La Nuit Blanche

Photo: NYC City Hall Subway Station, National Park Service of the United States

I changed my shoes and walked onto the wooden floor in the last thirty minutes of the milonga.  Three tandas, three men.  A Spaniard, a Japanese, and a Russian.  The tanda of D’Arienzo started off with “Mandria”, and continued with “La Bruja”.  By the third song, I had lost my wits to the joy of the dance, the music, the exhilaration.  There are certain songs I can’t listen to now, without feeling a sharp pain, akin to the stormy calm that precedes tears.  They were played often in Buenos Aires, and belong to the soundtrack of my life there…

Then a quick walk through the rain with a friend to the subway station, and brushing off the droplets from my leather jacket on the station platform, only to find another tanguero and another tanguera waiting for the same train.  A moment later, yet another tanguero and yet another tanguera make their entrance into our station.  The latter draws out a portable stereo device out of her bag, plugs in her ipod, and listo!  Six dancers pair off into an impromptu Subte Milonga.  Like magic.

Then the train comes speeding along, and it’s all over in three seconds.

Incidentally, the song that came out of the stereo was “La Melodía del Corazón“.  Oh how I wished my beloved had stayed until the Cumparsita…

(I am liking New York more and more with each passing day.)

Salon Canning, Buenos Aires, 1am

It seems today is a video day for me.

So, in honor of all the porteños who sweet-talked their way into my laughter, inside and outside of the milongas…  Guess what?

I have my very own buen mozo who actually means what he says.  :-D

(Ok, I admit, I miss it).

Watch the original video here: Paroles Paroles, Alain Delon et Dalida, 1973.

that was when la melodía del corazón was playing at canning.

i was dancing with a tall thin 70 year-old milonguero named andres, bushy white hair and blue eyes, dressed in an impeccable pin-striped suit. when the song ended, he glistened, held my face in his hands, and called me “mi amor”.

maybe it was because he had felt all my love and yearning for you as he was dancing with me.

i am missing you as i undress for bed. it takes longer for the sheets to get warm, these cold south american winter nights, without you to inflame me with your naked skin.

if only i could feel the touch of your little finger on my lower lip…

(just one single tiny print of your electric tenderness)

it would be enough for me to let out a sigh of relief,

and i could melt into oblivion.

Right now, I am packing my things into boxes. I’m moving to another apartment in another neighborhood in a few days, yipee! Into a sleek new modern building, where there is always hot water, and 24 hours of heat during the winter, and an elevator, and sound-proofing between floors, and light fixtures that won’t come toppling down over my head, and a refridgerator with a door that doesn’t fall off its hinges, and a kitchen sink where the knobs aren’t set backwards, and a bathroom where the ceiling won’t cave in…

Oh yes. I haven’t told you about my bathroom adventure a few weeks ago. There was a leak in the ceiling, the evil landlady refused to fix it, I called the city to report it, the landlady ignored it, and a couple days before the city officials were due to come for an inspection, the ceiling smashed onto the floor.

My Lover and I were cuddling on the loveseat, picnicking on a feast of wine, olives, cheeses, Greek dolmas, pickled onions, marinated sun-dried tomatoes, strawberries dusted with sugar, dulce de leche icecream, and sweet bread dipped in the most delicious olive oil, not paying much attention to the movie for watching each other play and eat. We were celebrating the sixth month anniversary of the day we met… And then plop! and crash!. It was a wet, gooey, dusty affair.

I thought of suing the witch this time at last, and then setting her hair on fire. I did that. Several times! In my sweetest daydreams.

This beautiful historic mansion was lovely for a while, but I’ve learned my lesson. Convenience over beauty, when it comes to living quarters, is, regrettably, essential for any human being. I am done with this madhouse. Lars von Trier could have filmed his “Element of Crime” right in my living room. And “The Kingdom” in the lobby and stairwells. I swear this building is haunted…

I’ll be packing my tango shoes into a separate valise, and carrying them with me in the cab ride to the new apartment. Just in case my gorgeous babies get damaged, you know. You never know.

Last night, I went to a popular Sunday night milonga, only to find that my friends were sleepy and tired. They had all attended the All Night Milonga the night before (which I had skipped out on, to opt for yummy home-made Peruvian food and a farewell party across the river), so they were all changing their shoes by the time I arrived… That was 10:30pm.

My Lover was happy and relieved that I had come. He had called me, soon after he had arrived, saying my name just for the sake of saying my name… I think he had been missing me, a tiny bit. :-D

Our first tanda consisted of sweet lyrical tangos, the kind of songs that make it so easy to melt into thin air, especially if you are in the arms of a handsome porteño you happen to be madly in love in. As we were passing by a corner table seating some elderly gentlemen, one of them started to call out in castellano, with great gusto:

“¡Oooo! Something something…. rrrrrollo, estrrrrra, rrrrrilo… something something… ¡¡¡Buen provecho!!!”

My eyes were fluttering open and closed, in and out of a waking dream (Oh! That tango was so sweet! But I didn’t know what it was called), but I could feel my Lover’s initial surprise and confusion, and then a slight intake of breathe and a giggle.

At the end of that song, I asked my Lover what the man had said, and he replied that it was the equivalent of “Bon appetit.” I looked over at the table of elderly gents, and smiled. Which drew more exclamations of,

“¡¡Oooooo!!” and “¡Eeeeeee!” and the like.

Later on in the night, when I was grabbing huge chunks of vegetables and crackers by the refreshment table and stuffing them into my hungry mouth, the Oooo Man came over to me and started speaking to me in rapid Spanish.

“Ooooo…muy linda…hoho…heehee…¿cuánto cuesta…something something…todo?”

Erm…

“Yo no hablo español, perdón…” was all I could muster, in my carefully coached porteña accent, ofcourse.

“Oooo, something something… no nececita, something… Sos china? Japonesa?”

That I could understand.

“No, yo soy coreana.”

He then started speaking to me again in rapid Spanish, but I had to say again, helplessly,

“No hablo español…”

I felt like a dummy. There I was, a sweet Argentine gent trying to talk to me, saying (most likely) deliciously lewd things to me, and I couldn’t understand a word. :-(((

It was time to go home. I changed my shoes, and gently took possession of my raincoat (upon which, the Oooo Man happened to be sitting), said “Ciao, buenas noches”, and walked over to my Lover and linked arms.

In the elevator, I started wondering who the Oooo Man might be. My Lover answered,

“He’s a famous milonguero from Buenos Aires. His name is Tete.”

And then I felt like a super dummy.

Artist: Mathieu Saura, a.k.a. Vincent Moon

I will be in Buenos Aires in 92 days.

My Lover will be there with me, and he will be showing me the Buenos Aires that he knows and loves. However, I will also be spending lots of time exploring and discovering on my own, with flickle camera in hand.

I am completely overwhelmed by the thought of this place, this country, this continent, this small point on the map of the world globe. I am not only excited about all the tango I’ll be dancing and listening to, but… It’s been so long since I’ve had the chance to explore a new city, that my arms and legs are turning into spaghetti, my mind to jell-o, jiggling around in delight…

I am making my baby-steps in learning about this city before my first trip, starting with reading about it by typing in “Argentina” and “Buenos Aires” into Wikipedia. (I know, sad… but I have to start somewhere, right?), and the TimeOut, Moon, and Wallpaper Guides to Buenos Aires.

I’ve been snuggled into my loveseat, to read the fantastic stories written by my beloved Tango Hours, lovely Psyche, and my favorite New Yorker duo Eva and Malena, and ofcourse, the writings of dear Sallycat, sassy Tina, and chère Cherie — porteñas who write and feel with such fiery spirit.

Also been trying to read TangoScopio’s blog with my (thus far) extremely limited castellano, but I gave up after about five posts, hehe.

The Buenos Aires Herald has been a daily morning read for the past couple of weeks… And today, I will search for a map of Buenos Aires, (and hopefully a subway and bus map), so I can pore over those thin wrinkly streets and triangular barrios and visit them in the imaginary hemispheres of my sleep.

I want to take regular Spanish lessons. And take tango group classes. And eat all the cups of dulce de leche icecream I want. And eat asado and alfahores every day. And take tango private lessons. And be in the milongas. And go shoe shopping. And go to the flea market for the mate. And go to the opera. And the bookstores. And have breakfast in the cafes. And go to the cinema, even though I won’t understand a thing. And wander around and get lost inside the real Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Terius…

36 days of chaotic bliss, enveloped, enfolded by my Lover’s warm, wet mouth, arms scented with cologne, wooden floors, sliding, echoing feet, the brash honking of unfamiliar automobiles, mornings heralded by unfamiliar birds, the fragrance of rain and moisture of an unfamiliar land, the inflections of gestures and tongues curled, interlocked in a more beautiful speech, streets that have witnessed different tragicomedies from the ones I am used to walk upon.

5 weeks.
2 full moons.
1 month, plus
1 week.

Not enough! :-D

By tomorrow, I will be in Buenos Aires in 91 days.

And the day after, in 90 days.

And the day after that, in 89 days……

Artist: Original drawing by the author of Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

Almost exactly one year ago, I walked into a dance studio, and started dancing tango.

Well, it was supposed to be tango, but it probably looked more like a cross between the WWF and a dismal medieval funeral procession marched backwards. Bobbing up and down… On stilts…

(Ugh.)

And with my very first step, to the very first note of the very first song, which I no longer remember, I fell in love.

Back then, the only things I knew about that far-away land of Argentina were:

Jorge Luis Borges
Gato Barbieri
Astor Piazzolla
Madonna singing that incredibly annoying song.

Since then…

I have been impregnated by a magic seed, and am awakening to find myself climbing an enormous beanstalk. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, and when I forget to chase that elusive ghostly white rabbit, I am staring at my own transformation in wonder, wide-eyed, through the looking-glass. My floppy, clumsy tail has been exchanged for a pair of real legs and strong feet. Those misadventures through frightening forests of mean old trees are behind me, and now the flowers are teaching me the art of their effervescent colors, the secret to their ephermeral scents. Along the way, I have met my share of evil sorcerers, stupid ogres, spiteful goblins, and ugly dwarves… But when I get too frightened or tired, I peek into the occasional gingerbread house, and partake of shiny, sparkly, glittery things that make me very happy, indeed. And ofcourse, I consistently ignore the midnight curfew, comme il faut, or no, and, I have kissed my frog prince…

Last night, to celebrate, the Lover and I threw core strength and dissociation, groundedness and connection, all obsessive thoughts of practice and technique, buck all to the winds, and just danced for fun. I didn’t care if my hysterical giggling made our chests vibrate against each other, my right eyeball knock against his cheekbone. He didn’t care if his head was at a weird angle while his lips were on my forehead, kissing me for the duration of half a song. Everything we learned and had absorbed into our bodies just fell into place, our imperfections naturally adjusted themselves to the other, we fit together like a puzzle, and we had a blast.

This dark, hilarious, difficult, fantastically delicious fairytale gesamtkunstwerk that is the Tango is now so much a part of my life, that I feel as if I have always, always been dancing it. And I am going to dance it until I am 365 years-old.

And my dear blogueros and blogueras, you will all be there dancing and writing right there with me, right?

Love,
Nuit.

I think my seratonin levels must be so high right now, I am still floating about, daydreaming about the past weekend. I feel truly lucky to have been there, and to have had such a great experience during my first tango festival. I was dreading the first-timer’s hardships… The unfamiliar faces, the intimidating level of dancing, standing around not getting invitations, too shy to approach anyone… But thanks to some wonderful people (who are fast becoming friends), and a little bit of luck, I had an amazing time!

The trip wasn’t without its small mishaps: my temper flared once or twice… Then again, dear readers, you know what I’m like when something ticks me off. Ahem. In any case, I did feel spoiled… And so cared for… And so warmly welcomed… I shared some lovely moments with some beautiful people, talking about tango, about dance, about art, about shoes, jewelry, double-sided “dress” tape, having breakfast, taking cat naps, taking classes, sneaking liquor, squeezed between friends on the road trip… And all this with my Lover’s arms around me.

Some highlights of the festival for me, were (this is a personal Dear Diary list, so feel free to skip down to the end):

• Walking into the first milonga of the festival, and being awestruck by the high arched ceilings and wood panelling of Branford Dining Hall. Yale certainly provided us with a magnificent space to start out the weekend.

• Swallowing four orange seeds in my eagerness to accept a dance from a favorite tanguero M from my home city, and staring into his open mouth when he realized what I had done to hurry over. All the giggling made for a very playful tanda.

• Dancing to Di Sarli’s “Cornetín” (one of my favorite tangos of all time) with a beautiful tango goddess, my muse. She suddenly appeared before me, telling me I will dance with her now, because this is her favorite song, and no one else but Nuit will do. :) Dancing with her is like magic. And she was in 4-inch heels. Beat that, tangueros!

• I had a first time with a wonderful leader J from Michigan, and at the end of the set, I did not want to let go. My arms seem to have turned into velcro, and I kept hugging him with my eyes closed at the end of the song. I am surprised he didn’t feel compelled to peel my arms off from around his neck…

• You know the big tap after the high boleo in this video? I have always wanted to be able to do that, but couldn’t, or wouldn’t, because I didn’t want to hurt anyone, and also didn’t want to look like a dummy if it came out wrong. But the embellishment just came and happened, and to the music, and it felt incredible.

• Dancing with Sorin, at the afternoon practica, and being wowed. He taught me a Secret Trick, and I will be trying it on various tangueros at practica here in New York, hehe.

• I had my first real cabeceo from a tanguera, N, and she is truly delightful, not only as a follower (I just wish you could see her dance!), but as a leader. We even danced a milonga, and I can’t tell you how incredibly fun she is. This just confirms my suspicion that some of the best tango leaders in North America are women. She and my Lover were fighting over me after that first tanda, and I had a teeny tiny pleasureable moment of diva-liciousness.

• And oh yes… I danced two tandas with a tango master at the All Night Milonga. No, it was not a mistaken cabeceo, and no, I did not run towards him when he was walking in my general direction, which also happened to be the way to the bathroom. I was absolutely sure I was the one he asked, because he appeared out of no where from behind my chair, looked right at me from 3 feet away, and asked me if I was “going to just sit there, or dance with him tonight?” And I still couldn’t believe it. And ok, I’ll say it: he made me swoon. There was a wonderful buoyancy in the dance, like floating on liquid mercury… And I even left him with something to remember me by: a big purple mark on his beautiful white shoes, placed there by my stomping plum-colored Comme Il Fauts… and an accompanying big purple bruise on his toes. My very own special brand of Dance Hickey. :-D So it was incomprehensible to me that he invited me to dance again during the Brunch Milonga the next day.

In short, I danced so much I felt like a voodoo doll with pins and needles sticking into my feet and legs.

I felt an overwhelming swell of emotions during the last milonga at the end of the festival. When my Lover gave me a tender kiss on the nose during our last song together, I almost cried. I know… this may sound like one of my baroque exaggerations, but in truth… I was so glad just to be there, that I was there with him, that there was music, and a floor, and I felt thankful for everybody, for this festival…

For Tango.

For Love.

For my next festival:

Bring:

• Arnica gel (For painful feet, grace à lovely Debbi! – it totally works, niña!)
• Eat lots of bananas (For the potassium, which gives you energy – a wise tip, also from Debbi!)
• Dance sneakers (A must, unless you want to get your feet amputated.)
• A rolling suitcase vs. dufflebag (Go easy on your shoulders.)
• Sunglasses (For those mornings when the milonga ends at 7am.)
• Shoe hole punch (For stretching straps.)
• Band-aids

Do not bring:

• Nail polish (After 14 hours of dancing a day, you won’t care how your polish is looking, just how much your toes hurt!)
• Sleep mask (After 14 hours of dancing a day, you will be able to sleep like a mummy in direct sunlight.)
• Hairdryer (You will sweat so much after the first hour, that your hair will look like puppy fur after a rainstorm, anyway.)
• Book (Unless you’re travelling alone by train or plane.)

So…………

We were walking in an abandonned warehouse district somewhere in New York, our arms were swinging, naked shoulders arched under the moonlight, in black suspenders discreetly suspending over black shirt, glass necklaces swinging over black corsetted silk, powdered skin, painted lips, yellow lace peeping out of our stockings and mother-of-pearl glove buttons carved into mermaids. These tiny sartorial details were in tribute to a bygone era of elegance and glamour, our glistening smiles in anticipation of some absinthe and burlesque and live jazz — a few magic hours of overall general fabulousness, done the Gatsby way.

We got to the Secret Spot ’round about midnight, but it turned out it wasn’t so secret anymore. There were half a dozen police cars with their stupid, stupid circling lights, and cops walking in and out of the rusted red door, and a fire engine. Yes, a fire engine. I mean, Geez Louise. It’s not like we were planning a pyrotechnic murder or anything.

There were bewildered looks on disappointed faces standing here and there on the sidewalks. I saw other guests walking towards that red door, seeing the stupid circling lights, stopping dead in their tracks like in a 1920’s dressed up version of Simon Says, slowly backtracking like Warner Brothers cartoon characters, and then slinking away, pretending they were not looking for that naughty party with the cards and the smoking and the drinking and the naked ladies on stage.

Thankfully, one of us knew about another such secret party happening in another part of town, this one with live tango music! So we headed there, phooey to the live jazz, swinging ain’t our thing, anyways. When we arrived, no thanks to your’s truly, who forgot to bring her I.D., we never got in. So then we checked the clock, but all the milongas were over by then. Then a desperate search around town for an open liquor store ensued, but in vain, they were all closed. Then I had to really really go to the bathroom, so we cut everything short, and we all went home. I hobbled back up the stairs in my 4 inch heels, and undressed out of my fabulous outfit that, sadly, was never meant to be seen.

Urgh.

For next time, we promised each other we’ll get there early, before the authorities arrive to smash it up.

I sipped down a glass of precious elderflower liqueur, the Lover helped me unclasp out of my necklaces, then whispered a lullaby in bed and held my nakedness to sleep. All’s well that ends well, I believe.

(Serves me right for ditching the milongas!)

Ok. This guy is totally off his bonkers.

And I’ve been gone a long while. I finally realized that I am probably the last one to know that everyone secretly knows that I have a tango blog… And then my fingers stopped typing. The lovely La Tanguera wrote a brilliant post about The Anonymity of the Tango Blogger and the Social Tango Circle. Without the protective shield of my (real or imagined) anonymity, I got squashed and flattened under a big concrete block. It took a long time (3 months!) for me to dig myself out again…

But here I am. And the blog goes on.

So.

Artist: Camille Claudel, “Vals”

When I left you, I was falling in love.

I am still falling in love. And with the same person.

But not without some annoying inconveniences that have, once or twice, melted my wings, and obliged me to fall into things that are not so grand or pleasant as Love.

Tango couple relationships are tricky for many reasons.

There is the chemistry between two people which is not necessarily the tango chemistry between those same two people — the elation when you discover someone with whom a real life connection is nothing short of Alchemy — and the (justified, or unjustified) anxiety that you might not be tango-compatible. It is a reality that not all bodies and personalities are suited to dance with each other. But being lovers, the dream and desire for a perfect tango chemistry is there.

There is the frustration when your tango is advancing (or degenerating) at different levels. It is disconcerting when the lover’s embrace is suddenly uncomfortable in the dance, and you don’t know why. Perhaps one hasn’t been dancing as frequently… perhaps the other was luckier to have been dancing with better followers, or more experienced leaders. The embrace changes all the time, and it is sad when it happens between regular partners… it is more so when it happens between lovers.

There is also the physical intimacy shared with others, and the resulting jealousy. This animal sentiment is easily overcome cerebrally, but it is there. And if special time with the beloved is sacrificed for a night of tango, it is even more infuriating due to the fact that, well, the lover is not only doing something else that is seemingly more desirable to him or her, but that something else involves embracing another man or woman at a physical and emotional proximity more intimate than, oh, say, any social activity that doesn’t involve sex or Spin the Bottle.

There is the delicate balance of Time… time spent together. There is work, and sleep, and much needed solitude. And naturally, being a tango couple, dancing together. And there is also much needed non-tango time, essential between lovers. Something must be sacrificed, and it is easy to feel like one is cornered into convenience — the dreaded limbo of inbetween milongas. No lover wants to be pushed aside, especially not for tango.

There is the fear that familiarity breeds contempt. In a perfect universe, a tango couple will experience a connection with the kind of depth that only falling in love, being in love, and lots and lots of making love, can reach. And with time, ofcourse — the sexual tension, the rush of surprise in an unfamiliar embrace, the sense of excitment into immediate intimacy and communication with an unknown, and the curiosity and pleasure in a new body, all having evaporated into post-coital zen — you would hope to reach a “different” kind of connection.

But this is rarely the case. It takes awareness for a couple to be able to reach this place of Tango Never Never Land. And no one wants to be taken for granted, even but for a moment…

My Lover and I have experienced a few, not all, of the above. And so far, I think we’ve been lucky…

Last night, after a giggly drink with some (non-tango) friends, I decided to chance upon a milonga, alone. So I grabbed my shoes and headed over to a place I haven’t danced in, in a very long time.

Nevermind the beginners who hurt my arm and back, or the crazies bumping into each other to get ahead in the line of dance. I had a warm warm hug and a lovely short chat with two beautiful tangueras I have missed seeing out. I danced with this one guy I haven’t danced with in weeks, and when my heel got caught on his pants, he made me laugh by telling me a hilarious idea for a cartoon strip that involved a woman gleefully running her stiletto heels through a pencil sharpener. Later, he sat down next to me and told me about the ingenious little kaleidoscopes he’s been making at home.

And I had one lovely tanda with a man I had never danced with before. A tall, much older gentleman, with a smooth walk, and soft sad eyes. After all the horrible tandas that night, I sighed with relief, and melted into his beautiful embrace.

During the walk back home, I was missing my Lover (it was a special night for us), but he was far away. I breathed in the balmy air prescient of Spring, and thought of him. And drifted off to Never Never Land.