Two nights of dancing

I didn’t write about last night today. Since then I’ve been out again. Similar trip, two different dance venues.

Firstly, La Catedral, at Sarmiento 4006. I decided to take the Subte to get there (to arrive at 2200 for the class) but was thwarted in Argentine style: there was a fire(?!) on Linea B, so I got out at Carlos Pellegrini and had a think. I’m not aversed to playing with the buses a little, even in the evening, so I walked one block to Sarmiento and waited at the stop. A large, pale, friendly-looking chap in a suit and tie struck up some conversation with me. I could only engage in a limited way but he was amused when flashed my SUBE card at the bus driver and told him “Sarmiento 4000”. The friendly chap (Julio, for that was his name) told me in Spanish that this colectivo would go via Juan D Peron and that I could walk back to Sarmiento. He also warned me that what I was trying to do was quite dangerous. I’ve decided that it is mainly dangerous if you look naive, wander, talk loudly in English and carry a wallet, jewelery, smartphone or camera. I normally do none of those things. I also recommend growing a beard and cultivating a knowing scowl. I genuinely read that a woman was surprised her husband’s watch was stolen whilst they sat in Plaza San Martin, even though it was hidden by a “tennis bracelet”. I have looked that up, to find that it is a string of diamonds… ~sigh~

Although the colectivo was very crowded, Julio managed to indicate my stop. As he did so he gave me his card and said in English that I was to call him at any point if I needed help. I’ve since written to thank him. The world needs more people like that.

When I got of the bus, I started what became a 20-minute walk which should have been five. Having asked directions I strode of and ended up walking around five blocks in a rectangle or so. I finally found the club and was glad that I arrived when I did, because two Americans, Brent and Phil (I suppose she spells her name like that) from Wimbledon, London joined the quasi-queue behind me. They kindly paid my AR$40 for entry to the class and the milonga, which was laid out traditionally with tables three-deep around the floor.

The native Spanish speakers were hugely in the minority. As were the dancers – most people were tourists trying tango for the first time. I quite enjoyed the class, though it rocketed through about four weeks’ worth of material in an hour. The floor was also terrible. Wooden, but pockmarked, pitted and frankly dangerous. I happily assumed the role of taxi dancer, taking new followers out on the floor to walk out the basics. Eventailly, new people were asking me to dance with them and their friends. Dancing as much as I did from 2200 to 0300, it is becoming clear to me that some people “have it” and some people don’t. I danced four tandas with one German girl who had never danced anything in her life and she was unstoppable. I also took someone else out and the salida told me that there was no way tango was going to come naturally to her and sure enough her inertia tired us both out. It didn’t seem to matter if they’d danced anything else. I know from personal experience that salsa doesn’t help my tango at all (hips and arms everywhere), for example. Some of the Americans had danced some swing – maybe that’s good for coordination.

Anyway, the Quilmes flowed (from 970ml bottles, well under £4) the empanadas were edible. Everyone had fun, and almost everyone wanted to dance. I don’t think I was refused all night, but the cabeceo didn’t work anywhere. Towards the end we had some Chacareras and someone asked me to dance, but I struggled. No one minds too much with Chacarera. It has a certain phoniness about it anyway. I can’t help but feel it’s long-dead folk dance on life support, resurrected from time-to-time to allow men to show of their zapatos and amagues.

A very good night for my first milonga in Buenos Aires. I feel relieved – milestone achieved. The next club, La Viruta on Armenia deserves a post of it’s own.