La Nuit Blanche

[Due to the sensitive nature of this topic, a disclaimer is in order (my first on this blog): the main character involved has been disguised by the imaginary name of X, no pronouns will be used to refer to this person's gender, and I will not answer any questions asked me, here in the blogosphere, or in my real life (hello, Friends!), as to this person's identity.]

It is a touchy subject… But I feel I must address it.

Yes, it’s true. There is malice in our dear Tangoland.

There are many instances of back-stabbing, name-calling, betrayal, ignorance, trickery, knife-thrusting, grumpy grump, stubborness, lying, and overall general drama in our beloved realm. And all this has been foreseeable, though regrettable, and in perfect accordance with the natural Order of the Universe. Afterall, our Tangoland is a part of the Real World, too.

But it hurts very much when a friend has gone over to the Dark Side, and this friend doesn’t even realize it.

I have such a friend, or, someone who used to be a friend, named X, who in the beginning of our story, seemed to be a vastly different person from the one revealed to me over time.

X has become a tiresome person. There are two things that make X tiresome… First, a persistent prejudice against certain members of our community, and second, the ignorance of racism. In the first offense, X is only harming X. And in the second offense, X is harming others.

This person X is quick to put certain members of the community into little categories all made up in X’s mind, and labelling one particular category with snide, unflattering appellations such as “The Group”, and “The Stuck-Ups”.

It is hurtful, since these kind, sweet people are fast becoming my friends.

These are the people who danced with me when no one else would. These are the people who watched me spin myself into a cocoon, and are continually delighting in my budding (albeit wrinkly) wings. These are the people who encourage me to continue, and take care of me when I am sitting alone at milongas or festivals. And who protect me from unwelcome advances. These are people who will dance with beginners and encourage them to keep coming back. And X refers to these people as “The Stuck-Ups”. Which is simply not the case, in my experience. The injustice of it makes me angry, especially when said to my face.

Don’t get me wrong — I, myself, have been terrorized by tan-egos and tan-egoistas, and horrible tangorillas, and individuals who are just so incredibly, consistently stuck up, that it is a torture to even have their glance turn in my direction. I still avoid these people. I run across one or two new ones, occasionally. Sadly, little does X know that X has become one of the people X claims to despise, and doubly sadly, I now find X just as horrible a tangorilla as this one, or this one, in male, or female form.

Another personality quirk that X has, is to dismiss the non-Argentine teachers, dancers, and milonga hosts in our community as unworthy of attention or praise. “I will stick to my Argentine teachers, if you please,” X says. Upon watching performances by revered non-Argentines, X exclaims, “What a crock of mierda. These Americans/Europeans have no idea what tango is about.” (Actually, the Argentines say “carajo”, not “mierda”, to refer to crap). And undoubedly, X, who also happens to be non-Argentine, feels that X is an expert in “what tango is all about.”

I don’t mean to sound so politically correct. I’m not trying to, honestly. But it is just common sense that just because a teacher/dancer is Argentine, doesn’t mean he is a great teacher/dancer. Conversely, just because a teacher/dancer is not Argentine, doesn’t mean he is not a great teacher/dancer. Just because the Chinese didn’t invent Western classical music, doesn’t mean Yo Yo Ma isn’t a great cellist. Just because DJ Krush is Japanese and hardly speaks English, doesn’t mean that he isn’t one of the greatest composers of hip hop the world has ever seen. Just because photography was invented by the French, doesn’t mean that Garry Winogrand isn’t a great photographer.

X works in the (insert any craft here) industry. I just want to scream at X: “Well, (insert any country here) didn’t invent the (insert any craft here) — what makes you think a (insert person of X’s nationality here) such as yourself can excel at it?”

Where is this blind racism coming from?

Let me be frank: I am fully aware of tangueros and tangueras who dance only for a couple of years, and then (to our chagrin) decide they are ready to teach and perform. But a clueless tango grasshopper is clueless no matter what nationality. And these non-Argentine teachers and dancers that X scoffs at, and passionately tells people to avoid, spend half their lives travelling away from home, to be immersed in Argentine culture. They learn the language. They study the dance, and the music. They may dance a different sort of tango that may not be agreeable to some, but it is not difficult to recognize excellence, genius, and emotion, when one is face-to-face with it, in a class, or a milonga. To dismiss artists such as Jennifer Bratt and Ney Melo, or Korey and Mila, just because they are non-Argentines — now, that is a crock of carajo.

This racism of X extends to the milongas and practicas hosted by non-Argentines in our community. I am sure the Argentine hosts and hostesses around the city appreciate X’s patronage, and undying loyalty to the people of Argentina. But it is unnerving to find that X loudly, and verbally discredits and disrepects the events held by others. And yet I see X often frequenting the milongas and practicas maintained and DJed, with painstaking effort, by these same non-Argentines who X despises.

Let me tell you about New York City: Unlike Buenos Aires, Dancing is not a natural state of being over here. I am living in continual fear that there will be no place to tango in my homwtown… That the gestapo city government will shut down these spaces… The city has already restricted the cabaret license into a choke-hold. For example, street photography is dying because the city regulates the use of tripods on the street, and photographers need a permit to photograph in many places where there is open sky — basically almost everywhere. What makes us think that the milongas are safe?

And does X even realise the difficulty of securing places for social dancing in a paranoid city such as this one, where the only way to even step on the beat in the street is to hold a massive peaceful demonstration so huge, that the police will give up and stand by watching?

These non-Argentines are the people who bring us some of the most beloved milongas this city has to offer. Sure, they may not be Argentine… Some may not even be incredible dancers – although some are. Some don’t even teach, some do, and are some of the most revered in the country. And they are responsible for the great effort it takes to keep tango alive in this city — not the revered Argentines who live in Buenos Aires, as much as we love them for their magic, and definitely not people like X who continually complain about the deplorable situation of the “Americans destroying Argentina’s tango.” Perhaps some are, but I know many are not. I’m just thankful there are places to dance, and that is more than one should expect from people who are doing all the work for us, so that people like X can go out and criticize what they’re doing. Sure, they are making some money by doing this, but I don’t know of a single milonga host who makes a living out of hosting milongas.

It’s as if a friend had died, or had moved to another country. No, worse — as if the person I had enoyed talking to and sharing some precious moments with, has never even existed — that the whole friendship was a figment of my imagination.

There is a saying in Argentina, I have learned recently — it is also in a tango called “Niño Bien”:

“Estás mostrando la hilacha.”

Which bascially means: “You are showing your true colors.”

It is heartbreaking when I discover that most everything I knew about a person was a lie, that someone I had once considered a dear friend, I had never known at all. I guess none of this is very new… Friends drift apart all the time, and the people who we think we know show their true characters with time.

But it’s still sickening, nontheless.

There is a discussion going on in Tango-L about favorite online tango videos. One person made this comment:

“On the other hand… why do I feel bored watching Tete? The whole dance is way too fast, no differentiation in speed nor particularly accentuating the music, and what others do for show-off with the help of intricate steps, suave moves or emotional expressions, he does with “look, no hand !” Big deal, as if we didn’t know… I would not want to dance with someone like that, who keeps lifting his hand off my back and stretches it out to the side just to impress the audience with the fact that he can lead it all with his chest…”

I thought I was the only one who felt this way about Tete — about that last part. Don’t get me wrong, he’s incredible… I mean, just look at him, he is like 300 years-old, and he must have the sexiest tango walk on the planet… I, for one, could never get bored watching this man. But the whole “no hands” and the “airplane” thing is really annoying to me, too.

Maybe it feels different for the women dancing with him, though.

I have found my new maestra. I have known her since the beginning of my journey into the tango, but I had my first private with her yesterday. I think she’s the best teacher I’ve met thus far in my (albeit short) tango journey. It was definitely the single most valuable hour in the whole of my tango life.

I felt like a lump of wet clay being molded by her hands — literally. She pointed out all my little quirks that are turning into bad habits, pressing into my muscles with her fingers to show me where I have tension, readjusting my feet, realigning my hips, teaching my legs to extend naturally, showing me exercises for my weak ankles, showing me the tell-tale signs of good versus bad technique in my shoes…

She is incredibly direct and demanding — she has a way of explaining things in short concise sentences, with absolutely no chit chat, and no bullshit, that cracked my head open with instant understanding. There is a curious combination of smart alacrity and zen calm in her enthusiasm, that is absolutely contagious. She would yell “Yes!”, or “No!” at the moment that I did things, and it helped my body remember what it should, or should not, feel like.

After an hour of this, I was exhausted, but at the end of our last dance, she grunted in approval, and told me to cheer up, I am lucky to have some talent, with hard work, I will be one of the rare beautiful ones. She asked me to go with her to BsAs this winter, and promised to take care of me if I say yes. Is she an angel? Is it an Argentine thing, how she can already make me feel like family? Her warm open-heartedness made me bashful. I am so used to the coldness at these North American milongas (yes, people can be “nice” and “cold” at the same time), that I found her charm and sincerity to be completely disarming…

I am going to start off my mornings with these exercises. Did a half hour of them today, and already I am feeling soreness in muscles I never knew were there. My ankles are very very thin, and very very weak… Urgh…

Thinking of yesterday’s private lesson, and the hope that comes with doing something about improving my tango, has somewhat dispelled the terrible mood of last night.

Oh, my tango… Thank you, thank you, Argentina, for giving birth to it.

Artist: Arthur Rackham, “Alice and the pack of cards”

He wants to meet tomorrow. I haven’t gotten back to him yet.

I am super nervous.

When I think of seeing him again, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

That can’t be a good thing.

I thought it was supposed to make you feel good. But I can’t even remember what it is supposed to feel like. Anyway, whatever it is, it does not feel “good” at the moment.

I want to run away. I don’t want him to see my mosquito bites.

But I can’t, because I have Spaghetti Legs. Maybe I should go dancing first, and try to iron them out.

And then I’ll run away.

He said that what he likes about me is that “I’m very smart.” Uh, ok. I would prefer to be liked because of no reason at all. But I’m weird that way.

I am also the master of making up excuses to avoid it coming my way. I guess I’m weird like that too.

TA1 called me out to a milonga for tonight. I think he sensed that I was pre-occupied last night, and is wondering if I’m ok. I think I’ll say yes.

(There is nothing like tango, to bring me back to myself. I am mine. Not your’s. Mine!)

Incidentally, I read this over breakfast this morning:

“And yet the fear! How people do always carry their own enemy, however powerless he is, within themselves.”

- From Parables and Paradoxes, “The Savages”, Franz Kafka

I started taking group classes again. After those horrible traumatizing experiences at my last studio, I resisted for a long time, until one day this past weekend, TA2 sat me down, and explained it to me.

I must understand how my body works.
I must understand how the tango works, in relation to my body.
I must increase my vocabulary.
I must clean up my technique.
I need professional teachers to break things down for me.
I can’t get away with dancing at milongas and relying on tango angels to teach me steps here and there when the occasion arises.

Fine! :(

I admit, I think I have plateaued for now, and I was getting bored with myself. I also began to notice that the leaders I dance with regularly were getting bored. Granted, in every tango dancer’s life, there comes a time when you just need to stop taking classes and go out dancing, and figure things out for yourself. But there is a short limit to what you can learn on your own.

So today, I signed up for classes at a new studio. The teachers were amazing. The Argentine teacher was truly spectacular… It was a revelation, how she taught the contre-stance walk, the kind that makes you look like a sexy puma on the prowl. My mouth was open during the class. My current maestro never taught me anything like that during all those privates, and here was someone teaching this technique in an intermediate group class. So not only have I changed studios, but I will be changing my principal private teacher as well.

Ofcourse, the men in the class were terrible. Absolutely terrible… It brought back horrible memories of the first studio I went to, when I first started. Today, there was this one man who told me the reason he couldn’t do the steps right was because I started off on the wrong foot, and didn’t I know that every tango always starts off with the 8-count basic, and didn’t I know that followers are supposed to start off the 8-count basic with the weight on the right foot?

Christ.

Fuck the 8-count basic, you moron. If you wanted my weight on my right foot, why the hell didn’t you do your job and put me there?? First, you need to learn how to stick out your chest and suck in your spilling gut and stop leaning back like a sack of potatoes and stop bumping your forehead into my face and stop pulling me around with your right arm and stop crushing my right hand and stop swaying your hips like a hula dancer and stop cocking your head from side to side like a pigeon.

And then you get to complain about my following.

“8-count basic.” Gimme a break.

I used Tangospeak’s method of staring him down and not saying anything. Which effectively shut him up. When rotation brought me back to him, he avoided eye contact, exactly as expected. Pfft.

I have been spoiled at milongas and dancing with fabulous tango angels, and to come back to all of this was just… heartbreaking to me. It is a relief, though, that everyone is nice at this studio, all of them, the people at the front desk, the teachers, the students, even the pigeon (he wasn’t being a jerk, he was just clueless). The vast majority was really mean and snooty at my last studio.

I have a feeling I’ll be happy here. :)

P.S. Forgot to mention: after the class with the Argentine teacher, I went over to her and said hello (it turns out I was the only one in the class who was new to the studio). She told me I am doing very well indeed, and that she could see that “I feel the tango.” I never knew I exuded that I feel the tango. It was lovely to hear. Yes, it was a good start to coming back to school!

At the very least, it will help curb the withdrawl symptoms for Venice, and missing my two favorite girls in San Francisco…

I found another Tango Angel tonight.

I seem to have this weird habit of getting stuck with dancing with drunkards at milongas. This one was particularly Tan-ego-esque, telling me that I am “obviously just learning tango,” and can I please just try and keep up with the walking? This coming from a dumb-ass who bumped me into 4 couples on an empty dancefloor, and couldn’t even stand straight during a 20 second pause, where I had to hold him up for all his swaying stupor. I walked off the floor after one song without a word. He wouldn’t even remember the night, let alone my face, by morning, anyway.

As I went over to the bench to sit back down, I ran into this one, who, to add to my mortification, had been watching.

“Hello!” he greeted me warmly.

“Hi.” I answered metallically, and then promptly ignored him, passing him by.

I was pissed. I couldn’t get the smell of Pine Sol out of my hair, apparently the preferred scent of the drunken jerkface I had just been struggling with. I took several deep breaths, looked up at the ceiling and sighed, hands tightly clasping my seat. I must have looked like a werewolf about to burst into howls of rage. I saw the drunkard passing by with another poor woman in his arms. Rolling my eyes, I was just about to grab my boots and leave the milonga, when the angel got up, walked towards me, and asked for a dance.

Nuit: Umm…

TA3: Oh, sorry, were you resting?

Nuit: Nooo….

TA3: Are you ok?

Nuit: Nooo…

TA3: (smiling) You don’t want to dance with me?

Nuit: I… had a bad night.

TA3: What happened?

Nuit: Lots of dances that didn’t really “work”. I’m afraid I won’t be any good for you.

TA3: Come on, let me make you feel better.

And that is exactly what he did.

And he only caressed my leg once.

And it was divine.

I have absolutely no idea what this horrendously grotesque, hilariously vulgar video has to do with anything. Except that it’s the reason I don’t party anymore since NYC nightlife is majorly lame-o. And I couldn’t find a video of the Moldy Peaches on youtube. And I’m in a Halloween mood. And I love Miss Kittin’s sexy voice. And it’s what I’m listening to at the moment, painting my nails a blood-red. I discovered that they’ve grown a few millimeters while in Venice. I also discovered a new polish called “Red to Tango”. I know, cheesy. But it’s a beautiful red, and painted on my long nails, my fingertips look poisonously deadly. Befitting my mood this afternoon.

Finally got in touch with my landlady, who refused to acknowledge that someone is actually living in this apartment. That woman is completely crazy. Talked to each of my neighbors (except the Caveman upstairs, who is the landlady’s son), asking if they have heat — none of them do. They all tell me she is a total psycho, and senile on top of it. Everyone I talked to had, on numerous occasions, reported her to HPD of New York City. Apparently, every year, she will only turn on the heat after a judge orders her to do so. So they have all been repeatedly sending in heat complaints since October 1st, which is the date when all landlords are legally bound to turn on the heat in their buildings. It’s a miracle she has been able to hold onto this building for so long.

72 hours until HPD gets back in touch with me, upon which, after another 48 hours, they will send over a uniformed official to the building to check on the heat status. Another few days until they contact the landlady, and maybe another week for a judge to gather all the complaints from this building, and finally send an order to comply with the law. Meanwhile, my halogen heater is sucking up my energy bill, and we are all freezing in here. I must do jumping-jacks while I wait for my film to dry. I am even scared to go to the bathroom. I scream “whoooooaaaaa!” whenever I sit on my iceburg of a toilet seat…

The situation is ridiculously Kafkaesque.

“I feel that I’ve always been in Venice, and that I’ve never been in Venice at all.”
-Paolo Barbaro, Venice Revealed, 1998

:(

P.S. 7:45pm. Just scraped my pennies together to buy my last pack of ciggies to last me until my bank sends me another ATM card, and the magazine actually pays me on time (did I mention that I am broke, and lost my ATM card?).

On the way back home, I saw four midgets. Not one, not three… but four. I have nothing against midgets. But seeing four within a two block radius is a rarity indeed.

Also, I looked up at the Empire State building, and the lights were purple and red — my own favorite dracula vampira color combination… one which I have never seen before on that building. What the heck is going on here?

When I got back inside my freezing apartment, scratching my head, I got a text message from TA2, coaxing me out to a milonga tonight, telling me there are heated rooms over there. Hahahaha…!

I think I’m going crazy.

The Nightingale and the Rose, Christopher Wheeldon for the NYC Ballet
Photo by Paul Kolnik, 2007

It’s freezing all of a sudden, here in New York. It went straight from summer, to winter. One day, lovely cami jersey dresses and sparkly sandals… The next day, boots, hats and scarves. And gloves!! My fingers were so frozen Friday morning during a location shoot, that I could hardly operate my camera.

My crazy landlady recently fired her superintendant (for the 11th time), so there is no one to turn on the heat. Ofcourse she won’t do it herself. And God forbid her Sumo son (who lives upstairs from me) moves his ass down 3 flights of stairs. I woke up breathing frosty air, the tip of my nose turning into an icicle… Afraid to get out of bed… So now I will have to bring out one of my favorite things:

The Viro Cyramic Halogen Heater

This ingenious halogen heater is shaped like a fan, has an occillating mode, four different timer settings, four different temperatures, including a “Bonfire” setting which glows like a real fire, and comes complete with a remote! If I put this inside one of my (non-functioning, but beautiful Victorian) fireplaces, I can pretend I am burning wood. With no cinders to clean up. The bricks retaining the heat and my toes warm and toasty as I read on my settee. The thing is ugly as hell. But I love it…

So, in the glow of my makeshift fireplace, I am looking at a picture postcard, sent to me recently by a pianist during his travels through Croatia. He was writing to me on a boat, at night, under a full moon. (Now doesn’t that arouse my sensibilities?) As I gaze at the photograph of two pointed towers set atop a fairy castle reflected in the Adriatic Sea, I try to imagine the instant of an instant in the life of this man who was thinking of me. When he called forth the image of me in his mind and found the words that he would pen and send via post across leagues and leagues of sea and land for it to reach me. It is fascinating, how such a tiny little stamp can send a piece of paper swimming and flying across such a distance. His handwriting is childlike, very unlike the passion of his music, of the sophisticated touch of his fingers on the piano… He doesn’t dance the tango. I wonder what sort of tanguero he would make?

I had another practice session with TA1 earlier today, and I found it difficult. He pushes me to the very limit of what I think I can dance, and I discover muscles I never knew I had. I think I’ve finally succeeded in relaxing my toes, and really using the floor for groundedness, and “lift-off” during pivots. I have a tendency to curl my toes and grip the inside of my shoes — a kind of battle with, and rejection of the floor, probably due to being so tense and nervous all the time. Now I relax my toes and press in, bracing the floor and using it for gathering and releasing strength. I am proud of myself, for this small achievement. I could feel a marked difference — everything felt so much stronger, smoother, and more stable in my dance. My torso and shoulders are more relaxed. The extension of my legs feels much, much longer.

Near the end of the practica, we danced in open, and he of course started flipping me upside down and throwing me into the air like a ballerina again, and I loved it. I did this one typical stage move where he sends me flying into the air and I flip my legs like scissors, then land sitting with crossed legs on his lap. Damn, that man is strong! I bet he could carry me around on his shoulder all day, and not even bat an eyelash. He has very nice eyelashes, by the way…

Afterwards, I went downstairs with him and we chatted while I had a cigarette. HZ (henceforth to be called my Tango Angel II) had also been at the practica with his own dance partner, and had asked to dance with me a couple of times during their breaks. My two tango angels are getting curious about each other, as they have never met… TA1 asked me if TA2 was my boyfriend. “NO!!!” was all I could say… er, yell.

He was slightly disconcerted with my curt and abrupt answer, especially after all that laughing. But there really isn’t much to say about my love life, as I don’t have one. Right now, the thought of love feels like a thorn in my side that had been ripped out in the emergency room, and I am still licking the wound, having been negligent about nursing it… I have been giving it lots of chocolate and warm bubblebaths, but that’s about it. I guess I need some major alone time before I can handle the headache (and heartache) of men again, at this point in my life. For now, I just want to dance with them. And laugh with them. And smell their yummy skin.

And kick them with my CIFs from time to time.

4 days till Venezia, with my loverlies…

I don’t think I’ve laughed so much in my entire life. I was laughing so hard, I could hardly stand up. But I did. And I was dancing. With TA1. Who loves to joke around doing these stage moves that just drive me crazy. Everyday with him is a delicious surprise. When I am with him, I admit to myself, that I think I secretly want to be on Broadway.

Drumroll…….

Mesdames et Messieurs!

Je vous presente, un spectacle qui vien de New York City…
“La Nuit Blanche avec l’Ange du Tango” — ou,
“C’est Quoi Ce Folie de Merde?”

Roaring applause………………….

(sigh).

To be fair, we did actually work on real stuff. We cleaned up my molinetes and sweetened my caricias on his leg. We also worked on quicker response times, to hone my sensitivity, and his leads got more and more subtle as the connection got deeper and more comfortable.

I really don’t know why he’s practicing with me. It’s not like I can give him constructive feedback about what (at the moment) feels like his perfect leads. Anyway, I am thankful for him. He is such a sweet man. A very funny man. And we all know Nuit loves funny men. Now if only he’d be gay, and be my roommate, and share my ridiculous Manhattan rent, and watch cheesy Korean soap operas with me, he’d be purrrrfect.

He walked me back home in the drizzle. Without the telephone barrier, our language barrier evaporated somewhat. Or maybe it was the rain. Or perhaps it was all the dancing. Who knows? What I do know is that I would like for him to be my tango friend.

Earlier today, I went to an afternoon milonga, and I had a nice time. I danced with a couple of familiar men (who are hopefully becoming regular dance partners?), and enjoyed the fabulous mural painting, and drank all of their water, and touched none of their cheese. You do not want to know what people do to the cheese plates at milongas. Then again, I have a thing for Cheeto-cheese, so who am I to complain?

I only had one horrible dance, with a man who kept trying to take off my shirt. No, really. He tugged and pulled on my back so much, that my top was steadily making its way around my chest, to reveal my bra (and my left booby) through my left arm-hole. WTF??? I mean, we were dancing in open! It’s not as if my boobies were plastered to his chest, and he couldn’t see them. He did see my booby, and he still wouldn’t stop tugging!

At one point, during my pushing him away from me with all my strength, I got so mad, I gave him a strong shove, freed my arms, and repositioned my top around (the right way). Then I resumed the embrace, asking him to be more “gentle” with his right hand. Anyway, he thanked me at the end of the song, and I walked to the other end of the room in relief. Sheesh.

Hollywood Fashion Tape, tangueras. A milonga essential.

I will have to wear long strips of this double-sided tape all along my torso and around my brassieres from now on, because this girl does not show her boobies (or her under-garments) unless she is wined and dined and loved and serenaded to seventh heaven, thank you very much!

Also had a rather alarming experience which was a bit of a reality check. A tall, gorgeous blonde Rapunzel (you know who you are!) walked over to me, and asked:

“So, how’s the blog?”

I was taken aback, as this blog is anonymous, and I’d like to keep it that way for as long as I can. To add to the confusion, she claimed we had met before, but I didn’t recall (I always forget names, but I never forget a face, especially one so striking). Upon numerous questions about how or where we could have met, I asked her if she had previously commented on my blog. It was only then she gave me her nickname, and I realized she was a fellow blogger herself.

I didn’t understand her furtively evasive introduction, but I found her lovely, and was partly relieved that she was also a blogger, who I thought would respect my anonymity.

We all write for different reasons, and many of you have no problems sharing personal details, such as your full name, what you do for a living, pictures of yourselves — your identity. However, there are some of us who prefer to remain anonymous, and we have different reasons for it, none of which is anyone’s business but our own. Anyway, I prefer to remain anonymous.

However, later on in the night, she interrupted my tanda with this one gentleman, in order to introduce me to her friend. Which was nice. I love meeting new people, and it’s even better when they are introduced to me, because I am extremely shy, and rarely introduce myself to strangers… She then proceeded to tell her friend that I have a blog, and that he must read it. I appreciated her enthusiasm for my writing, but I was, at the same time, disturbed (and partly devastated) that she would announce it so publically. I immediately told her friend that my blog is anonymous, and that I am uncomfortable with giving out its name. Then the music started and they went away to dance.

Beautiful Rapunzel, if you are reading this, it was lovely meeting you. But I would prefer to let my writing alone, on the dancefloor. It is my safe haven away from the glamour and gossip of the milongas. For a long while, it was my only tango friend, when I had none in the community. Through my anonymity, it is where I express my most private thoughts about this dance I have fallen in love with, and I would like to keep it that way — private, and nameless, untainted by caution, worry, or the resulting writer’s block.

A rose to each of my dear readers, all around the world.

Besos.

Nuit: Hello?

Tango Angel I: Hallo?

Nuit: Yes, hello?

TA1: Yes, hallo?

Nuit: Yes??

TA1: This is _____, from tango?

Nuit: Who?

TA1: This is _____!

Nuit: Yes?

TA1: From tango!

Nuit: Tango? Oh, yes! Hello!

TA1: This is _____!! From TANGO!!!

Nuit: Yes, yes!! What? What is it?? What do you want??

TA1: Practice?

Nuit: Yes!

TA1: Yes?

Nuit: YES!!! Argh…

TA1: Ok, studio dance, 22 o’clock, ok?

Nuit: 22?

TA1: 22 o’clock!

Nuit: Ok.

TA1: What, you said?

Nuit: I said Ok!

TA1: OK?

Nuit: Yes!!!

TA1: OK, fine!!! 22!!!

Nuit: Fine!!!

TA1: Bye.

Nuit: Bye.

-end connection-

Sheesh.

That was my wind-surfing tango angel (henceforth to be called, Tango Angel I).

I can’t understand his thick Euro accent, and he can’t understand my perfect English.

Let’s hope our practice session goes better than our stupid phone conversation…

Artist: Paul Klee, “Final scene of a tragicomedy”

It’s amazing, how much the tango ressembles life.

And the journey into the tango itself is as much like a milonga, as life is. Sometimes, you are intoxicated with the dance and want to learn everything (tango), sometimes you are wistful and think you are falling in love with a fabulous dancer (vals), sometimes you want to stop learning and just have fun (milonga). There are breaks in the journey, where you don’t dance at all (cortinas). You have good nights, and bad nights (connection-disconnection). And sometimes, you bump into people (or that cement column) and get stilettoed.

Like I was last night. My experience was particularly discouraging…

It was my first time attending an event hosted by a tango festival. The floor was huge. The crowd was enormous. The energy was upbeat. The level of dancing was much higher than I had ever seen at the regular milongas in the city. The performances were wonderful, especially that of Julio and Corina. I guess overall, I had a so-so ok night.

I danced with three men within the span of 3 hours. Two tandas (my kind tango angel HZ who wanted me to start my night out properly happy), one tanda (a sleepwalking Argentine who was high on pot, who was nonetheless, a very sweet man), one tanda (a wishy-washy dancer who had no idea where to put his hand on my backless dress and bumped me into other couples). And lots of waiting and watching in between, which was…nice in itself, I guess. But for a $25 entry fee, it would have been even nicer if I got to…dance?

At around 2am, I called it a night. There is only so much standing a girl could do in 4 inch heels… Also, the place was hopeless for practicing the cabeceo. I saw this one young lady get strongly rejected when she asked a man to dance, so all thoughts of doing that myself were banished immediately.

Bascially, a beginner follower’s experience at a huge festival milonga will be horrible if:

1. You are not good enough in your tango not to be passed over for better, or cuter dancers, usually the latter. (Or conversely:)

2. You are not beautiful or hot enough to be forgiven your inexperience by men who know you.

3. You are not beautiful or hot enough to be noticed among the crowd in the eyes of men who don’t know you.

4. In the chaotic absence of cabeceo, it is very difficult for you to project that you want to dance with particular individuals.

5. In the absence of cabeceo, it is still incomprehensibly a faux-pas to ask a man to dance, and some men are adamantly offended by such forward women.

6. You are not social or outgoing enough to suck up to the hotshot wannabes.

7. You do not have a more experienced tango boyfriend to rely on, nor are you interested in boys right now, period.

8. Your maestro never dances with you at milongas, because you are not good enough for him to dance with in public.

9. You do not want to annoy and alienate your Tango Angel by hogging him all night.

Maybe it’s about time for a cortina in my journey. Afterall, a wise sister-tanguera (who sadly, lives 3,000 miles away from me) had advised that I do so… I think I might be burning out.

So I am considering shutting down my tango life completely, until I get back from Venice.

Hmmm.

(Yeah, right?)