La Nuit Blanche

Freeze frames 00:27 – 00:28.

I saw a man do this several times at a milonga a couple of nights ago. It guess it is potentially a cool embellishment, a tip of the hat to the great King of Pop, a sort of wiggling leg lift that could be cute during a tanda of slow milongas, if executed well.

But it was not executed well. At all. Actually, it was a harrowing experience for me as a spectator, especially when he almost flipped my table over backwards with his foot as I was watching him knee his poor partner in the hip.

Ouch!!

Is it just me, or do leaders love to do classic Michael Jackson moves as embellishments? So far, I’ve seen the Moonwalk, the Kungfu Leg-Lift, and the Wiggling Knee. The first two, I have seen embellished by famous dancers, and they were done adorably. That last one, however, was a first, and it wasn’t done well at all.

I sincerely hope that the Pelvic Thrust with Glittery Hand Over Crotch does not manifest itelf around the milongas. Or the Thriller Dance.

Please, my dear tangueros! I love MJ as much as any other crazy fan, but I would rather not see some of his moves combined with tango!

My zip code has hit 94 degrees Fahrenheit this afternoon. Combined with the heat rising up from the gooey, melting asphalt, I bet it’s more like 101 degrees. My sandals are sinking into the tarmac, and the doorknobs of the stores and galleries burn like hot cinders when I touch them.

If I were drunk, or younger, I would join the screaming children joyfully playing on the street by the stoops outside my window, huge sprays of rainbows unlocked and sprouting out from the water hydrants, a heaven of fresh coolness licking my warm sun-kissed skin like a crystal shower of delicious cold…

I can’t stop watching this…

I have sworn off watching bad tango clips and making fun of them, because I feel mean when I do it, and I know this is an old story, all the bad tango out there, and everyone on the planet trying to destroy this beautiful dance, but this this this is on another level entirely, it’s like a serial-killer horseback-riding on crack…

This is why I don’t watch TV.

If you happen to be dancing in a milonga, and happen to be a member of the couple behind me, and happen to feel my left arm accidentally brushing against your fingertips, because your Captain Hook happened to be walking backwards in the line of dance towards my Lover, and happened to get too close to us, by all means, curl your knarly fingers into crooked hooks, press your nails inwards deep into my skin, and be sure to s-c-r-a-t-c-h my forearm from wrist to elbow, as hard as you possibly can.

And then, if you please, stare at me through the narrowed slits of your eyes, and shoot me a psychotically malicious smile, so that I would be sure to know that you very much enjoyed the experience of letting my blood, and simultaneously (hopefully) branding my beautiful skin for life.

I must inform you, however, that as delicious as I may look on the outside, I assure you that I make for a lamentable boudin amarilla. I believe your friends, the Mosquitoes, may have advised you otherwise. But do not believe them.

It is a well-known fact that members of the canine species, particularly its female members such as yourself, are prone to putting themselves in embarrassing situations, for example, eating your own shit, or attempting idiotic culinary endeavors, such as the case in point.

So here is a word of advice:

Next time, the only thing on the Menu that will be garnished with blood, will be my famous Knuckle Sandwich Made Just For You.

Your’s truly,
Nuit.

[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.

Crashing your foot down onto the wooden floor in the middle of a de Caro does not make you the King of Tango. Nor does it make you Lord of the Dance.

It is not particularly musical, nor even remotely rhythmical.

It merely succeeds in giving me and mi novio a heartattack, and breaking us out of our tango trance. I will not speak for the poor lady you hold in your arms, but somehow (I don’t know why), I feel sorry for her.

It is very very very annoying to the dancers around you on the dancefloor. And hilariously funny when it is witnessed by those sitting at the tables.

Might I suggest that you keep all the stomping at home (at the peril of your neighbors’ ceiling lamp), or even better, inside your head.

Thank you very much,
Nuit.

Neanderthal Man, circa 1920

You know, I am getting really tired of men who can’t take “No” for an answer without giving off some major attitude. Do women walk around the floor giving the evil eye, and spitting at men because they won’t ask them to dance? No. So why do some men lash out with inane comments such as “You’re not that good anyway,” or “Being young isn’t everything,” and make absolutely sure you see them rolling their eyes at you before they huff away in obvious indignation?

I mean, I must be the nicest person when it comes to refusing dances. First of all, I am discreet about the refusal, I don’t yell it out so everyone can hear me rejecting your invitation. And I am very polite, I smile, I say “No, thank you,” or “Not right now, I am resting at the moment, but thank you.” So be polite, if I am being polite. Heck, be polite, even when I’m not being polite. What sort of man are you, anyway? And don’t you know that I have a very long memory, and if you give me attitude once, I will never accept a dance with you again in the future? You just shot yourself in the foot, you moron.

Secondly, when I am powdering my nose with a compact, changing my shoes, rubbing my ankles, wiping off my perspiration, drinking water, or rewetting my contacts with some eye drops, I am honestly just powdering-changing-rubbing-wiping-drinking-rewetting, and I am not doing it to avoid dances with certain individuals. Maybe I have a cramp because I’m on my fucking period, maybe that crazy woman put a hole through my thigh with her stiletto, and I am bleeding, maybe that beginner sliced my toe open with his street shoes, you never know. It’s not you, it’s me.

Third, there are tons of things to do at milongas, besides dance. For example, rest from dancing four tandas in a row with that fabulous Tango God, or half a tanda with a Painful Clueless. Or, listening to the music. There is music at these places, you know. Or (gasp!) chatting with other people, and actually having interesting conversations. Or just plain watching. I mean, it’s not everyday here in New York City that you get to see Omar Vega dance milonga in a real milonga setting. It’s not you, it’s everything else.

Fourth, sometimes, it is you. Sometimes, I am just too tired to dance with men I know will throw me around the dancefloor and crack my back in half. Or bump me into other couples, like they have done during every single tanda I have danced with them thus far. Occasionally, I am simply not in the mood to smell mothballs and dirty hair all night, or have your B.O. rub off on me on the one night I actually did forego that raggety cotton cami and dressed up, for instance, in my silk Marni top that costs $20 to dry clean. Maybe I didn’t like the way you just grabbed my wrist without a word, like a fucking caveman, intending to drag me to the floor, as if I were a common whore, and you, my pimp. And once in a while, I feel like being picky, and just dance with good leaders all night for once. Give this girl a break, for chrissakes.

Fifth, I hate politics. I don’t care how nice you were in the elevator, I don’t care how long you’ve been in the community, I don’t care if you organize this or that milonga, I don’t care how many professional dancers you are friendly with, I just don’t want to dance with you tonight, because I don’t like your face. And that’s that, I can’t help these brain waves, and I sure as hell can’t help these hormones, and that’s the way of the Universe. Ok??

And last, but not least, maybe I have a Lover, and it’s a special night for us, and we just want to dance with each other all night. Perhaps we promised to cabeceo each other at exactly a quarter to midnight, so we can dance the last tanda together. Maybe I just want to admire my Lover’s dancing from afar and enjoy those brief moments when his eyes are upon me, burning intensely. The point being, just because I am sitting there doing nothing does not mean I am available to dance with you, or anyone, for that matter.

Tango is more intimate that having a coffee. It’s more intimate than kissing. It involves trust, and surrender, holding, and a mingling of breaths. And it is my prerogative as a woman to refuse whomever I want.

Men have the power to select. So women have the power to refuse. Get with the fucking program. It’s the law of the Non-Cabeceo North American Tangoland, alright??

Thank you.

From the bottom of my fucking heart,
Nuit.

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 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.

Artist: Frida Kahlo, Little Deer, 1946

Asked at milongas:

Where are you from?
Earth.

Where are you originally from?
B-612.

Who were your ancestors?
XX and XY.

What’s your occupation?
Dying.

What are your interests?
Living.

Where do you work?
Everywhere.

Where do you live?
On this island.

Which neighborhood?
I am not at all neighborly.

What else do you do besides dance?
Breathe.

Do you have a boyfriend?
No, happily not, and no, I am not available.

I’d like to take you out to dinner.
I wouldn’t, if I were you.

So just shut up and dance with me!

“I drink to drown my sorrows, but the damn things have learned to swim.”
-Frida Kahlo in a letter to Ella Wolfe, Wednesday 13, 1938

I don’t drink. Nor did I ever drink. I dance. And eat lots of chocolate.

But men, I am warning you: You do not what to get involved with me.