The missing post - from 2010, but worth revisiting
Pizza at midnight left us with an appetite to dance. Liana, Miles, Charlotte and I sat round the table and agreed. It had to be La Viruta. Our tango master Fabrizio informed us that the real dancers arrive after 3 am, so we should stay the night; and that is precisely what we did.
We are buzzing on Pizza Moderna's 'Especia' and limonada. Liana and Charlotte talk shoes which they exchange and in which they turn to each other for the next affirming comment. Miles and I are of little assistance here; we love them all as they lift curvacious calves and bring acute prettiness to their feet. For our part, we throw our only pair of dance shoes into a small rucksack and then set off to hail a cab. Within 30 minutes we are in Palermo, riding the storm culverts which slow the sensible motorist to almost walking pace, whilst the reckless or unwary grind their axles on the concrete sills. And here, as we turn into Armenia, is La Viruta. The milonga is held in the building known as Association Armenia. This is Armenia and here are all the Armeninans, from all parts of the globe including Armenia. Before we exit his cab, our driver tells us about the Armenian alphabet and plays Armenian tango. But at the top of a wide, descending staircase, the last connection with Armenia drifts away as we go down into Club La Viruta.
The room is large, the ceiling is low, the music is loud, the floor is heaving with dancers, and almost all of the tables around the floor are taken. Somehow we manage to source a table against the long wall; other dancers have just left leaving a vacuum to be filled. We are now equipped with our dance shoes and sparkling water. We are ready to dance. This is a maiden voyage for Liana who is new to tango, but she is in good hands. Before leaving El Sol de San Telmo she has received all the tips a tanguera would need. "Try this, avoid that, listen to the music, if in doubt, don't do anything". Charlotte has provided the finishing touches suggesting some decorations which transform movement into dance. And we dance. Liana insists that the floor is full before she will take the plunge. She need not have worried; she is a dancer and her movement starts to flow as we disappear into the crowd, as if swallowed up by a single pulsating organism with hundreds of waving tentacles.
La Viruta is very distinctive in its appeal. This is not a formal milonga, although the wise tangueros will use the 'cabeceo' to secure their dance, a remote contract across some space that allows the follower to decline or fail to accept. Occasionally this convention is broken and there will be a frosty refusal to those who do not follow the code. The age group is diverse; there are older dancers, but the majority are young, just like us as I assimilate the youth of my companions. This is a hip venue, not totally overrun by tourists, still retaining credibility with local dancers.
I cabeceo a young tanguera. She nods and rises on my approach. I take her to the floor and only then realise the extent of her beauty, her long blonde hair flowing down her back. She leans into me, places her temple against the side of my face and invites me to take her on a journey, which we do. Parting at the end of the tanda is tentative, our fingers release, she kisses me, I lead her to her seat. It is like a minute love affair, the objects being beauty, imagination and tango, all secured through an embrace. Later we will dance Salsa and rock, in tandas of different dances that add to the distinction of La Viruta.
My female companions observe the most striking of dancers tonight. She has a beauty that calls for comment, both in her appearance and in her dance. She is one of the Russian tangueras who are now stealing hearts and imaginations. She is in demand, rarely resting between tandas, but she accepts my cabeceo. Here is the most supreme challenge. Her skill separates her from all around her and when we dance it is as if silk has been brushed across my lips. Her movement is astonishingly light, but present, her balance is perfection, her expression sublime. We are to dance a full tanda, and then extend the exquisite moments as the band strikes up and takes me further to the ecstacy of tango. I feel her softness through the embrace, I catch for the fraction of a second that I can spare, the longing looks of other dancers. I now have another definition of heaven. Now the moment of parting is almost a bereavement as I release her to dance with other milongueros, who too will enjoy moments of bliss.
It is now after 3 am. Somehow the tourists have vanished without me noticing, but I do notice those who replace them. The salon is still packed, but now with real dancers such as Jose Carlos Romero Vedia who organises the street dancers of Lavalle/Florida; those who teach, those who perform and those whose passion is so great that they will dance into the early hours of the morning. Now, we do not dance but watch. This is the world's best caberet of tango.
6 am, the music fades and the lights rise. Morning coffee and medialunas beckon as we exit into Armenia and daylight. A row of taxis await and anesthetised by dance we slip back to San Telmo with windows down to admit the fresh scent of late summer blossom.
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Cafe Tortoni revisited
Some say that you should not re-track your past adventures and often they are right. Last time I visited Cafe Tortoni you will recall that I was accompanied by Miriam, tall, elegant and fascinating Argentine friend. You will remember how we sat, with the focus of other women on her, and how she basked in their fascination. Today was quite different in character but similar in effect. Again my table was the subject of avid female attention. This time the glances were stolen by the eyes of pretty women who appreciate a handsome man. Yes, I was to enjoy this visit with my son, tall, strong, manly, and strikingly good looking. Unlike Miriam, he sat coolly oblivious to their borrowed contact.
Our arrival was low key as we simply slipped into the salon of Cafe Tortoni to find our own table. Today there is no buz or parade, the atmosphere is unhurried. Above us, the coloured glass ceiling reflects a warm glow driving away the rainy coldness of the afternoon. I notice that, unlike me, some of the waiters have aged since my last visit, but the room still carries its timeless quality that takes the events of life in its stride. Since 2007 there has been a change of government, Cristina Kirchner is now President, replacing Nestor, her husband. I sense the echoes of Peron and Clinton in their dynasties. Cafe Tortoni is a cafe of dynasties, political, social and cultural, many underpinned by tango which adds its particular focus to this place.
Our waiter brings cafe con laiche and torte. The chocolate cake is moist and sumptuous, the coffee strong and dark like my companion. His eyes to float round the room, taking in the portraits and plethora of photographs which capture the seminal events of this city. Cafe Tortoni is the history of Buenos Aires. In its timeless interior the events of passing years are freeze-framed for ever. Our moment together seems like one of these. That father and son can spend such time together, deep in conversation about life and opportunity is rare and so needs to be preserved. I try to capture the essence of it in my heart, to enjoy in years to come when distance or distraction will reduce its intensity. For this trip we have but two days left and I am savoring them as you do a delicious meal. And this moment, at Cafe Tortoni, is like a special delight on the plate that you leave til last.
After further coffees and more conversation he lifts his hand casually to our waiter who responds with the bill. He pays. How life changes. We rise, and with us the eyes of our neighbours. I notice the smiles on their lips and sense the energy of youth. Just as we entered we slip out the way we came, into the street, with umbrellas against the drizzle.
Our arrival was low key as we simply slipped into the salon of Cafe Tortoni to find our own table. Today there is no buz or parade, the atmosphere is unhurried. Above us, the coloured glass ceiling reflects a warm glow driving away the rainy coldness of the afternoon. I notice that, unlike me, some of the waiters have aged since my last visit, but the room still carries its timeless quality that takes the events of life in its stride. Since 2007 there has been a change of government, Cristina Kirchner is now President, replacing Nestor, her husband. I sense the echoes of Peron and Clinton in their dynasties. Cafe Tortoni is a cafe of dynasties, political, social and cultural, many underpinned by tango which adds its particular focus to this place.
Our waiter brings cafe con laiche and torte. The chocolate cake is moist and sumptuous, the coffee strong and dark like my companion. His eyes to float round the room, taking in the portraits and plethora of photographs which capture the seminal events of this city. Cafe Tortoni is the history of Buenos Aires. In its timeless interior the events of passing years are freeze-framed for ever. Our moment together seems like one of these. That father and son can spend such time together, deep in conversation about life and opportunity is rare and so needs to be preserved. I try to capture the essence of it in my heart, to enjoy in years to come when distance or distraction will reduce its intensity. For this trip we have but two days left and I am savoring them as you do a delicious meal. And this moment, at Cafe Tortoni, is like a special delight on the plate that you leave til last.
After further coffees and more conversation he lifts his hand casually to our waiter who responds with the bill. He pays. How life changes. We rise, and with us the eyes of our neighbours. I notice the smiles on their lips and sense the energy of youth. Just as we entered we slip out the way we came, into the street, with umbrellas against the drizzle.
El Enganche
Young, slim, with fair hair and exquisite eyes, Celia glances across the table towards me, and along with the others in the room I smile and melt. Let's go, she orders, and like a file of children following their teacher, we follow her down the cool,marble staircase of El Sol de San Telmo and into the hot, bustling street. Celia is a dancer, a tanguera, but not like the others. She performs, dancing with her life partner Fabrizio, our tango mentor, our inspiration for form in tango and warmth in life.
http://www.enganchetango.com.ar/eng/home.html
Today we are off to El Enganche, Celia's studio here off San Juan. This is both her work place and her escape from the guests of El Sol de San Telmo tango house, the place I have made my home for this visit. Currently, she and Fabizio occupy the bower on the roof, a roof house overlooking the terrace. But privacy, as you would expect in a tango house, is a rare commodity, so the studio is where Celi comes to work.
Having been greeted by the doorman, we ascend in the lift and decant into the wide corridor of this modern block. Celi opens the door and we enter. This is a space full of light, colour and style. The former is from the windows that stretch the full length of the room, the latter from two racks of dresses, skirts and pants for tango. Being the only male present, I fail to respond with the speed and determination demonstrated by my female friends who immediately swoop on Celi's designs. For my male readers, I will use the analogy of a queue at the match turnstile, but for my women readers I need no such device. They will be feeling through me the joy of the racks of delights; special tango clothes that turn the wearer into the sexiest and most desired tanguera. I hear intakes of breath and watch as my female friends compete for mirror time, passing compliments between themselves and exchanging dresses which they hold against each other to stand forwards and sideways to examine the effect. I arrived with a small group of travellers. I am now surrounded by beautiful women whose hearts are singing, bodies are softened and whose ecstacy is evident.
Celi's web page fails to tell you what you need to feel about her clothes, all hand-made by her within this space. Each item is designed to show, reveal, conceal and delight. The viewer thrills and the wearer simmers. Celi lifts her leg, and the fabric falls, catching my breath, revealing leg and form, yet just to that point of exquisite delight and not beyond. She is clever beyond her youth, but her youth is expressed in what she designs. She knows tangueras and how they have to feel. She is a performer and understands what props this requires. She is a mistress of degree; to the point where our hearts lift and imagination soars.
Carlos revealed to me that he had concerns about his credit card and asked me to keep a restraining eye on his partner. Sorry Carlos, I had not appreciated the task. We are about to leave, and the racks have been decimated. Excited friends clutch bags containing their prizes which will be worn at milongas tonight, re-creating the electricity of their acquisition.
Celi smiles at me. She and I rush ahead as she is late for her practice with Fabrizio in the studio at El Sol de San Telmo. I now understand more about tango, and shopping.And I look forward to the next episode which will be tonight when I dance with her stars.
http://www.enganchetango.com.ar/eng/home.html
Today we are off to El Enganche, Celia's studio here off San Juan. This is both her work place and her escape from the guests of El Sol de San Telmo tango house, the place I have made my home for this visit. Currently, she and Fabizio occupy the bower on the roof, a roof house overlooking the terrace. But privacy, as you would expect in a tango house, is a rare commodity, so the studio is where Celi comes to work.
Having been greeted by the doorman, we ascend in the lift and decant into the wide corridor of this modern block. Celi opens the door and we enter. This is a space full of light, colour and style. The former is from the windows that stretch the full length of the room, the latter from two racks of dresses, skirts and pants for tango. Being the only male present, I fail to respond with the speed and determination demonstrated by my female friends who immediately swoop on Celi's designs. For my male readers, I will use the analogy of a queue at the match turnstile, but for my women readers I need no such device. They will be feeling through me the joy of the racks of delights; special tango clothes that turn the wearer into the sexiest and most desired tanguera. I hear intakes of breath and watch as my female friends compete for mirror time, passing compliments between themselves and exchanging dresses which they hold against each other to stand forwards and sideways to examine the effect. I arrived with a small group of travellers. I am now surrounded by beautiful women whose hearts are singing, bodies are softened and whose ecstacy is evident.
Celi's web page fails to tell you what you need to feel about her clothes, all hand-made by her within this space. Each item is designed to show, reveal, conceal and delight. The viewer thrills and the wearer simmers. Celi lifts her leg, and the fabric falls, catching my breath, revealing leg and form, yet just to that point of exquisite delight and not beyond. She is clever beyond her youth, but her youth is expressed in what she designs. She knows tangueras and how they have to feel. She is a performer and understands what props this requires. She is a mistress of degree; to the point where our hearts lift and imagination soars.
Carlos revealed to me that he had concerns about his credit card and asked me to keep a restraining eye on his partner. Sorry Carlos, I had not appreciated the task. We are about to leave, and the racks have been decimated. Excited friends clutch bags containing their prizes which will be worn at milongas tonight, re-creating the electricity of their acquisition.
Celi smiles at me. She and I rush ahead as she is late for her practice with Fabrizio in the studio at El Sol de San Telmo. I now understand more about tango, and shopping.And I look forward to the next episode which will be tonight when I dance with her stars.
Cafe Paulin, Sarmiento 635
It is 1530 hrs and we leave Escuela Argentina de Tango at Centro Cultural Borges after the milonga class with Damian Garcia and Fatima and head out along Florida. I am being told that the destination is a cafe in Sarmiento and that this visit is essential for my education in Buenos Aires. The journey is through the whole spectrum of society here. Street performers are busy in Florida and Lavalle, as are the street hustlers, recruiting for tango shows and currency exchange. A pile of street children lie sleeping in a heap against closed doors on the shady side of the street. Two bands are playing, their efforts competing with the cries of the street vendors. People press through the narrow pathways between kiosks and pavement excavations. You feel the press, body contact being part of the experience of living in the Capital Federal.
We are now in Sarmiento. The colectivos are thundering past in a street hardly wide enough to accommodate a bus and two pavements. Ahead and behind are mopeds delivering from shops and restaurants. We walk in single file to avoid stepping down to the storm drains. And here is 635. I had expected a wide restaurant with bright lights and waiters rushing from table to table carrying trays of cafe con leche and cakes. But not here at Cafe Paulin. The restaurant feels about twice the width of a railway carriage. And that is not where the similarity ends. Down the centre, the full length of the building is a narrow servery giving on to both the left and the right side of the cafe. Within the servery on a raised dais the waiters stand, dressed in olive cross buttoned tunics with floppy fawn hats. Each side of the servery there are sheer glass shelves about a foot in width. These are the tracks. Below on each side are low counters against which fixed tall revolving stools swing. Cafe Paulin is busy. The clientelle are mainly local office workers and visitors passing through. It is like an ants nest, with streams of people coming and going, and waiters calling orders to each other as there is barely room for them to pass. And now the first train passes. It seems to be going at huge speed and totally out of control. It seemed to spin, light flashed from its sides and then it docked securely into a waiter's hand. Due to the confines, orders of empanadas, salads, cafe con leche, and everything Cafe Paulin has to offer, are sent skimming along the glossed glass surfaces of the servery. The larger plates overlap the edges as they spin. Not a plate is dropped, not a drop is spilled. We order coffees and chocolate cake which speeds towards our waiter who catches and scoops the dishes and cups. And so all is revealed. Every problem has a solution. Cafe Paulin is a solution in itself. We smile at our waiter, and he smiles back. With quick fingers, Katja signs something to him, and he communicates with his hearing eyes.
We are now in Sarmiento. The colectivos are thundering past in a street hardly wide enough to accommodate a bus and two pavements. Ahead and behind are mopeds delivering from shops and restaurants. We walk in single file to avoid stepping down to the storm drains. And here is 635. I had expected a wide restaurant with bright lights and waiters rushing from table to table carrying trays of cafe con leche and cakes. But not here at Cafe Paulin. The restaurant feels about twice the width of a railway carriage. And that is not where the similarity ends. Down the centre, the full length of the building is a narrow servery giving on to both the left and the right side of the cafe. Within the servery on a raised dais the waiters stand, dressed in olive cross buttoned tunics with floppy fawn hats. Each side of the servery there are sheer glass shelves about a foot in width. These are the tracks. Below on each side are low counters against which fixed tall revolving stools swing. Cafe Paulin is busy. The clientelle are mainly local office workers and visitors passing through. It is like an ants nest, with streams of people coming and going, and waiters calling orders to each other as there is barely room for them to pass. And now the first train passes. It seems to be going at huge speed and totally out of control. It seemed to spin, light flashed from its sides and then it docked securely into a waiter's hand. Due to the confines, orders of empanadas, salads, cafe con leche, and everything Cafe Paulin has to offer, are sent skimming along the glossed glass surfaces of the servery. The larger plates overlap the edges as they spin. Not a plate is dropped, not a drop is spilled. We order coffees and chocolate cake which speeds towards our waiter who catches and scoops the dishes and cups. And so all is revealed. Every problem has a solution. Cafe Paulin is a solution in itself. We smile at our waiter, and he smiles back. With quick fingers, Katja signs something to him, and he communicates with his hearing eyes.
Tacuari
"The Tacuarí, the new Tango space that manage Ruth and Andreas, dear tango “Maestros”in San Telmo".
When friends at El Sol de San Telmo suggested the Tacuari milonga, there was a note of warmth in their voices, rather as there is in the above translated review. This was destined to be not the normal milonga.
We set off across Avendia San Juan into the southern outreaches of San Telmo. Tacuari runs out sweeping towards La Boca, but stalling at Avendia Martin Garcia several blocks before the rail tracks that separate where it is just possible to go, from where further exploration would be folly.
Our journey from Chacabuco is a short one, a matter of minutes by foot. The Tacuari springs up suddenly from nowhere, sandwiched between unidentifiable buildings. The doors are propped open with chocks and a security light beams across the pavement on our arrival. It is after 11 pm and the milonga is already busy, with no seats and certainly no tables. Ordinarily, this would have been an impediment to a successful evening of dancing, but somehow the absence of space does not seem to matter. Here is light, laughter, fun and superb dancers. As I pass the open bar to see a body artist finishing a masterpiece. She is tall, with long legs that bear his work, fascinating painting that shimmers in the milonga lights. The contre partie is a young dancer whose upper torso is fully painted. They smile, their eyes full of excitement and their bodies ready to dance to show of his work.
Clutching out bottles of sparkling water, our small group stands in a space just off the milonga floor. We note the standard of dancers to be high. There are some talented young people here, as you would expect from the reviews of this milonga. But up to this point, I had not read the reviews, and so my expectation is eclipsed. It is at that moment that I see a face. He is tall and very slim, with distinctive penetrating eyes. This is an unmistakable face that I have seen before, with whom I have danced, and with whom I have shared my home. In September 2009 Andreas and Ruth, his partner in life and dance, as the guests of Miriam y Dante, danced at their milonga, taught classes and over-nighted with Nefra and me after late night dancing in my studio.
We recognise, greet and embrace. Andreas rushes off to find Ruth. Chairs and tables are procured and placed to the edge of the milonga floor. The smart dancers look on as these strangers are fated. For this evening I will have no difficulty in attracting both dances and knowing looks from my companions who ask if I know everyone in this city.
As the novelty of celebrity subsides, I become aware of the arrival of the real celebrity. Osvaldo and his wife Coca are being brought through to their special table. Osvaldo is one of the last old milongueros, the dancers who carried the skills of tango from the 1950's through the hostile years when successive governments and tango were unfriendly bedfellows. Of course he is old, but age does not register on his youthful, exuberant face. He and Coca are to exhibit this evening, and ours is to be the privilege of seeing one of the last of his race. From my guest vantage point I am looking directly across towards him as he catches my eye. We last met through Oscar Casas, my first dance master. At his request I cross the floor to greet and hug. I remind him of our last encounter and we share our mutual admiration for our benefactor Oscar. And then the moment is cut short; the time to dance has arrived. The little orchestra strikes up, Osvaldo loses his jacket and takes Coca in his arms. They dance in a way that only genuine milongueros can dance, with skill, humour to the exclusion of all around them. The audience is hushed.Osvaldo spans the generations here and is taken to their heart. He is the heart of tango and it still beats fast.
This is a moment of great joy, a coming together of tango past and future. Also a coming together of unexpected friends: Andreas, Ruth, Osvaldo, Coca. I feel that the city has held out a hand. Later,over a last cup of tea at the tango house, we speak about the events of the night. And I reflect on the privilege of the moment and bask in reflected celebrity.
When friends at El Sol de San Telmo suggested the Tacuari milonga, there was a note of warmth in their voices, rather as there is in the above translated review. This was destined to be not the normal milonga.
We set off across Avendia San Juan into the southern outreaches of San Telmo. Tacuari runs out sweeping towards La Boca, but stalling at Avendia Martin Garcia several blocks before the rail tracks that separate where it is just possible to go, from where further exploration would be folly.
Our journey from Chacabuco is a short one, a matter of minutes by foot. The Tacuari springs up suddenly from nowhere, sandwiched between unidentifiable buildings. The doors are propped open with chocks and a security light beams across the pavement on our arrival. It is after 11 pm and the milonga is already busy, with no seats and certainly no tables. Ordinarily, this would have been an impediment to a successful evening of dancing, but somehow the absence of space does not seem to matter. Here is light, laughter, fun and superb dancers. As I pass the open bar to see a body artist finishing a masterpiece. She is tall, with long legs that bear his work, fascinating painting that shimmers in the milonga lights. The contre partie is a young dancer whose upper torso is fully painted. They smile, their eyes full of excitement and their bodies ready to dance to show of his work.
Clutching out bottles of sparkling water, our small group stands in a space just off the milonga floor. We note the standard of dancers to be high. There are some talented young people here, as you would expect from the reviews of this milonga. But up to this point, I had not read the reviews, and so my expectation is eclipsed. It is at that moment that I see a face. He is tall and very slim, with distinctive penetrating eyes. This is an unmistakable face that I have seen before, with whom I have danced, and with whom I have shared my home. In September 2009 Andreas and Ruth, his partner in life and dance, as the guests of Miriam y Dante, danced at their milonga, taught classes and over-nighted with Nefra and me after late night dancing in my studio.
We recognise, greet and embrace. Andreas rushes off to find Ruth. Chairs and tables are procured and placed to the edge of the milonga floor. The smart dancers look on as these strangers are fated. For this evening I will have no difficulty in attracting both dances and knowing looks from my companions who ask if I know everyone in this city.
As the novelty of celebrity subsides, I become aware of the arrival of the real celebrity. Osvaldo and his wife Coca are being brought through to their special table. Osvaldo is one of the last old milongueros, the dancers who carried the skills of tango from the 1950's through the hostile years when successive governments and tango were unfriendly bedfellows. Of course he is old, but age does not register on his youthful, exuberant face. He and Coca are to exhibit this evening, and ours is to be the privilege of seeing one of the last of his race. From my guest vantage point I am looking directly across towards him as he catches my eye. We last met through Oscar Casas, my first dance master. At his request I cross the floor to greet and hug. I remind him of our last encounter and we share our mutual admiration for our benefactor Oscar. And then the moment is cut short; the time to dance has arrived. The little orchestra strikes up, Osvaldo loses his jacket and takes Coca in his arms. They dance in a way that only genuine milongueros can dance, with skill, humour to the exclusion of all around them. The audience is hushed.Osvaldo spans the generations here and is taken to their heart. He is the heart of tango and it still beats fast.
This is a moment of great joy, a coming together of tango past and future. Also a coming together of unexpected friends: Andreas, Ruth, Osvaldo, Coca. I feel that the city has held out a hand. Later,over a last cup of tea at the tango house, we speak about the events of the night. And I reflect on the privilege of the moment and bask in reflected celebrity.
La Milonga de los Consagrados
Those of you who have read my previous blog entries will remember Lucia as my former taxi dancer, and Jerry as her partner and father of their delightful daughter Michelle. In the three years since I left Buenos Aires, they have gone on to found Flor de Milonga, one of the most recent tango events, and to become respected tango exhibitors in the city.
Their friends, Daniel and Miriam, whose father was the famous Enrique "Gordo" Rosich, run a milonga at Humberto Primo 1462. It was to this event that I was to be guest at their table and to see them dance an exhibition of tango milonguero as special show guests.
Humberto Primo is a road that runs the full length of one side of San Telmo, one block from Constitucion, one of the most challenged and challenging barios in Buenos Aires. A sense of unease pervades the area, even today as I walk in the late afternoon sunshine with my dance shoes strapped to my back. I have passed the small shops at almost every street corner, where entry is permitted only as far as the steel roller mesh through which business is transacted, money is passed and goods returned. And just here is Nino Bien, the location of some of the most important milongas in San Telmo.
From the marble entrance way, a wide flight of stairs curves round to the first floor landing from which a ticket can be purchased for 20 pesos. Then through the mahogany doors one reaches the salon. La Milonga de los Consagrados is a proper milonga! At two metre intervals along each wall, tall mirrors rise towards the ceiling. Along the walls are three deep rows of tables with coloured cloths. Tango events occur here most nights of the week, hosted by different organisers who stamp their individuality on their event and find their way in the pecking order of milongas. Towards the stage is the performers' table, and there are to be found Lucia, Gerry and their group of guests, discerning tangueros from the city and beyond.
Tonight is a special event with two exhibitions, the first to be led by Lucia and Gerry. Lucia is described by the old milongueros, the most revered male dancers in Buenos Aires, as their favourite tanguera. They call her 'la flaca Lucia', meaning the thin one, in noticeable contrast to El Gordo Rosich (the fat one). What would be considered to be inappropriate comment about weight or height, here in Buenos Aires, is simply a fact of life that adds a richness to description and is the badge of recognition for milongueros. Of course my aspiration is to be El Grande Twist.
After exchange of hugs, we settle to gentle dancing whilst Lucia and Gerry transform themselves from regular milongueros into show performers. Lucia is wearing an emerald green dress, a flash of satin showing her jet black hair. Gerry is dressed in black with a white shirt open at the neck. Both now exude the glamor of tango.
By this time the room is full of dancers and every table and seat is occupied. Some of the dancers have to stand at the back. We sense the imminence of the performance as a PA system is tested and the deep maroon curtains flex at the stage. With Victorian drama, the curtains are swept to one side and the orchestra appears for the first time. It is Ernesto Franco. This is a huge prize for Consagrados, and perhaps the reason the milonga is full to bursting point. Franco is one of the most important living band leaders. His small orchestra comprises about a dozen players re-create the magic of D'Arienzo, the charismatic band leader who gave to tango a strong dancing beat and popular showmanship. Franco himself is not one to disappoint. He directs the band with a quiet strict approach of beat, then draws from the back row his four violinists who perform centre stage, and as he raises the fever he glances backwards to the appreciative following of dancers and onlookers.
The moment has arrived for Gerry and Lucia to perform. They take to the floor and take the embrace. Light, deft and stylish both dance showing the impossibility of discerning where one move is initiated, progressed, finishes; and another starts. At the end of the show, the audience erupt, and here, see for yourself why you may want to dance tango.
The finale for the band is La Cumparasita, the most famous tango song written by Rodriguez in 1917. This is so frequently played that listeners sometimes become disenchanted with it. But not tonight, and certainly not with Franco's interpretation and energy. At one stage he drops his baton and walks into the orchestra. He then turns and picks up a bandoneon. Something magical is happening. I may not see this event again in my lifetime. This is like a total eclipse, the audience go silent and the dancers cease to dance. Everyone in the salon turns, and the notes rise in slow, sharp ripples of sound. This is a moment of moments, to be ranked alongside a last performance. The final chords cling to the ceiling, the audience tastes the sound; and then it passes as quickly as it arose, with Franco returning to conduct, and dancers returning to their dance. Having bid farewell to and for the moment, I leave; two memories imprinted on my mind and in my soul; those of dance and tango.
Their friends, Daniel and Miriam, whose father was the famous Enrique "Gordo" Rosich, run a milonga at Humberto Primo 1462. It was to this event that I was to be guest at their table and to see them dance an exhibition of tango milonguero as special show guests.
Humberto Primo is a road that runs the full length of one side of San Telmo, one block from Constitucion, one of the most challenged and challenging barios in Buenos Aires. A sense of unease pervades the area, even today as I walk in the late afternoon sunshine with my dance shoes strapped to my back. I have passed the small shops at almost every street corner, where entry is permitted only as far as the steel roller mesh through which business is transacted, money is passed and goods returned. And just here is Nino Bien, the location of some of the most important milongas in San Telmo.
From the marble entrance way, a wide flight of stairs curves round to the first floor landing from which a ticket can be purchased for 20 pesos. Then through the mahogany doors one reaches the salon. La Milonga de los Consagrados is a proper milonga! At two metre intervals along each wall, tall mirrors rise towards the ceiling. Along the walls are three deep rows of tables with coloured cloths. Tango events occur here most nights of the week, hosted by different organisers who stamp their individuality on their event and find their way in the pecking order of milongas. Towards the stage is the performers' table, and there are to be found Lucia, Gerry and their group of guests, discerning tangueros from the city and beyond.
Tonight is a special event with two exhibitions, the first to be led by Lucia and Gerry. Lucia is described by the old milongueros, the most revered male dancers in Buenos Aires, as their favourite tanguera. They call her 'la flaca Lucia', meaning the thin one, in noticeable contrast to El Gordo Rosich (the fat one). What would be considered to be inappropriate comment about weight or height, here in Buenos Aires, is simply a fact of life that adds a richness to description and is the badge of recognition for milongueros. Of course my aspiration is to be El Grande Twist.
After exchange of hugs, we settle to gentle dancing whilst Lucia and Gerry transform themselves from regular milongueros into show performers. Lucia is wearing an emerald green dress, a flash of satin showing her jet black hair. Gerry is dressed in black with a white shirt open at the neck. Both now exude the glamor of tango.
By this time the room is full of dancers and every table and seat is occupied. Some of the dancers have to stand at the back. We sense the imminence of the performance as a PA system is tested and the deep maroon curtains flex at the stage. With Victorian drama, the curtains are swept to one side and the orchestra appears for the first time. It is Ernesto Franco. This is a huge prize for Consagrados, and perhaps the reason the milonga is full to bursting point. Franco is one of the most important living band leaders. His small orchestra comprises about a dozen players re-create the magic of D'Arienzo, the charismatic band leader who gave to tango a strong dancing beat and popular showmanship. Franco himself is not one to disappoint. He directs the band with a quiet strict approach of beat, then draws from the back row his four violinists who perform centre stage, and as he raises the fever he glances backwards to the appreciative following of dancers and onlookers.
The moment has arrived for Gerry and Lucia to perform. They take to the floor and take the embrace. Light, deft and stylish both dance showing the impossibility of discerning where one move is initiated, progressed, finishes; and another starts. At the end of the show, the audience erupt, and here, see for yourself why you may want to dance tango.
The finale for the band is La Cumparasita, the most famous tango song written by Rodriguez in 1917. This is so frequently played that listeners sometimes become disenchanted with it. But not tonight, and certainly not with Franco's interpretation and energy. At one stage he drops his baton and walks into the orchestra. He then turns and picks up a bandoneon. Something magical is happening. I may not see this event again in my lifetime. This is like a total eclipse, the audience go silent and the dancers cease to dance. Everyone in the salon turns, and the notes rise in slow, sharp ripples of sound. This is a moment of moments, to be ranked alongside a last performance. The final chords cling to the ceiling, the audience tastes the sound; and then it passes as quickly as it arose, with Franco returning to conduct, and dancers returning to their dance. Having bid farewell to and for the moment, I leave; two memories imprinted on my mind and in my soul; those of dance and tango.
La Orquesta del Tango de Buenos Aires vuelve al Alvear
Rachel y Eduardo's message invites me to attend a tango concert at the Teatro Alvear in the heart of the city. I know precisely where the theatre is situated in Corrientes 1659, my former apartment at Tucuman being simply three blocks away. Today I have arranged to meet Maggie. She is a fellow northerner, student and friend of Tanya and Howard who teach in Cumbria. Whilst at an Ireby milonga I had told her about my 6 month Sabbatical, and she has replicated it. She is now in the final two months, having successfully survived the city and tango.
I make my way on foot through San Telmo and out across Avendia 9 Julio into Corrientes. As I approach the theatre I pass the street sweepers who collect the hundreds of leaflets strewn by political activists following their recent demonstration. Demonstrations in Buenos Aires are an art form, and way of life. This is a highly political nation with a democratic voting system. The activists however are part of the political process and their presence appears to influence government policy. This may be due to sensitivity from the recent history of the 'disparus', 30,0000 people, mainly men: husbands, fathers and brothers, who were simply disappeared by the government in the decade from 1976, and whose lives are remembered by the women; mothers, sisters and wives, who gather in Plaza de Mayo every Thursday at 1530 hours where they walk anticlockwise round the square to remember their dead.
The theatre is on the north side of the famous Corrientes, the 'street that never sleeps'. Flocks of mature Portenios (the name for the local residents of Buenos Aires) move steadily into the foyer and on to the downstairs stalls. Maggie arrives in the nick of time and we make our way to two front circle centre seats that are fortuitously still free in an otherwise packed to bursting theatre.
The concert starts on time. This in Buenos Aires is an unusual feature, but probably because the concert is funded by the city who have hired the theatre on an hourly basis. The lights dim and twenty eight performers come to the platform. The orchestra seems to have been constituted especially for this performance. There are 13 violins and violas, three cellos, one base, two woodwind, one pianist, two percussion, two guitars and of course four bandoneon, both the queen and spirit of tango. The atmosphere in the audience is unusual for one whose average age will be over 65. As each piece concludes there is rapturous applause and calls from the rows of grey haired enthusiasts. The conductor acknowledges it with great satisfaction. The orchestra stand, the bandoneon players removing the soft leather covers that protect their precious instruments from friction against their knees. And now Marcelo Tommasi makes an entrance stage right. Tall, commanding and searingly handsome, he walks onto the stage like a true Porteno. He exudes huge charm, and then he sings. The audience hush as if a quiet drape has been placed over them. Tommasi's voice is a rich mahogany barritone; it rings out across the stalls and lifts to the circle. His dark eyes flash, his gestures describing the love, pain, loss, emotion of tango. His voice still hovers as the audience leap to their feet with a demonstration of appreciation that says, like tango, you too are our son. The programme continues, the strings soar in wide arks of sound, and the principal violin flirts with the flute, like Casanova seducing a virgin. But the bandoneon hold the stage, with sounds that not simply pluck or breath over the heart, but take it from its place and fill it with emotion and desire.
Outside is sun, hot and humid after a night of torrential downpours. We stroll towards the little patisseria for hot empanadas and apple cake. And then onward into the day with thoughts of tango and an urge to dance.
I make my way on foot through San Telmo and out across Avendia 9 Julio into Corrientes. As I approach the theatre I pass the street sweepers who collect the hundreds of leaflets strewn by political activists following their recent demonstration. Demonstrations in Buenos Aires are an art form, and way of life. This is a highly political nation with a democratic voting system. The activists however are part of the political process and their presence appears to influence government policy. This may be due to sensitivity from the recent history of the 'disparus', 30,0000 people, mainly men: husbands, fathers and brothers, who were simply disappeared by the government in the decade from 1976, and whose lives are remembered by the women; mothers, sisters and wives, who gather in Plaza de Mayo every Thursday at 1530 hours where they walk anticlockwise round the square to remember their dead.
The theatre is on the north side of the famous Corrientes, the 'street that never sleeps'. Flocks of mature Portenios (the name for the local residents of Buenos Aires) move steadily into the foyer and on to the downstairs stalls. Maggie arrives in the nick of time and we make our way to two front circle centre seats that are fortuitously still free in an otherwise packed to bursting theatre.
The concert starts on time. This in Buenos Aires is an unusual feature, but probably because the concert is funded by the city who have hired the theatre on an hourly basis. The lights dim and twenty eight performers come to the platform. The orchestra seems to have been constituted especially for this performance. There are 13 violins and violas, three cellos, one base, two woodwind, one pianist, two percussion, two guitars and of course four bandoneon, both the queen and spirit of tango. The atmosphere in the audience is unusual for one whose average age will be over 65. As each piece concludes there is rapturous applause and calls from the rows of grey haired enthusiasts. The conductor acknowledges it with great satisfaction. The orchestra stand, the bandoneon players removing the soft leather covers that protect their precious instruments from friction against their knees. And now Marcelo Tommasi makes an entrance stage right. Tall, commanding and searingly handsome, he walks onto the stage like a true Porteno. He exudes huge charm, and then he sings. The audience hush as if a quiet drape has been placed over them. Tommasi's voice is a rich mahogany barritone; it rings out across the stalls and lifts to the circle. His dark eyes flash, his gestures describing the love, pain, loss, emotion of tango. His voice still hovers as the audience leap to their feet with a demonstration of appreciation that says, like tango, you too are our son. The programme continues, the strings soar in wide arks of sound, and the principal violin flirts with the flute, like Casanova seducing a virgin. But the bandoneon hold the stage, with sounds that not simply pluck or breath over the heart, but take it from its place and fill it with emotion and desire.
Outside is sun, hot and humid after a night of torrential downpours. We stroll towards the little patisseria for hot empanadas and apple cake. And then onward into the day with thoughts of tango and an urge to dance.
Milonga La Marshall, Maipu 444 Buenos Aires
"Yes, I've been there once before and it was fun". And so, with the taxi arriving at 11 pm together with my tanguera from El Sol de San Telmo we set off for La Marshall.
Maipu 444 could easily be missed. It is simply just another unprepossessing door into another block, sandwiched by large offices in the centre of downtown Buenos Aires. But there, everyday life ceases, giving way to La Marshall, known in the city as one of the two gay milongas.
My partner for the evening is Martina, a fitness advisor from Hamburg. She is tall, slim,and attractive with red hair and a lively sense of humour. "Let us see how it goes", she says as we ascend the stairs to the reception booth. Twenty pesos per head later and the blue curtain parts to allow entry to the milonga room. It is surrounded by small,circular tables with white cloths, some bearing the sign 'reservado'. Our host escorts us to one in the centre of the room on the edge of the dance floor.
The class is just finishing. There are about 30 dancers there to take the class. Others sit waiting for the milonga to start, as do we. Instruction is given so that everyone learns as both leader and follower. This is later to be seen in the dancing when leaders and followers switch, sometimes after dances or later after tandas. Everyone who attends the class is expected to change dance partners throughout the lesson, so dancers get to dance as both leader and follower with men or women at random.
Martina and I are in a small minority of opposite gender couples arriving to dance. Although here gender is almost an irrelevance when it comes to dancing, yet the gay men prefer to dance together and some of the mixed gender couples stay together for the evening.
Both Martina and I are open to the possibility of dancing with same gender partners. In Buenos Aires there has been a long history of men dancing together, as that is how men learned their tango skills back in the 1920's when the they would attend all-male practicas, initially as followers and later, after a minimum of 6 months, as leaders. Once competent, they would attempt a milonga, where dancing with the few women was a big prize worth practicing and competing for. The girls, I believe, learned technique from other experienced women, and the detail of steps by being led at the milongas, where the young men would invent more and more complex moves to impress....comme c'est la meme chose! Tonight, neither of us are invited by same gender dancers. For me, probably because I am seen as a leader, and even here at La Marshall, the leaders tend to invite. For Martina as a follower, perhaps because tonight there seem to be very few female leaders. Our fate is to dance together, but that is fine. Martina is a very experienced tanguera, having danced for many years and her style is open and dramatic. Our presence is soon felt and we draw a degree of interest from other dancers.Tonight the music at La Marshall is remarkably classic tango, but with the occasional tango nuevo, tango Greco and Esteban Morgado (a favourite introduced to me by Nefra) added.
We dance, promising each other that this will be our last tanda, then another song keeps us to the dance floor. At 2.30 we decide enough is enough. With a change of shoes we descend to Maipu, just to see the number 9 colectivo arrive. My Guia"t" de bolsillo (guide to buses) tells me that this is the bus for Chacabucco, and so, our fares of 2 pesos 20 centivos collected by the auto-ticket machine, we return at break-neck speed to El Sol de San Telmo, to tea, and bed.
Maipu 444 could easily be missed. It is simply just another unprepossessing door into another block, sandwiched by large offices in the centre of downtown Buenos Aires. But there, everyday life ceases, giving way to La Marshall, known in the city as one of the two gay milongas.
My partner for the evening is Martina, a fitness advisor from Hamburg. She is tall, slim,and attractive with red hair and a lively sense of humour. "Let us see how it goes", she says as we ascend the stairs to the reception booth. Twenty pesos per head later and the blue curtain parts to allow entry to the milonga room. It is surrounded by small,circular tables with white cloths, some bearing the sign 'reservado'. Our host escorts us to one in the centre of the room on the edge of the dance floor.
The class is just finishing. There are about 30 dancers there to take the class. Others sit waiting for the milonga to start, as do we. Instruction is given so that everyone learns as both leader and follower. This is later to be seen in the dancing when leaders and followers switch, sometimes after dances or later after tandas. Everyone who attends the class is expected to change dance partners throughout the lesson, so dancers get to dance as both leader and follower with men or women at random.
Martina and I are in a small minority of opposite gender couples arriving to dance. Although here gender is almost an irrelevance when it comes to dancing, yet the gay men prefer to dance together and some of the mixed gender couples stay together for the evening.
Both Martina and I are open to the possibility of dancing with same gender partners. In Buenos Aires there has been a long history of men dancing together, as that is how men learned their tango skills back in the 1920's when the they would attend all-male practicas, initially as followers and later, after a minimum of 6 months, as leaders. Once competent, they would attempt a milonga, where dancing with the few women was a big prize worth practicing and competing for. The girls, I believe, learned technique from other experienced women, and the detail of steps by being led at the milongas, where the young men would invent more and more complex moves to impress....comme c'est la meme chose! Tonight, neither of us are invited by same gender dancers. For me, probably because I am seen as a leader, and even here at La Marshall, the leaders tend to invite. For Martina as a follower, perhaps because tonight there seem to be very few female leaders. Our fate is to dance together, but that is fine. Martina is a very experienced tanguera, having danced for many years and her style is open and dramatic. Our presence is soon felt and we draw a degree of interest from other dancers.Tonight the music at La Marshall is remarkably classic tango, but with the occasional tango nuevo, tango Greco and Esteban Morgado (a favourite introduced to me by Nefra) added.
We dance, promising each other that this will be our last tanda, then another song keeps us to the dance floor. At 2.30 we decide enough is enough. With a change of shoes we descend to Maipu, just to see the number 9 colectivo arrive. My Guia"t" de bolsillo (guide to buses) tells me that this is the bus for Chacabucco, and so, our fares of 2 pesos 20 centivos collected by the auto-ticket machine, we return at break-neck speed to El Sol de San Telmo, to tea, and bed.
Arrived in Buenos Aires
I have arrived in Buenos Aires. There is a last moment on the flight side at Ministro Pistarini. Just ahead is a wall of electronic doors that opens on approach, and stepping through I walk into the full reality of Buenos Aires. After the mist of San Paulo, here is clear, bright sunshine with a slight lifting breeze to cool the hot midday. The arrival hall is full of people, signs, voices, activity. I have arrived from a cold late winter in England to a sparkling summer of tanned Argentines with short sleeved shirts and little dresses. I purchase my 40 pesos ticket for Manuel Tienda Leon, the useful coach service that whisks arrivals from the airport to the city, and onwards by private taxi to the hotels. We slip through the suburbs, after four previous journeys recognisable like old friends. The same old city, the same youthful vitality.
We are pulling up in Chacabuco. 1181 is towards the outer edge of San Telmo. It is a tall, old building that carries the San Telmo character of times past. This was a fashionable barrio, deserted by the middle classes as they moved out to the leafy suburbs of Recoletta and Palermo, when it was left to its freeze-framed fate. No doubt one day it will resume its fashionable status for classy artisans, but now it mainly houses real people who struggle alongside those who service the tango industry of Buenos Aires. And 1181 is part of that: a tango house run by Fabio y Flavia, tango teachers and hoteliers.
The door is opened diffidently by a resident who has heard the bell, and as Fab is away, she does not know whether to admit me. Building security in Buenos Aires is taken seriously due to high levels of crime, and outer doors, like the tall, wrought iron and glass doors of Paris, are kept double locked. We ascend a cream and grey marble staircase to the first floor landing. In houses such as these, the staff lived on the dusty, noisy ground floor level, and so it is here with the reception rooms facing the street from the first floor balcony. El Sol de San Telmo has a warm feeling, tired around the edges with peeling paint and old threadbare furnishings, but enriched with life and the energy of its tango hosts.
When I meet Fab I see that he is young, attractive and totally at ease in English. He shows me the tango studio, the kitchen and to my room. As so often in these turn-of-the-century houses, the 3 metre high doors to the rooms lead from an open balcony. My room is of stripped pitch pine, with tan stained floors and ancient pale walls. It would be a crime to re-paint this authentic canvass, but the walls bear the passage of time from high fashion to old suit. The bed is large, there is an art deco wardrobe, small desk and two chairs. Broderie Anglaise curtains hang from brass topped rods 2 metres down the door. High on one wall is an oval window to another room which in its time would have given precious borrowed light to another room. I am going to be happy here.
After unpacking my few clothes and possessions I descend to the street to explore the barrio. The first rush is from the level of activity. Its not just the twelve lanes of traffic on the main Avendia 1st Julio which dissects the city south to north, but the streams of colectivos, the city buses that hiss and whoop their horns as they make their way to La Boca. Both by day and night there are some colectivos that stand out from the rest. They are brightly painted, with curtains at the windows and blue lights under the wheel arches.
My first 'appointment' is with Jose Carlos Romero Vedia and his street dancers who nightly take up their pitch at Lavalle junction with Florida. By the time I arrive they are well into their performance as Carlos tours his crowd of 40 onlookers asking them their country of origin. When Carlos who recognises me, asks, I say Mar del Plata (seaside resort to Buenos Aires) to the mirth of the dancers who insist that I am a dancer from England. And then they dance Canyengue. For this Carlos takes his favourite student, a tall dark haired, stunningly beautiful dancer, into a low embrace, his right arm around her back, her right arm across the top of his shoulders. His left hand remains deep in his pocket and hers on his chest as their knees bend to the first chord. This is an old form of tango which pre-dates the milonga and salon tango styles that we associate with the golden age of tango in the 1930's and 40's. The dance comprises syncopated steps with a distinctive low posture. After the first part of the dance, the hold changes to a raised left hand held above the dancers. Tonight a discerning crowd, which has been insisting on milonga hitherto, roar with appreciation. As the Canyengue gives way to El Chocolo, I give way to the dark streets to return along the side of Catedral, into Peru and back deep into San Telmo.
The lights glance along the narrow, warm streets. Shops are closing and shutters are being pulled down and locked. Small groups and families sit late on their little balconies or on the steps to their homes. There is a soft smell of cooking and a distant sound of tango. A colectivo thunders past, sending bags of rubbish flying. A lone dog barks. And this is San Telmo preparing for night.
We are pulling up in Chacabuco. 1181 is towards the outer edge of San Telmo. It is a tall, old building that carries the San Telmo character of times past. This was a fashionable barrio, deserted by the middle classes as they moved out to the leafy suburbs of Recoletta and Palermo, when it was left to its freeze-framed fate. No doubt one day it will resume its fashionable status for classy artisans, but now it mainly houses real people who struggle alongside those who service the tango industry of Buenos Aires. And 1181 is part of that: a tango house run by Fabio y Flavia, tango teachers and hoteliers.
The door is opened diffidently by a resident who has heard the bell, and as Fab is away, she does not know whether to admit me. Building security in Buenos Aires is taken seriously due to high levels of crime, and outer doors, like the tall, wrought iron and glass doors of Paris, are kept double locked. We ascend a cream and grey marble staircase to the first floor landing. In houses such as these, the staff lived on the dusty, noisy ground floor level, and so it is here with the reception rooms facing the street from the first floor balcony. El Sol de San Telmo has a warm feeling, tired around the edges with peeling paint and old threadbare furnishings, but enriched with life and the energy of its tango hosts.
When I meet Fab I see that he is young, attractive and totally at ease in English. He shows me the tango studio, the kitchen and to my room. As so often in these turn-of-the-century houses, the 3 metre high doors to the rooms lead from an open balcony. My room is of stripped pitch pine, with tan stained floors and ancient pale walls. It would be a crime to re-paint this authentic canvass, but the walls bear the passage of time from high fashion to old suit. The bed is large, there is an art deco wardrobe, small desk and two chairs. Broderie Anglaise curtains hang from brass topped rods 2 metres down the door. High on one wall is an oval window to another room which in its time would have given precious borrowed light to another room. I am going to be happy here.
After unpacking my few clothes and possessions I descend to the street to explore the barrio. The first rush is from the level of activity. Its not just the twelve lanes of traffic on the main Avendia 1st Julio which dissects the city south to north, but the streams of colectivos, the city buses that hiss and whoop their horns as they make their way to La Boca. Both by day and night there are some colectivos that stand out from the rest. They are brightly painted, with curtains at the windows and blue lights under the wheel arches.
My first 'appointment' is with Jose Carlos Romero Vedia and his street dancers who nightly take up their pitch at Lavalle junction with Florida. By the time I arrive they are well into their performance as Carlos tours his crowd of 40 onlookers asking them their country of origin. When Carlos who recognises me, asks, I say Mar del Plata (seaside resort to Buenos Aires) to the mirth of the dancers who insist that I am a dancer from England. And then they dance Canyengue. For this Carlos takes his favourite student, a tall dark haired, stunningly beautiful dancer, into a low embrace, his right arm around her back, her right arm across the top of his shoulders. His left hand remains deep in his pocket and hers on his chest as their knees bend to the first chord. This is an old form of tango which pre-dates the milonga and salon tango styles that we associate with the golden age of tango in the 1930's and 40's. The dance comprises syncopated steps with a distinctive low posture. After the first part of the dance, the hold changes to a raised left hand held above the dancers. Tonight a discerning crowd, which has been insisting on milonga hitherto, roar with appreciation. As the Canyengue gives way to El Chocolo, I give way to the dark streets to return along the side of Catedral, into Peru and back deep into San Telmo.
The lights glance along the narrow, warm streets. Shops are closing and shutters are being pulled down and locked. Small groups and families sit late on their little balconies or on the steps to their homes. There is a soft smell of cooking and a distant sound of tango. A colectivo thunders past, sending bags of rubbish flying. A lone dog barks. And this is San Telmo preparing for night.
Return to Buenos Aires
Three years to the month. And now in the final few days before returning to Buenos Aires.
This time, I will be living in Chacabuco, San Telmo. This is a fascinating, if edgy barrio, known as the heart of tango.
And of course Mercado San Telmo full of stalls selling everything from raw meat and vegetables to antiques.
I will be arriving on Tuesday 16 March, and staying almost two months. Initially, I will be staying at El Sol de San Telmo, a tango guest house situated on the edge of the barrio.
So sign up to follow, and you will receive updates on my progress with life in the Capital Federal, with friends, and with tango.
This time, I will be living in Chacabuco, San Telmo. This is a fascinating, if edgy barrio, known as the heart of tango.
Here is Plaza Dorrego, the main tango square, and Defensa, the busy street market lined with cafes, restaurants and little shops.
And of course Mercado San Telmo full of stalls selling everything from raw meat and vegetables to antiques.
I will be arriving on Tuesday 16 March, and staying almost two months. Initially, I will be staying at El Sol de San Telmo, a tango guest house situated on the edge of the barrio.So sign up to follow, and you will receive updates on my progress with life in the Capital Federal, with friends, and with tango.
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