one must or must not dance tango..in their world. The best music.

I have a warped sense of humor sometimes. I thought about the 5 stages of grief.  Is there a 5 stages of tango?  The more I thought about it, the more warped I got.  Finally I decided I had to write a blog post about it.  Probably tomorrow I'll be flamed on the other's blogs. It's OK, at this point I really don't care. Hmmm, which stage is that? The I don't care stage?

So here you go, my 5 stages of tango, and you don't have to like them, love them, or even agree. I don't care, but it's not a stage. It's an attitude.  We all know, I have plenty of that.

SHYNESS or SHAME take your pick. You get this crazy idea you want to learn to dance tango.  For whatever reason.  You have friends who are gaa gaa over it.  You're sick of dancing (fill in the blank) swing, salsa, ballroom. You saw Forever Tango or Scent of a Woman.  If you are a man you think it would be a good way to meet women.  If you are a woman you think it might be a good way to meet men, although you are skeptical of having them that close to you.

If you live somewhere where there is a large tango community you can pick and choose where you might want to start lessons.  If you live somewhere where there is a small community, you have almost no choice.  You wonder if you have to dance with a rose in your mouth.  Fresh roses could get expensive.

Once you start classes you realize that your body has become Gumby. Walking becomes an impossible task.  While your teacher (hopefully because not all do) walks like a graceful cat moving forward.  You feel more like a construction worker wading in wet cement.  Backward ochos standing up without bending your knees seems like an Argentine torture left over from one of their wars. You watch yourself in a mirror and feel hopeless. If you are a man trying to lead a woman feels like trying to move a refrigerator on the dance floor, worse is you have no idea where you are going with that refrigerator or how to move it.  If you are a woman you feel like a pile of dirt being bulldozed.  Just like dirt, you feel like you are falling apart and you don't know how to stop it. Let the finger pointing begin. This is not the fantasy you had about dancing tango. That and the music.  You like it..maybe. It definitely is not AC/DC or Manchester Orchestra. Or even Adele.  There is so much to learn.  You hear people talking about codes.  That is all you need.  Codes.

At this point you either drop out because you are so miserable being so bad at something that should be fun.  Or you are determined to make this happen...you just don't want anyone to see you.

EUPHORIA You get it!  One day it just sort of happens. Your body makes that ocho flawlessly. You start humming a song in the supermarket and you realize it is Bahia Blanca. If you are able to, you go to tango as many days a week as you can.  Now that you think you can do the moves you want to get better. If there are not many classes in your area you watch YouTube.  You order DVDs. You start to travel to communities near yours.  Even if there are lots of classes in your area you still do all those things.  You can never get too much tango.

You start to wear black.  All the time.  Of course if you live in San Francisco, this is no big deal, because everyone wears black there anyway.  If you are a woman you start looking at clothes in a new way.  Before, they were just "clothes."  Now they take on this whole new dimension.  You are in (Take a pick) Nordstroms, Target, HSM, and you see a skirt, or top, or dress, and you think "Wow, this would be great for tango."  I don't think guys have the clothes epiphany like women do.  They are more like listening to music and think "I could dance tango to this..." You fantasize who would be dancing with you. 

Visiting teachers, especially those from Argentina are like the word of Gospel.  Trying to soak up as much as possible.  Having been the worst of dancers the goal is to be the best dancer in your community. 

Once you were this person who liked (Take a pick) Jazz, rock, salsa, and now all you listen to is tango.  Every CD in your car is tango.  Too bad there is not a tango radio station.  Your cell phone has a tango song for its ringer.  You find yourself doing ochos when you are waiting in lines.  You explain yourself to people "I dance tango."

You feel like you have finally joined the elite club of people who dance tango. You listen to the people who have gone to Buenos Aires and all the festivals.  You start reading the online forums to learn as much as you can.

Your friends begin to change.  The friends you had for years seem boring.  Or maybe not boring, it is just that they don't dance tango and they don't understand your passion.  You can spend hours talking about tango and they are just not interested.  Better to be with your new friends who share your passion online or otherwise.  You are obsessed with tango.  You work so that you can feed your new passion.

ARROGANCE This is the point where most people begin to blog, teach, travel. (Yours truly inclusive.) When I came to Buenos Aires my first time I had been dancing a little more than 2 years.  In my community I was considered an intermmediate-advanced dancer.  In Buenos Aires they considered me a beginner.  It was a humbling experience.  I kept coming back for more.  In those first few years, if you didn't dance well, you didn't dance.  I learned on the floor from milongueros and then from my milonguero partner. 

I thought that made me better than all the people who threw hundreds and in some cases 1000s of dollars at teachers.  People in this stage post in forums, write blogs. It is not that they do it, it is the form that they take. 

While some can be entertaining (I like to think that at least some of my blog posts were entertaining) the majority sound like country western songs. He done me wrong - she walked out on me, or he is always on my mind to I will give her my endless love.  I have read some blog posts that are so mean that it amazes me.  The writer will shred, and I mean shred, people in their community, teachers, dancers, milongas, all while making themself look like the second coming of tango.  While the Argentines themselves may be competitive, I have never seen or heard them be as mean as the foreign community  (Unless they are throwing punches..)

There is something about tango in the exterior (as it is called here) where everyone wants to be famous or important or a star. You usually find it in this stage. Women bragging about how many pair of shoes they have.  When you stop to think about it?  How stupid is it to be the Imelda Marcos of tango shoes? Shoes that for the most part are not well made, are made of cardboard and leather and plastic, and cost a fortune.  That and where else can you wear them?  Can you imagine yourself in your Neo Tango shoes at the gym?  Men brag about how many songs they have. I meet men that talk about having 500, 600, 700 or more mp3 files. The new baseball card.  Everyone wants their little piece of fame.

The there are the Facebook posts.  Besides the hundreds of ads for classes, shoes, and clothes, there are the threads about life in tango.  If you agree with the commenter then you are OK.  Disagree and the machete comes out.  The arrogant stage wants recognition whether the person recognizes it or not. 

I spent my time saying I didn't want to dance or teach all while I was doing it and dispensing advice....I see the same now.  Funny how history continues to repeat itself in this dance.  I said I didn't want to be famous all while photographers and journalists came from all over to write stories about me and I loved every minute.  Sigh..

HUMILITY I knew Carlos Gavito before he became ill.  He was very arrogant.  I never understood that attitude that so many dancers had.  He never danced with me.  The same with Nestor Ray.  Then both became terminally ill.  I would see Gavito in the milongas. He went from being a robust man to a mere shadow of himself.  In the process he became humble.

He would always be at Porteño Bailarin at a table with friends.  I would always greet him. He was warm and friendly. One night he invited me to dance.  After the tanda I asked him if he was going to cut off my leg.  He laughed.  It was something he had threathened to do to me a long time a go in a class.  In front of everyone, in a not so nice way.

Nestor Ray was never known for being Mr. Nice Guy, but he was the consumate milonguero and an incredible dancer.  I knew him from Buenos Aires as well as his times in California.  I never took classes from him and he didn't like that.  He either ignored me or was rude to me.

Several months before his death he surprised me by asking to dance my birthday vals with me.  I never forgot that dance.  I am only sorry I didn't have a videotape of it. After the dance he looked at me and said one word "Bien."  That was a lot from him.

I suppose the thought of death can bring humility to some people.  I was in a bad car accident with my partner.  It brought me down to earth.  The longer I was here, the more I danced, the more I learned.  Then one day, all the things that had seemed so important were not.

Humility in tango are the people who dance well and don't need to talk about it.  They just go to dance.  That's it.  Sometimes they dance many tandas, sometimes they don't dance at all.  People watch them and enjoy watching them because they have style to their dancing.  They have life.

DEATH This could be literally or figuratively.  Why do people stop dancing?  Especially when something has been such a major part of their life. Obviously some people die.  For some people the tango dies.

One of the women I most admire in tango has been dancing more than 60 years.  To this day for me, she is still one of the best dancers.  She almost never goes to dance.  When we talk about the milonga she almost always says to me "For me the tango is dead." Until 10 years ago in her opinion (or maybe 7) there were good dancers in the milonga.  Now she sees almost none and the few that there are, are busy chasing the foreign women.  "Why would they dance with me? she says.  "I am just an old woman who can dance."  She would rather not go than to watch a dance that was so much a part of her life danced poorly.

A couple of months ago on a Sunday when I was walking my dog, I ran into a woman I had met at Lo de Celia's 10 years ago.  She was always in the milongas, every night and in the late afternoons.  In the last year or so, I hadn't seen her around. We hugged.  She told me her son had just moved to this barrio and she was helping him.

She asked me if I was still in the milongas. "Not like before." I told her. She told me she stopped going.  She felt the quality of the dancing was just not there anymore.  The few good dancers left..well, they look for the tourists.  She got tired of paying her entrada and sitting.  I always loved to watch this woman dance.  She told me now and then she goes to Roberto Canelo's advanced class.  She says this is better than a milonga, because the dancing is better.  We both laugh.  I haven't seen her since.

There are other women in my barrio who went to the milonga.  I see them from time to time in the bakery, the chicken man, and the pet store.  It is always the same.  They ask if I am still in the milonga.  They after many years have stopped dancing. For many it is now the cost.  A night of tango is 100 pesos. (35 pesos to enter, 12 for water, and a taxi home..it isn't safe to wait for the bus in most barrios late at night) Many people can't dance more than once a week now.  Men and women.  With inflation rising and expenses being what they are, food, insurance, and other things become more important. Slowly the tango works its way out of their life.

The tango isn't dead for me.  It just is not the most important thing in my life any more. One day I found myself in a milonga watching all the people.  I saw people I had known for 12 years. Women who were dressed in clothes that would have been better for their granddaughters.  I was seated a little further back and so I watched.  I watched the Argentine women dressed age inappropriately, in clothes a little too tight vying for the attention of the men.  On the other side of the room were the foreign women.  Wearing much more expensive clothes, that fit better, although maybe not always age appropriate. Some of them would hike their skirts up a little or bend forward to show more clevage.  Smiling widely. There were about 75 women competiting for the attention of about 35 men.  The men were clearly shopping. Ability to dance was not in the equation for most of them.

I realized in that moment, in 10 years I didn't want to be in that same chair hoping some man would invite me to dance.  It made me feel sad.  12 years ago when I first came to Buenos Aires, there were more men than women dancing tango.  The emphasis was on the dancing.  Every night was like a show. You could see Ricardo Vidort, Omar Vega, Either or both of the Zottos, Nestor Ray, Gavito, (If he was in town) Pupy Castello, Graciela Gonzales, and many others too numerous to name, and they all danced well.  They didn't come to sit, they came to dance.

After 14 years of dancing tango..12 of them here, I needed to expand my horizons. For me the tango is not dead.  They say that in the final stage of grief is when you let go, and let other things into your life and move on.  Perhaps this is where some of us are now.

 

Walking the Barrio of Life

When I first came to Buenos Aires in 2000, it was to dance tango.  I was overcome by the faded elegance, the beauty, and the seemingly simple life of the Porteños.  Everything appeared to be in slow motion comparted to my life in the Bay Area.

Here people had time to have coffee and chat for 2 hours, to sit all day reading the newspaper.  Waiters in dapper little jackets and bow ties brought you not only coffee, but a little glass of orange juice, water, and a plate of cookies - all for the price of your coffee.  The cafes themselves were museum pieces from another time.  Wooden tables and chairs, lineoleum or tile floors.  It was intoxicating.

I would walk the streets of Buenos Aires and look at the beautiful old buildings.  They say that there is architecture here in Buenos Aires that you can no longer find in Europe.  I was mesmerized by the French, Italian, and Spanish architecture.  There were times I had to remind myself I was in Argentina, not Paris, or Madrid, or Florence. The similarity was amazing.  It was like being in Europe with a South American flair.

Of course there was the tango. My main reason, at first for coming to Buenos Aires.  You could dance in the milongas starting at 3 in the afternoon until 6 in the morning everyday.  In my first years in Buenos Aires, there were many more men dancers than women.  I remember going to milongas and being surprised at how many men there were.  There were few tourists.  Those of us that came were exotic.  The Argentines could never figure out why someone would want to travel to Buenos Aires to dance tango.

It was before tango became a business.  There were maybe 4 places to buy shoes. Finding a teacher was not easy.  It was word of mouth mostly.  The idea was to learn the music, to walk, to practice, and then eventually come to the milongas to dance.  It was a different world. 

If you didn't dance well, if you created problems on the dance floor, you were asked to leave the floor.  If you were not dressed appropriately, you were not allowed to enter.  The tango had its codes and they were followed.  I was in love with all of it.  It was like going back in time.

I spoke Spanish, but not like now.  8 years of living here in Buenos Aires has given me fluency.  Before I had a Mexican based Spanish that was good for living in California and traveling in Mexico.  I thought I spoke Spanish, I learned quickly after I moved here, that I sort of spoke Spanish.

I came to Argentina when they were on the brink of financial default.  In 2000 the people I connected with talked about the inflation, politics, and the corruption.  As an American I couldn't really understand all the negativity.  I understood, the situation, but not the depth. The politics of Argentina are nothing like the politics of the U.S. or even like any of the other South American countries.

I danced my way through all of it. In 2001 I came for 3 weeks and ended staying almost 2 months.  It was the time of the correlitos.  When the country defaulted on its loans. It was a terrible time for the people. Yet I saw something different.

I saw people pulling together. Trying to help each other.  I saw people giving food to the poor.  I saw people trying to shop at Argentine owned businesses. There was lots I didn't see, because I didn't understand.  I didn't know what was really going on.  I was a tourist.

I never stopped dancing.  The milongas were full.  It was 4 pesos to enter the afternoon milongas and 6 pesos for the evening milongas.  I danced everyday until 6 in the morning.  I would leave with friends and then go to find a place to have cafe con leche with medialunas.  There were lots of places open.  It didn't matter what time I left the milonga, one could go have coffee, take the bus home.  Taxis were cheap.  The meter started at 1.10.

Life could not have been better.  I was so in love with the tango, the lifestyle of Buenos Aires.  Or what I thought was the lifestyle... When Argentines tried to explain to me how it really was, I would blow it off and describe what it was like to live in the USA.  "You have no idea", I would tell them, "what it is like there. You think Hollywood is the life we all have."

Every Sunday I walk my barrio with Maximiliana my dog.  We take a long walk.  I used to walk the same route.  The last few Sundays I started to walk different blocks.  There are many empty buildings.  Stores, restaurants, service businesses are now gone, and the stores have not been rented.  The streets are dirtier than ever.  One Sunday I took my camera and shot pictures of all the garbage and griffiti in a 3 block radius from my apartment and loaded it on my Facebook.My Beautiful Barrio Photos on Facebook

I live in Palermo, a supposedly upscale barrio.  Guests and friends who had stayed at my apartment were shocked. "What happened?"  they wrote to me or posted on my wall. Others didn't understand why a no-graffiti law had not been enacted.  How do you explain that if one were, who would enforce it?

Locals can no longer buy dollars. Real estate after October will not be sold in dollars. Last week it was announced that foreigners - tourists who want to buy pesos must use their credit cards or debit cards to do so.  They can not use cash.  They can try the banks, but banks

I never used to understand the attitude of living for the moment.  It was once explained to me by an Argentine friend. "You only have this moment.  You know what it is.  So you must take it."  At the time I tried to explain the concept of the future to him.  "But that is an American concept." he said to me.  "You Americans always live in the future.  We have no future."  I thought that was so fatalistic. 

After living here 8 years, I have adapted.  I too live for the moment.  Things are so crazy you never know what is going to happen, so you must live for now.  Still, I am sad.  To see the city I love lose its elegance and my barrio become something it never was.

 

Aqui Se Baila Tango..Puede Ser..Here We Dance Tango..Maybe..

On Saturday night my friend invites me to go dance tango with her.  I had asked her about several places I saw on the Internet.  She insists that there is only one place to go.  I am doubtful, but I do not want to argue.  I would rather see my friend.

She is over exuberant about tango like most people who live in the exterior are. Non stop talking, analyzing. Those days have long passed for me.  Tango is a part of my life and soul.  I do not need to talk about 24/7.  It just is.  A few weeks ago some of my Argentine friends and I had dinner with some tango tourists.  One of my Argentine friends leaned over and said to me "I wish she would shut up.  All she wants to talk about is tango."  I explained to him that she thinks because he is Argentine that is his whole life and she thinks that she is flattering him.

After the dinner was over around 1:00 am, the Argentines and I prepared to leave.  The tourists wanted to know what milonga we were going to.  None of us were going out.  We had just spent 80 pesos on a dinner and the idea of spending another 50 pesos on a milonga was not going to work.  Not only that, most of us had to work the next day.  The tango tourists were surprised.  I, the designated translator for both language and culture had to explain.

I am on the bus headed towards this milonga in the Providencia.  When I get to the place I realize it was where I went in 2005.  It was a terrible place.  No one knew how to dance.  I wonder if it has improved in the 7 years since I was there.  I was unsure of what to wear..so I have on my basic black.

The place looks like a Miami Chilean version of what a place in La Boca looks like.  The host welcomes me and takes me to the table where my friends are seated.  People are smoking.  I want to gag. Iam happy to see my friend.  She is with a handsome Chilean man.  The people are well dressed in this place.  Better dressed than how we dress in our milongas in Buenos Aires.  For Chile they are good, for Buenos Aires, not so great.  I try not to be hypercritical.

When the quartet leaves the stage a few people get up to dance.  Que horror!  Just as bad as I remember.  I ask my friend if more people will come to dance.  She tells me maybe not.  I ask her if there are many singles here.  She tells me no.  Why am I here?  Oh yes, to see my friend.

My friend gets up to dance with her partner.  They dance pasos. There are a couple of clowns on the floor who have no idea how to dance.  They are banging into people.  After each song people clap.  This is really bizarre.  I decide that I am not going to dance.

The quartet plays again and the owners come on and dance. You know there is an old saying that if you can't don't.  They should not try to do flashy show moves they cannot execute.  People clap because the do not know better.

My friend's partner invites me to dance.  I tell him a tango.  I cannot imagine dancing a milonga with him.  I would rather die and never dance again.  I ask my friends about the other tango places.  He tells me old people from Argentina go there. "It must be good."  I say to him.  "No they dance traditional tango, milonguero style." (I wonder what he thinks most of them are dancing - with their close embrace.) "They dance slow." Yeah they dance to the music pelotudo, I think to myself. Not like you, racing around the floor.  Instead I say "Older dancers can be the best dancers, and what is wrong with milonguero style?" He starts to explain to me why people need to dance faster.  I interrupt him.  "You feel the music, and dance to the music.  You should not just dance faster."

Mr. Big Stuff takes me to dance.  We go out to the floor.  I know he has no posture.  I position myself in embrace. He takes a step forward with no lead and steps on my foot.  As we dance he continues to step on my feet.  I have to constantly watch his feet to see what he is doing because he has absolutely no lead. He then starts to push me with both hands in this maniacle move.  I taught tango for 7 years.  I have no idea what he is doing.  Finally it dawns on me.

"Do you want me to turn?" He tells me yes. "Using your hands?"  I am astounded. Especially in the way he is doing it. It just falls out my mouth; "Who taught you this?"  He looks at me and says "I will teach you to turn since you do not know how."  I catch myself before I start laughing. "No amor,"  I say to him.  "I will teach you.  The giro comes from the chest, not from pushing with the hands.  NEVER push a woman so hard through any step.  This is not tango."  Let's just walk.  Which he also is miserable at.  I am grateful when the song ends.

We go back to the table.  My friend is talking to the Spainard at the table behind us.  She invites him to join us.  He sits next to me.  He is in Santiago to work.  He smokes like a chimney.  He smells like a brewery.  I am doomed.

The Spaniard tells me friends how much he loves watching the tango.  He says he never really saw it before.  I tell him that there is lots of tango in Barcelona, and in Spain.  Mr. Big Stuff looks at me.  I mention that I have danced there and in Madrid as well.  The Spaniard says that he dances salsa and is a good salsa dancer.  I tell him that we will dance salsa when they play the salsa music.

Iwatch the dancers.  The singer is dancing.  He better than the rest.  At least he dances with the music. I look at him so he knows I want to dance with him.  Mr. Big Stuff starts spouting more B.S.  He has never been to Buenos Aires.  He then makes a comment that he can dance with any woman, except one who has bad habits and has not been taught properly.  He looks at me.  The Spaniard asks him how long he has been dancing.  He says  4 years and an Argentine woman who lives in Chile taught him.

They play a salsa break.  I take the Spaniard onto the floor.  He is protesting.  Once we get out there it is evident why.  After an hour of hearing what a great salsa dancer he is, he admits he cannot dance salsa.  He can't dance anything.  I tell him not to worry.  Just have fun.  So there I am with a drunk Spaniard trying to dance salsa.

When the song ends we go back to the table.  The Spaniard says to my friend and Mr. Big Stuff.  I can't dance.  I can't dance anything. I am a really bad dancer.  I smile at him and say "But that is OK. A bad dancer who knows he is a bad dancer is better than a bad dancer who thinks he is a good dancer." and I look directly at Mr. Big Stuff.

The singer comes to get me to dance. Compared to Mr. Big Stuff he is heaven. In Buenos AIres I would probably not dance with him.  He starts the whole rap.  You dance very well.  Where are you from.  How long are you here for.  Then I look at him.."Flaco, tienes un anillo, OK?"  After that he shuts up. He dances a couple of songs with me.

I sit at the table and have to listen to Mr. Big Stuff talk about what a great dancer he is. Or I have to listen to the drunk Spaniard..and I am getting smoked out.  I dance one more song with the singer and I decide I must leave.  I cannot take it anymore. I say goodbye to my friends.  The host gives me a chocolate candy on my way out and wishes me a Happy Mother's day.

The taxi back I have to argue a bit with the driver. My karma. He passes my hostel which is next door to the Argentine Embassy. (Can you believe?) So he starts to drive backwards down the street.  The carbinero stops him.  He tells the carbinero that I am Argentine and  must go to the embassy.  I pay him and jump out of the taxi.

The carbinero (policeman in Chile) looks at me and says "You must be a very important person to have to go to the embassy this late at night.  I tell him the taxi driver was an idiot that he passed my hostel and that was why he was driving backwards.

They open the door for me to my hostel and I go to my room.  I sit on the bed and unwrap the candy they gave me.  It looks like a luscious dark chocolate.  I take a bite. YEECH!  It is horrible.  It tastes like soap.  I go to take a drink of water to rinse my mouth.  I look at the label. I shake my head.  It is soap.  Chocolate almond soap.  What a way to end my evening.

 

El Dia del Tango - The Day of Tango - 11 de Diciembre Tourists and All

I enter into my favorite Sunday milonga. The staff of the organizer greets me. They wave me off to my table.  As I walk there I greet the various people I know.  It is a holiday weekend so there are many people who are not here.  I note that there are many tourists here.  You can see it in the floorcraft.

When I get to my table my chair is taken.  I look at the next table.  Sometimes I sit there as well.  I always have a front seat.  For over a year the two Barbies and I have been the "Esquina de Las Rubias."  If they are there I sit one seat over.  If they are not, I sit one seat the other way.  Only today there is no seat.  I try to say something to the two foreign women, but both of them snipe at me.  I go to talk to one of the staff.

In this milonga I usually dance with the same people.  Maybe it is that way in most of the milongas. Almost all of them note the amount of tourists.  This was always a barrio milonga with few tourists.  People do not like to see it change. 

I tell the staff person I have no seat.  That there are women in my seat, and where am I to sit.  The issue with the tables is sensitive.  Regulars have their tables.  He comes to see what the problem is.  Essentially he sat the two foreign women behind and they decided to move up.  He asks one of the women to move back and she tells him no she will not.  He leaves. 

I am upset. I do not want to sit behind this woman. When you have your place the men know where to find you. The woman turns around and  says to me "I am sorry you have to look at my back."  I am shocked.  Does she think this is the issue?  I say to her, "I don't care about your back."  I try to explain the reserved tables to her.  She says the chairs were empty when she came so they sat there."  The woman who is sitting next to me always sits in back cannot believe the attitude even if she doesn't understand the English.  I translate.  Probably I would not be so mad if this woman were not so unbelievably arrogant.

The Organizer now comes and explains to her the situation.  The woman does not speak Spanish.  I translate nicely and explain to her again that these tables are all reserved every week for regulars.  That her seat is my seat.  That she and her friend were seated behind because the front seats are reserved.  She tells the organizer she needs to put names on the seats and in her opinon they were empty.  The organizer is shocked.  Not just by what was said to her, but in the obviously nasty and condescending tone.  They refused to move.

When the organizer left I said the to woman, "You know, you make me embarrassed to be from the USA.  You are a prime example of why the locals do not like foreigners.  You come here and you have no respect. "  This overweight sausage stuffed into her tango clothes looks at me and tells me that the Argentines need to learn how to do things better.  They should put names on the chairs instead of on their sheets of paper.  She completely misses the point.  I am furious.  She and her horsey looking friend have been nothing but rude. I tell her I hope she learns to dance during her stay along with learning some manners.  That shuts her up and she turns around.

The organizer comes back and moves me to another table. I am in front.  I say hello to the woman at the table.  She is Argentine but lives in Italy.  She is one of those Ex-Pat Argentines that becomes Argentine when she comes to visit, otherwise she hates Argentina.  I know those types.  All they do is complain about Argentina and Argentines, but when they come back to Argentina, it is a different story, especially they talk to a foreigner.  Only at this juncture I am more Argentine than she is.  She left 30 years ago.

She asks me if I went to the coronation of Christina.  I tell her no.  I did not go.  I don't like crowds.  She goes on and on about how great this government is.  I ask her how she would know this, she doesn't live here.  She doesn't experience the inflation.  I tell her how the inflation is killing people.  She thinks I live in dollars.  I set her straight on that one.  I tell her if things are so great how come we have 45% more villas (slums).  I love this answer, "Oh those are people from Bolivia or Paraguay or Peru."  I say to her, so they don't count as poor people?"  "What about the drugs?"  I ask her.  "The insecurity?"  She tries to change the subject and talk about the U.S.  I tell her I don't care about the U.S. because I live here.  "No me escuchaste?  Vivo aca 8 años."

I dance. I dance with my friends.  I get relief from this Italian disaster I am sitting with.  Why am I having this kind of night?  Couldn't it have rained?  I go back to the table.  The Italian disaster is not dancing but she wants to know if I learned to dance tango here.  I tell her my story encapsulated.  I really do not want to talk to her.  She tries to tell me that since I am from the US I didn't learn to dance the real tango.  OK fine me and my fake tango are dancing almost every tanda and she the Italian Disaster who is Argentine and learned to dance the real tango is sitting through every tanda.  Muchas gracias.  Shut up.

After dancing tango in Buenos Aires for 11 years you see things differently.  Milongas are where I go to see my friends and hear the music. The people I call my friends are not people I see outside of the milonga.  They are people I have known for years.  I don't feel the need to dance 12 hours a day or to talk about tango incessantly.  Tango still holds a very special place for me.  I cannot live without it. Yet, there is more in my life now.

When I first started dancing the men would ask me where I was going to dance.  Now they ask me how my clothing business is going.  If I am going on vacation.  Of course there are always the pirpopos, but I like them.  They come in a different spirit.  I don't have to wonder if I will dance.  I do.  I wait for the music I like and a man I want to dance with.  I am not frenetic about dancing every tanda or dissecting my dances.  I know my tango.

 It was 11 years ago I first came to Buenos Aires to dance tango.  Things were so different then.  There were fewer tourists.  Tango was not as popular in the world.  There were maybe 4 shoe stores and 2 places to buy music.  The milongas had strict codes.  Men had to wear a jacket.  Women dressed up.

On weekends men wore suits, women wore beautiful dresses.  Everyone was elegant.  If you were not dressed well, you were not allowed to enter.  I look at the floor today.  Jeans, shirts hanging out.  Women wearing clothes meant for their pre-teen daughters.  Not just the tourists but the Argentines as well.  The elegance is gone.

The dancers.  When I came 11 years ago, I was astounded to see everyone move in the line of dance and to the music.  It was wonderful to just sit and watch the dancers in Ideal, Lo de Celia, El Arranque, Niño Bien, and other places. Elegant, smooth, and to the music.  Maybe not everyone was a stellar dancer, but there were many.  People learned to walk before they learned anything else.  Tango was and is a caminata.  I look out at the dance floor.  It looks like dodge cars.  I know, I got stepped on and kicked, and had an elbow in my head of all places out there.

The Italian Disaster brings me back to reality.  We are watching two young couples in an exhibition.  They dance nicely, but they are boring.  The same step over and over.  She says to me "It is nice to see young people dance."  I tell her they are boring.  She tells me they are young.  I tell her being young has nothing to do with it.  I remember the first time I saw Geraldine.  She was 23.  She was amazing.  Being a young dancer does not mean you have to be boring.

During the cortina they play Frank Sinatra.  The Italian Disaster starts to wax poetic over how this is "my" music. "Not really."  I tell her.  She acts shocked.  "How can this not be your music?"  She demands. I look her in the eye.  "The same way if you ask 1000 Argentines about tango, they will tell you that was the music of their abuelos.  Frank Sinatra was the music of my parents."  She gets it.  I like Frank Sinatra, but please, I am not going to sit and listen to him. 

The nasty tourist and her horse face friend leave.  They were not dancing.  I guess sitting in my chair cursed them.  They were not blond.  Everyone who sits in those chairs on Sunday are blond.  Don't they know, blonds have more fun? 

I need new shoes.  All of my shoes are wearing out.  Leo has a new pair for me but she is perfecting them. I need, need, need.  I need a new bank account full of money.  I need to sell more of my clothes so I can buy more tango shoes.  Unfortunately life does not always work this way.

I think back again to my first trip 11 years ago.  Who would have thought a trip to experience tango in Buenos Aires would have had the profound effect on my life it did.  Impresionante.

 

 

 

Un Amor Impossible..An Impossible Love

The milongas are empty.  Most of them.  The tourist milongas or the commercial milongas have no tourists.  Since they mostly rely on the foreigners who come to Buenos Aires to dance, their floors are empty.  The milongas for the locals are mostly empty too.  Regardless of what the government says, no one has any money.

The milongas are 25 - 35 pesos to enter. Most are now insisting you order something to drink.  A bottle of water is 9 pesos, 10 with a tip.  If you have to take a taxi home, that is another 30 pesos, minimum.  A night of tango costs around 75 - 80 pesos.  Who can dance more than twice a week?  I go where I am welcomed gratis.  That way I can dance a few more nights a week. 

I am sick of listening to the few tourists who do come about the prices here.  They come on vacation.  We live here.  It is like they expect the Argentines to put on a show.  We aren't MIckey Rooney and Judy Garland.  There is this attitude that they put out all this money to come here, and there better be people to dance with.  They want it to be cheap.  The all inclusive vacation.  Sorry but there is a world crisis folks in case you didn't know.

The other day I was at an asado with friends. Some who dance and some who don't.  The topic of tango came up.  The non-dancing friends were suprised to hear that those of us that dance do not go to the mundial, nor support it.

We explain how it is more like a competitve sport rather than tango.  We are milongueros.  We believe that tango is danced from the heart and cannot be judged.  That every step is different, that tango is the only dance that is danced in an embrace and has no steps.  For us it is the music.  How can you judge that?

In the mundial, it is all about perfection.  People take classes to be perfect.  To learn to dance a style that will appeal to the judges.  It has become like ballroom.  People want to launch professional careers. It has nothing to do with the music, or the embrace, or how one feels.  It is about winning.

We talk about the milongas.  One of my friends a man makes a comment about the foreigners who come to dance. "Most of them come for an adventure." he says. I ask him what he thinks the percentage is.  In his opinon he thinks 70% of the women who come to dance tango whether they are single or married come looking for "fun."  My other friend agrees with him.

They talk about how the women are willing to pay for their fun.  Some do it with "lessons," or "taxi dancers," (not the professional services) others are just happy to be picked up nightly.  My friends say they have been offered money, clothes, dinners.  They find it funny since they are both well employed and do not need any assistance, nor would they accept it.

I find this humorous to listen to.  They talk about how sometimes it is "muy pesado."  The women do not take no for an answer.  They bug them to go to bed with them.  My friends say they just want to dance.  I tell them now you know how I feel!

On Sunday I am at my favorite milonga.  It is a barrio milonga.  Few tourists come here.  It is mostly locals.  I love the music and the ambience of the milonga.  I have many favorite dancers here.  I have my table.

A man known for bringing tourists to milongas comes with a small group.  He is a friend.  He comes to greet me.  He tells me we will dance later.  He seats his women at a table in front.  They are a mix of European and a few from the provinces.

Three women are seated at my table.  They are foreign.  One women is in command.  She is dictating to the others on how to behave in the milonga.  She is insuferable. She is so wrong it is not even funny.  She is telling them what they should and should not do.  She tells them they should never accept dances with men who come to the table.  A man comes to the table and she nearly pisses all over herself accepting the dance with him.  I almost die laughing.

The other two women are surprised I speak English.  I introduce myself to them.  They tell me they just met this woman and she has appointed herself their expert guide to the milongas.  I roll my eyes.  "Everyone is an expert."  I tell them.  The expert has told them they will not dance.  They are very nervous.  I tell them to relax and have a good time. 

I go to dance with a friend. I love dancing with him.  He has a wonderful embrace. We hear the music the same way. I feel like I melt into his arms. He always comes for me at the table.  He knows I will always dance with him.  He is one of the very few men I will dance milonga with.

I met him three years ago in another milonga.  This was before European women began to pay his way to Europe.  Before, before, before.  Now he only looks for the foreign women and for what he can get from them.  He dances with me when there are no foreign women to dance with.  He tells me all the time how much of a pleasure it is to dance with me.  When he comes back from his little European jaunts he tells me how much he missed dancing with me.

The tanda ends and he escorts me back to my table.  My friend who brings the foreigners to the milonga is waiting for me.  He says to my friend, "This is mi amor impossible."  I am shocked.  I look at him.  My friend looks at him and asks him why.  He says "She is beautiful, elegant, intelligent, and I love to have her in my arms, but she is "un amor impossible."  My friend begs to differ with him.  I have no idea what to say and sit down.

The milonga expert is back at the table giving more advice.  "Never get up," She tells the women, "until you know the man is coming for you."  They play a tanda of vals.  I look to my friend down the aisle. He is my partner for vals. He smiles at me and starts to come to get me.  The milonga expert jumps up and starts to go to him.   I smile at her. "Permiso."  I say.  My friend leads me to the floor.  I wonder why she never follows her own advice.

On the floor my friend once again asks me to dinner.  He is a lovely man.  We always have this conversation.  I am his amigita del vals.  He wants it to be more.  I tell him fine, I will dance a tango with you now and then.  But this is not what he means.  He smokes.  Alot.  I keep hoping he will find someone nice who smokes.  Or who doesn't mind his smoking.  He deserves it.  He is a widower, young, with a business.  One of the few decent men in the milonga. 

In the middle of the tanda I look up.  In comes a man that I used to date.  One of the very few.  I miss a step.  My friend tells me to listen to the music.  I decide I will ignore the man.  He was a jerk to me.  I go back to the table.  The milonga expert is busy dispensing more advice ad nauseum.  I decide to introduce myself to her.  She sticks her nose in the air "I know who you are."  OK.  I didn't realize I was famous.  Fine.

In this milonga I dance almost every tanda. I sit only if I want to.  I notice my ex-friend watching me.  He is doing everything to get my attention.  I continue to ignore him.  What does he think?  I am going to go throw myself at him smiling?  No.  Sorry.  Not desperate.  He starts to divide his attention between two women.  One is foreign and desperate for attention.  She is all over him.  When she is dancing with someone else, he dances with a woman no one else is dancing with.  He does everything he can to move near me and catch me.  I look away.  I have no desire to have contact with him.  He had his opportunity and he blew it. Ahh yes, the high school games we play.

I leave to go to the bathroom and see "Amor Impossible" writing what is most likely his phone number and or email on a piece of paper.  I wonder who it is for.  Most likely not me.  I go back into the salon to dance.  A few more tandas and my ex-friend manages to finally catch my eye.  He gives me his million dollar seduction smile.  I give him my "Rubia Mireya gaze" and look away.  With that he comes to the table of the woman who has not danced and in front of me asks for her phone number.  Oh like I am soooo wounded.  The poor woman who is less than attractive is so excited she can barely get the numbers out.  She asks him 20 times to please call her and gives him a run down of her schedule. Pathetic.  What is wrong with these women?

Then if that is not enough he goes back to his table and says something to the foreign woman.  She grins from ear to ear.  They get up and leave together.  Like I am supposed to feel dissed?  It doesn't matter what the woman looked like.  He makes sure to look at me as he is leaving.  Dude you just moved up the level from pelotudo to forro.  At least in my book. 

Soon it will be time to leave.  Who is the phone number for?  Amor Impossible comes to get me to dance.  It is almost the last tanda.  He showers me with piropos.  The connection we have is undeniable.  Yet the phone number is not for me. I know that.

As they play the last tanda, the French woman who has come with my friend's group does her reverse strip tease.  She dances bare legged.  But when she prepares to leave, she seats herself where everyone can see her.  She rolls her dress up to her hips, spreads her legs, and puts on thigh high stockings.  The whole routine is done nightly at whatever milonga.  I want to go tell her we have bathrooms to dress in, but that would ruin her show.  Who said French women are elegant? Not this one.  Not many of them who come to dance here.

As she is ending her routine, Amor Impossible comes to talk to her.  He hands her a little piece of paper.  She smiles at him.  She obviously is not un amor impossible.  He walks away.  I am reminded by something said to me by an Argentine woman years ago when I first started to dance in the milongas here.  I was complaining about the men.  She told me "The problem is not our men.  It is your women." Puede ser.

 

 

 

 

El Otro Camino

My house guest Jen has been going to the milongas I go to.  I have been telling her, she should go check out Canning, Niño Bien, El Beso, and all the rest of the milongas.  I have been too busy to go with her.  She doesn't want to go alone.  On the nights I am not in the milongas with my clothes, we go to the barrio milongas I love to dance at.  I bring her with me.  Her view of the Buenos Aires milongas is very different than those of the average tourist who comes here to dance.  She is seeing milongas with almost all Argentines and in most cases, no tourists.

Earlier this week we went to a tango show.  It was not a tango show in the sense of the word, where a horse come galloping in, or the dancers are ballet or contemporary dance dancers.  It was not a show where the dancers have no clue what tango is or isn't and that it is just another job.  It was a tango show where all the dancers dance in the milonga.  A tango show produced and put on by milongueros.

I was invited by some of the dancers to come and to bring Jen.  The show was Milonguisimo III in the Confiteria Ideal.  I had been invited to the other productions, Milonguisimo I and II, by friends who had danced in those productions, but I never seemed to have made it there.  This time I went.

This show is not a slick production.  It is a nice show danced by people who dance in the milongas here in Buenos AIres. It is priced so people in Buenos Aires, Argentines, can come to it.  You can have dinner or just a drink.  It is intimate so you can actually see the footwork of the dancers.  There is no live music.  One of my most favorite people, Michael Angel Balbi (affectionately known as Pepino) sings in the show, and that is worth a 1,000 tangos alone.

The hotels in the area recommend the show to tourists.  I have no idea how they feel seeing a show that has no acrobatics, sleezy, sleek costumes, or young people who have never been to a milonga and would never know the difference between DiSarli or Pugliese.  What they get is dancers from late 20s to 60s who love their tango and dance in the local milongas.  I knew everyone in the cast. (Except for 1 couple)

How was the dancing?  Just like in the milonga, we have our favorites, the same carried into the show.  Everyone danced their own style, which was not a bad thing at all.  The audience got to see milonguero tango, no cookie cutter clone tango.

When Marta Fama came on to dance I told Jen to watch her feet.  I have always liked the way Marta danced.  That night was no exception.  The same with Oscar Hector and his sister Haydee.  Whatever they dance is great to watch.  It was fun to see my friends from the milonga dance. The only exception was the robot Ken doll and his partner. They were a little scary. 

After the show I asked Jen if she wanted to go to a milonga.  I told her it was time for her to see the other side of the road.  I gave her a choice of milongas.  She chose one.  Off we went.  It had maybe been a year since I had been to this place, and I had never been to this milonga.

The organizer greeted me and in we went.  We had a front table.  I knew most of the men and almost none of the women.  The women were almost all foreign.  Probably 95% of them.  The men were probably 80% Argentine.  I knew I was not going to dance here.  I actually didn't care.

Jen looks at me. "It feels creepy here." she says to me. I ask her why. "I don't know, it just does." she says.  I tell her that almost all the women are foreign.  She looks around.  Most of the men were probably invited by the organizer to dance with them.  I won't be dancing.  Not that I really care that much.

She watches the floor.  "Everyone here dances the same."  She comments. I am bored to death.  The same men who always ask when I will dance with them at other milongas ignore me here.  Here there are opportunities.  I am not one of them.  I do not care because the reason I don't dance with them at the other milongas is they don't dance well enough for me.

A man comes to the table, stands directly in front of me and asks me to dance.  I tell him no thank you.  He is surprised I am sure.  He goes off to ask someone else.  The men begin to leave.  There are many more women here than men.  There is a heavy air of competition.  I wonder if women will begin to tear off their clothes in order to get a dance.  Jen laughs when I mention this.

We stay a little longer.  Jen is asked to dance.  After we decide to leave.  There are probably 30 women to 5 men.  Neither of us are interested in staying.  Jen has had her fill of the place.  We change our shoes and walk to the bus.

There is a man at the bus stop who was in the milonga.  He is European.  He recognizes us from inside. He greets us.  "You don't dance?"  He asks me.  It is almost laughable.  "Yes I dance."  I say to him.  "But you were not dancing tonight."  "Because,"  I tell him, "I live here, and I am not an opportunity."  Jen laughs.  Of course he doesn't get it.

He follows us on to the bus blabbering the whole time.  He is here for 9 months to dance tango.  He talks about all the people he is meeting; this one from San Francisco, that one from Dublin, another from Italy. "You don't find it strange that you are in Buenos Aires and you are not meeting anyone from Argentina?"  He thinks about it for a moment, "Well there are not many women from Argentina in the milongas I go to."  He says.  He rattles off the names of the milongas he goes to.  All the tourist milongas.  He says they are great places he loves to dance there.

He looks at me.  "How long have you been dancing?"  I tell him 12 years.  He tells me he has never seen me anywhere.  "We dance in different places.  I don't go to the same milongas as you.  He asks me where I go and I politely avoid answering him. 

He chatters on and says how he came in 2006 and how he could take taxis all the time. "Now Buenos Aires is more expensive than Europe.  I have to really watch what I spend."  He chatters about how difficult it is to spend 9 months here and how he takes the bus.  I want to slap him.  "I live in pesos," I tell him. "You have euros. Can you imagine how it is to live here when you are paid in pesos?" He doesn't get it.  So I bring it down to his level. 

A programer here might make 50,000 pesos a year.  A teacher might make 25,000 pesos a year.  Now divide that by 5.  That is what people live on here.  Now he gets it.  "How do they do it?" he asks.  "Not very easily.  They don't quit their jobs to dance tango for 9 months.  Finally he gets to his stop and says good bye to us.

"What a night." Jen says to me.  I laugh.  "I can't believe how different that milonga was from the ones we have been going to. The ones we go to are more sociable.  I don't feel any competition.  People seem so nice.  This one tonight was so weird.  I felt like the men were there just to dance with me because I was foreign.  People were not talking to each other."    "It was all those things"  I say to her.  "For me, it is like the milongas in the US.  It is not like the milongas in Buenos Aires.  Sometimes I have to go to those milongas on the other side of the road, to remind me why I don't.

 

 

 

 

Siempre Amo Mi Tango

On Facebook (Where else..) a friend visiting Buenos Aires commented to another friend that he was only dancing in the tourist milongas.  The friend was confused since he commented back that there were Argentines there. This provoked a lively banter between commenters. Another person commented he goes where there are "Old and local" Argentines who dance.  I couldn't help but comment "just because they are old and and Argentine doesn't mean they know how to dance.  It just means they are old and Argentine.

Last week and elderly Argentine friend of mine called to chat. She asked if I had been doing anything special and about my clothing line.  I told her how I was now in the milongas of La Nacional on Mondays and Wednesday selling my clothes.  I told her I was dancing mostly on Fridays and Sundays.

She hesitated. "For me, the tango is dead." This was powerful coming from a woman who has been dancing since she is 4 years old. She continued. "I went last week to an afternoon milonga. They were too old for me. No milongueros. The ones that used to go were all dead."  There are others I wanted to tell her, but she was on a roll. "Later that night I went to another milonga.  I met up with some friends. People do not know how to dance.  The tourists killed our tango.  The foreigners killed our tango. They took it and killed it.  I watch those old fools on the floor.  They don't even dance with you anymore.  They go after these young girls who can't even walk in their shoes let alone dance in them. Before, they would never even look at a woman if she couldn't dance. The tango is dead. At least for me."

Finally I stop her. I tell her. "Los Argentinos vendan su patrimonio."  The government led the way.  They followed.  They did it to themselves.  What are you talking about?  These guys were common street theives most of them.  Less than an 8th grade education.  Here came the foreigners throwing pesos at them and the government showed them how to grab for the gusto.  The Campeonato Mundial?  Government organized and fixed to bring tourism.  Who participates here?  The shoe stores? They multiply everyday like cockroaches.  The same with studios, teachers, and now the theme is luxerious places to stay.  The milongas are full of people who want your money.  It becomes more like a chamber of commerce mixer than a milonga. 

I understand how she feels.  In Mar del Plata the milonga to I went had me depressed enough to make me want to quit tango.  The people were wonderful, very sweet.  They had no sense of tango. None. None of the music. They all danced alike.  Tango, milonga, vals. No lead. Big clomping steps. The same pattern.  The excuse?  We have the same teacher.  Their wow about Chicho?  He makes 5,000 euros for a performance. Don't make me throw up.  The defense about open embrace, children want to learn.  Tell that to Olga Besio who has been teaching for years.  Tell that to the thousands of people who learned tango before open embrace became an issue for intimacy phobic North Americans and Europeans.

In his interview in the magazine La Milonga Claudio Segovia the man who made Tango Argentino reality says "Tango can be done with a 1000 figures, but the pure beauty, is tango danced smoothly without any figures.  It cannot be compared to anything."  This is the thing that most foreigners and many new dancers do not understand.  They think that show tango is tango.  The milongas are a disaster.  The worst are the tourist milongas.  They draw the worst of the Argentine dancers, the tourists, and everyone who wants to sell to them. Me harto esos milongas.

Additionally you have the added attraction of all the foreigners; men and women who are looking for "companionship" during their vacation.  After 10 years in the milongas here, I know all the players.  I have seen this theater way too many times.  It is no longer amusing. It is boring, and sometimes heart breaking when I know the people involved and I know what is going to happen.

Male taxi dancers and teachers who want to get a visa somewhere out of Argentina hope to find a desperate woman with dreams of teaching in HER country. The hope is that she comes back again and again until she can hook him a visa out.  His nightmare is that she will want to move to Buenos Aires. She doesn't know that she is one of many and that is out of the question. The idea is to get out of Argentina, not stay.  The women are the same.  Only men don't talk about it.  The women don't mind staying here, as long as you buy a nice apartment and let them move in, and buy them clothes and foot the bill for everything else.

Where do I go to dance? The truth is I cannot give up my tango.  I go to milongas that are on the edges of Buenos Aires.  Mostly with Argentines.  Some have no tourists and rarely ever will.  They remind me of the milongas when I came in 2000.  They were not all that welcoming to tourists.  These milongas I go to are the same.  In these milongas the music is different.  Not cookie cutter.  People know how to dance to the different orchestras and they all have their own style.  When I dance here, I know that the tango is not dead, and will not die. 

I tell my friend "El tango cambio mucho."  This is for sure.  I am not happy about it.  The alternative is to not dance at all.  For me, this is not an alternative.  Este milonguera no puede siempre amo mi tango. Siempre bailo.