Learning the Argentine Tango

Yesterday afternoon, met up with taxi dancer at the school again. He was waiting for me outside and gave me a big hug before we walked up the marble staircase to the second floor where the little rooms were. This building reminds me so much of a scene in Sally Potter’s The Tango Lesson that I am wondering if they actually did film a scene there.

We went to a different room this time, further to the back of the building. He opened the double french louvre doors, revealing a room with a ceiling to floor mirror on one wall and a barre on the sidewall. The floor was wooden and there were two chairs in the corner where we sat down to change our shoes.

He asked me which music I liked which is my achilles’ heel for I know what music I like but I dont know who plays them. So, I told him to play whatever he wanted, feeling a bit stupid for not being able to give a name, any name! I mean I know of Canaro, Di Sarli, Pugliese but I dont know who plays what style.

He put on some romantic music, walked to the center of the room and waited for me. I walked up to him and feeling rather shy, avoided eye contact with him.

He placed a finger under my chin and made me look up and towards him. I could feel his breath on my lips. Just about dissolved right then and there but told myself to stop being such a insipid fool and focus.

Damn him for being so tall, lean and ridiculously sexy. God! And damn me for being so easily seduced.

He pulled me into his arms and held me securely, breathing. Just breathing, waiting for me to settle into his embrace. Could still feel his breath on my lips and thought “oh no, this is The Tango Lesson and Kiss and Tango all rolled into one, how cliched can it get?!” I stifled a mortified giggle. Focus, Caroline, letºs start being mature here.

Ok. I am a 36 year old woman with two children. I am a single mother and a professional. I own my own home and I have traveled the world. With this internal dialogue, felt myself changing from a foolish schoolgirl to a mature grown woman.

And off we went, dancing, correcting, talking, dancing, correcting. He touched my hips to straighten them, he placed a hand on my abdomen to tuck it in, he touched my legs to straighten them and all the while, I paid attention and listened, trying my darnedest to ignore the ever increasing tension between us. The thing is that before I started taking lessons with him, we had been staring at each other at milongas for two weeks. So, the sexual attraction was already there before my first lesson with him. It was pretty much inevitable that in the privacy of this small room with the doors shut, romantic music playing, a soulful male voice filling up the space that we would be taking longer and longer embraces, longer and longer pauses, more playful and yet more intense figures, our bodies coiling around each other.

And still, there was this little voice in the back of my head that said “this is so harlequin romance novel - for god’ sakes, Caroline.”

And yet I would also think “so what? I am having so much fun, stop ruining it for me. Let me enjoy this.”

So, I steadfastly ignored the sarcastic self-deprecating critic in me and instead listened to my body. And his.

I am not going to any more details because thereºs a limit to how much I would reveal. Some things are meant to be private and I need to respect that. For myself, for him.

Regardless of what had happened during that lesson, he was still the teacher and I his pupil so we never lost sight of that, as much as other things got in the way.

After the lesson, just about zoned out completely in the taxi, even when two motorcycle cops pulled over the driver and asked him for his papers. None of that fazed me. I just stared out the window, with a daydreamy grin.

Went out to Porteno y Bailarin that night. didnºt have the best time, not much luck with good leaders except for maybe one tall man so old that all he could do was walk and with a little flick of his elbow, indicate front giros. I could not lean on him or even dance in close embrace for he was so fragile. Pretty much all the rules went out the window and we played off each other’s personality. We chatted for a while and danced together again.

He called me Sweet Caroline.

Been getting that alot, actually, being called sweet. Apparently, I am the nice and sweet and muy alta woman from Cana-DAH.

Which, by the way, paid off at Ideal today.

Big time.

Went to Ideal to relax, maybe have a few tandas. Found myself sitting next to yet another man from Montreal who arrived today.

You know what, this sounds unbearably snobby. It really really does but seriously, I try my darnedest to avoid dancing with norteamericanos unless I know for sure they are very good. The sad fact of the matter is that most are not very good. They tend to have very flimsy cores and lack of presence as if they cannot bring themselves to embrace and lead with “balls”. Thereºs something almost apologetic in their embrace as if they are sorry for having the nerve to embrace a stranger. Thus lack of presence, of true masculinity. Again, not to be confused for forceful leading, itºs something that comes from the core, not from the arms. Iºve danced with men which felt like riding a cloud and yet they were unmistakeably, undeniably MEN.

I deliberately avoided eye contact with this man from Montreal for I already know how he dances and know that heºs not that great. I went to Ideal for good tandas and almost resented this man for having to force me to inevitably dance with him just because we are from Montreal and here we are, sitting next to each other at Ideal. The occasion calls for a tanda. Fuck.

I had some wonderful tandas with some milongueros before I accepted the Montrealer’s invite. Inwardly, I groaned but took great care to make sure that I was outwardly friendly and graceful.

And shit. Shit, shit, shit. Why did he have to do volgadas and ganchoes???? Why????? Not to mention a whole number of other problems, mainly to do with posture and axis.

During the song break, I asked him if this was his first trip.

No, he said.

(Huh, really?)

Ok, can I give you some friendly advice?

Sure.

No ganchoes.

But why?

They just dont do them here. If you lead a gancho, no one is going ot dance with you.

But I see them everywhere.

(What? Seriously, what? Where? Only stupid ass tourists do ganchoes. I am trying to help you out here, just donºt do them).

I said, trust me. Donºt go ganchoes.

I could tell that he thought I was full of shit. Oh well, he will find out for himself.

After the tanda, we went back to our tables. There was a portena sitting at mine.

Con permiso, ma la mesa esta occupado.

She ignored me.

Hola?

She said with vast snootiness that the table was reserved for her.

Fine. I gathered my shoe bag from what was my chair and asked her to fetch my yellow bag from under the table. She tossed it at me.

Wow. Nice manners, lady.

A sympathetic woman sitting behind her offered me a seat at her table. I was about to sit there when several men sitting in the front row came up to me and offered me a table next to them. They had actually grouped up together at one table so I could use the one next to theirs.

I gave an appreciative look to the nice Argentine middle-aged woman in the third row, thanking her for her offer. I went over to the front row, settled in. Looked over my left shoulder at the arrogant portena sitting in the second row and gave her an innocent smile.

She flapped her chinese fan, absolutely furious.

See? Being nice and sweet pays off.