Another Sunday in Monserrat, Buenos Aires

 

Another Sunday. I sit in the shade of the garden.

The rufous bellied thrush has just descended through the banana tree into the garden to look for grubs. A dragon fly darts away. Voices nearby murmur accompanied by the chinking of cutlery on late lunch plates. A chair squeaks on a polished floor. Somewhere someone sneezes. A dog barks. Distant, the sound of a radio; more distant the voices of children playing. Closer, the sound of Osvaldo Fresedo's 'Canto de Amor'  tango wafts through Casa Luna.

 

Cleo the tango dancing cat snoozes, curled around my chair. A breeze picks up the pages of Stephanie's book.

Sunday is one of those days you simply want to drink in. In bright sunshine no one makes unnecessary movements, but relaxes just as the weekend intends. There is a definite 'art' to relaxation, one which climate and circumstances sometimes deny. But here in Buenos Aires the art is perfected. Time feels as if it has slowed to a stroll, giving the chance to collect, to think, and to dream.

Casa Luna - the first 40 days

As 2016 closed, I exchanged my practice as a barrister for the new challenge, with Stephanie, of 'manager of a tango house' in Buenos Aires. So - how has it been? What is it like to 'up and off' to another continent and take on new responsibilities?

Those who have been following my blog will know that Stephanie and I left the UK on 8 December to visit Buenos Aires for four months, our first two and a half months taking on the role of managers of Casa Luna, a well known tango house here in Monserrat. Our hosts and house owners, Vicki and Rob left for California shortly after our arrival, leaving us with their home, their tango guests, Cleo their cat, and the novel chance to manage a tango hotel.

Southern hemisphere summer in Buenos Aires is an unexpected delight. We had assumed that it would be hot and humid to the point that day-to-day tasks would be burdensome. Not so. There are occasional days when temperatures soar and energy levels drop; but mostly the climate is a joy, especially on those days when we read of snow and sleet in the UK. The weather does dictate a pace - taking each day at a time without too much expectation for activity when really hot, or wet; but the climate brings a new attitude to life, and even the hottest, most humid moment - or a sudden thunder storm - brings more opportunity than restriction. Climate becomes simply a state of mind, to be addressed as it happens, and to be cherished for the difference and variety it makes to daily life.

Neither Stephanie nor I had any doubts about our capacities to run a tango house. Of course, the unknown element was 'the guests'. With three letting rooms - additional to our own suite - we wondered what experiences awaited. We need not have been concerned. Vicki and Rob's policy - to invite English speaking, tango dancing guests from the USA or Europe - meant that all of our guests have shared our passion for life and for dance. The ethos of the house is one of independent, supported living, in which the house managers meet and greet guests, advise about tango venues, city sites, restaurants and places of interest. Most guests choose to eat out, dining being relatively inexpensive, so there is little pressure on the well equipped kitchen. Our first 40 days have been fascinating, with great guests who have added interest and friendship. To date, all have been experienced visitors to Buenos Aires.

The tango house itself was designed and built as a 'Petit Hotel' for its first owner Dr Rodolfo Bonanni, and retains many of its original 1930's Art Deco features. As with most properties here in the capital, the house is but two large rooms in width, yet extends back deep into the block, with an enclosed side passage leading to the garden at the rear. The rooms comprise the Peron Room - a ground floor double, the Porteno Room - formerly the maid's quarters,  a single room with adjacent shower room, the Garden apartment, and the Gardel suite - currently occupied by Stephanie and I. Additionally, there is the through reception room/dining room, the dance studio and the kitchen leading to the back stairs and laundry. From the Gardel suite there is a large first floor terrace, overlooking the garden featuring a vigorous banana tree and other semi-tropical plants.

  

Caring for Cleo, the tango dancing cat; and tending the garden have been two principal tasks. The other main responsibility is house security, taken very seriously throughout Buenos Aires. Over our first 40 days, we have been successful in these roles. In relation to the house guests, we sense that we have added value to their stay; and in the process, made good, lasting friendships.

 

Reflecting on our extended stay, not simply as tourists, but as house managers, the experience has been totally energising. It has given our time here a special quality - one of 'belonging' rather than just passing through. At milongas, when asked about my trip, I take pleasure in boasting that I am here to work as manager of a tango house, if only in my own mind, giving me a significance that otherwise I would not have experienced.

We have now entered our final month as managers of Casa Luna. Already, the weather has started to change from hot days and steamy nights, to warm days and cool evenings. As the summer season unfurls we already taste a tinge of regret at the prospect of leaving Casa Luna. But another adventure awaits as we return to San Telmo and the familiar streets of another bario.

 

Agustina Vignau y Hugo Mastrolorenzo at Yira Yira

Friday night is Yira Yira milonga in Humberto Primo 1462, a location which some readers will recognize from a previous blog about Los Consagrados. 

On different days and nights, different organisers arrange their particular milonga at the most popular venues, of which Humberto Primo 1462 is one. Yira Yira is organised by Ana Dani, making it one of the more popular events in the week and a must for a Friday night. 

We set off from Casa Luna to walk the few blocks along San Jose. The night is close, but dry. The evening feels relaxed. We are just two days from Christmas Day, but there is little sign of Christmas festivities or decorations. Occasionally coloured lights may flicker, but otherwise is it just another night in the city.

Tonight Stephanie and I sit with Porteno friends at their table. Not quite together - just slightly apart, for together would signify that we were there 'as a couple' and reduce the invitations to dance. Where you sit at a milonga can make all the difference between 'another night' and 'a special night'. The local regular milongueros know who sits where, who to cabeceo, and generally who not to invite to dance. Likewise, the discerning visiting tanguera is looking to dance with Portenos and not tourists, and a seat at the back with another English, Dutch, German or American is not the best place to be.

Stephanie and I dance our first tanda together. As we enter the pista we feel the moment of inspection from tangueros at tables alongside the pista. The question of status at the milonga is all to do with tango skills. Everyone arrives equal, but soon to be divided into those with recognisable skills and those without. The first tanda establishes one's place in that order. Experienced tangueros lose interest if tango skill is not immediately evident, the less skilled watch for the duration of the first song. Shortly afterwards, Stephanie is cabeceod by one of the older milongueros. Success!

I dance a series of tandas with different tangueras, some local and some tourist. The dancing here at Yira Yira is smooth and unhurried. There is an adherence to the codigos of tango - the rules governing behaviour on and off the dance floor. We make gentle progress around the floor, aiming to conclude the tanda at the exact point at which we started - meaning that the woman is right by her table, rather than having to be walked back across a crowded floor. 

It is then that I receive a mirada from across the pista. I have seen her dance; she rarely misses a tanda unless declining to rest. She is taller than many of the Portenos, suggesting that she may be a visitor too. But she dances with experience and grace. She rises as I reach her seat. We step onto the pista. Our embrace is unhurried...slow...tender....expressive. I sense her balance and we step into the dance. We walk. 

This is a different experience from that hitherto. She is an exceptional dancer, totally at home on the pista. There are moments of pace; and others of gradual movement, as if unwinding seamlessly. Some moments seem to pause and cling in the air, our breathing totally synchronised. 

The codigos - traditions - require that conversation is confined to that moment between the three or four songs of a tanda. The first song over, she speaks in Castillano, asking me whether I am Porteno. I say no, and we smile, me being flattered to be so asked, her for the success of her piropo. 

Each song brings a further delight. As we become familiar with each other's weight and style, our dance becomes more complex - not in steps, but in intention. I lead, she plays. I invite, she accepts, perhaps with a breath or fleeting decoration. I inhale, she lifts. I stride, she responds. 

The tanda is over too soon. We finish right against her table. I stroll back to my seat with a grin.

As I reach the end of the salon, the lights change. Now is the moment you, my readers, have been waiting for, and almost certainly why you are reading this particular blog. The performance.

I noticed him first. It was his hair. Dyed blond, a flap of thick hair to the crown, the sides shaven. In fact he looked out of place at this milonga, belonging in appearance more appositely to a rock concert. His jacket bore patches of dust; his trousers baggy and shapeless. Then I noticed her. Quite tall, slim, beautiful, with an impossible flexibility. 

She wears a dress that is slashed to the navel, the front covered with roses. They enter the pista, not as do other performers, but with a singularity that is hard to capture in words. Yes, these are the Stage Tango World Champions of 2016 and don't we know it. Not from the point of view of arrogance, of which there is no sign whatsoever, but simply from the massive level of performance and technique and style. Their tango is one of angst, each rose being ripped from her dress - by him and by her. Our emotions are exhausted simply by the display, but our sense of occasion is heightened by their skills. It is one of those times when you look back with memories and say "I was there"....it was President Kennedy's death; it was the birth of a child; it was Queen's last concert together. 

'Stage tango' takes tango to another level, one unreal for social tangueros, but presenting a show-case of the core skills. We watch in wonder, spellbound. Moments or rippling applause pepper the performance, but most sit or stand wrapped by the moment. As the first part of the performance concludes, the audience break into cheers of excitement. And Hugo y Agustina leave the floor.

For their last performance of the night, Hugo wears 'that jacket', its meaning now clear. Between them they carry a bird cage containing a helium balloon. This is the dance that propelled them to World Champions earlier this year, as controversially as the way in which Piazzola entered the tango scene. No one doubted their right to be champions; but some were simply not ready for the drama of their performance. The audience falls silent. The dance is not to music, but to voice. Their expressions are those of mime, as much as of tango. 

They, and the cage, take the applause as actors in the most remarkable event. No formal bows, here are peeking displays to the crowded tables, as if the performers are glancing through windows to the world. Tangueros dart to capture the momento of a fallen rose. 'Memorable' is too unmemorable a word. 'Life changing' would be a word too far. But somewhere between is the correct and appropriate description of a feeling danced. And we know that, if Buenos Aires deliveres no more, this would have been enough.

It is later at Casa Luna with a glass of chilled white wine, that we reflect. A bright red paper rose lies between us.  Will we see the like again? Perhaps we may; but not as it was this night, in the steamy milonga of Ana Dani at Yira Yira, with the swell of Portenos, and the knowledge that the memory is for ever ours.

Sleepy rainy Sunday in Buenos Aires

Sunday feels somehow different. It is a day when the tempo of the city slows, as if resting after a week of exertion.

I walk out early to see if Panaderia Sabor a Mas, the local baker, may be open. But the metal gates are down. Save for the Chinese run supermarket - a long thin shop that extends metres back into gloomy cold displays and hardware - the street is quiet. An old woman walks her dog. A roll shutter is pulled up to admit the morning light. The sound of a motorbike drones past the top of the street.

As I turn the block a fresh wave of air rattles the trees and swings a second floor balcony wind chime. It is as if a switch has been turned. Within seconds random droplets of water hit the sidewalk where they spread and evaporate. Then more drops catch the morning breeze. The skies open like a colander and streams of water bounce on wall tiles and the roofs of parked cars.

I reach the sanctuary of Casa Luna and make for the covered area at the rear of the house. Here rivulets of water spill from the garden across paths. The banana tree glistens and sways. Lights flicker. Small birds settle under roof eves. Cleo the house cat darts for cover as a crash of thunder announces the intention of the day.

Even with the downfall, Sunday still feels as if it has sleep in its eyes. I sit with the iPad to write. A crackling radio competes with the sound of the rain. A voice gives way to a tango.

It is the moment when I evaluate a first week as house co-manager. Being here in the rain is just a part of why I am here. The trip is not simply about travel, tango and the urgency of new experience; but chance to collect and reflect with purpose about meaning.

It is as if entering a new dimension of life; where sounds, colours and tastes have more significance than events. The clock ticks, but sometimes slows and pauses.

Now the smell of coffee breaks the reverie. Stephanie arrives with two steaming cups that clatter to the table, together with plates of fresh cut fruit. Sunday in Buenos Aires is not a chore. It is just a moment's pause between now and then.

Gijon - its a surprise

We return from Tucuman exhausted by a humid walk on hot sidewalks. Dusk has settled, but it is still warm. In the transition from afternoon to night, families descend from small apartments to front steps to breathe in the cooler evening air. We are at that moment. I feel the moisture on my brow, but in the time taken to walk to Monserrat, a breeze lifts our mood, and we think about supper.

Gijon is close by at Chile 1402. It is a family parilla, brightly lit and always busy with tables both inside and out. The youngest waiter is in his late 50's. Its end wall is a shrine to football with Boca Junior and River Plate separated by glazed brickwork. A TV screen silently shows today's match. 

We are waived to a table and settle with the menu. A moment later we notice Michael. He sits alone with a bottle of Malbec, the last remnants of his meal about to be cleared. His departure is blocked as I slide our tables together, and he reciprocates by filling our waiting glasses from his bottle. This fragment of time tells of Buenos Aires - a place where companionship and friendship matter more than space and time. 

Stephanie takes charge of our ordering. Tonight, calamari frites followed by lomo steak to share, with mixed salad, a bottle of Malbec and sparkling water. In moments our two bottles of Malbec stand side by side, our's chosen for price, Michael's selected for quality.

In 1852 the French agronomist Michael A Poujet brought the Malbec grape to Argentina. Fortuitously for the variety, the Argentine landscape provided perfect soil and climate combination; so when towards the end of the C19 phylloxera decimated the French vines, the Cot was not lost. 

As so often happens, the Argentine copy was a huge improvement on the French original. The word 'Malbec', with a Cahors origin of 'bad-mouth', became one of Argenina's most successful exports. Contrasting now the re-introduced French Malbec with that of Argentina is to compare a table wine with a 'Grand Vin'. The Argentine flavours are full of spiced fruit with a touch of oak and a burst of exuberance. The colour is robustly deep purple. 

Our waiter slides into view with a huge bowl of calamari. They are battered and deep fried to perfection. Here at Gijon this is a speciality dish, each night dozens of portions being carried to dozens of tables. On the tongue they are soft, with just a gentle bite, teamed with a sense of the Southern Atlantic. 

Our wine tasting confirms that Micheal has a discerning palate from which we need to learn. The difference in our choices shows the subtlety of his against the vernacular of ours. Playfully, I try to switch them as we devour our calamari. 

Michael is a true tanguero, perhaps just a few years short of milonguero status. His grey hair and quiet dignity give him a timeless quality, one reflected in his expanse of conversation. We speak of life, of tango, of beauty and of wine. The restaurant buzzes around us, but we seep into a bubble of our own making in a moment of sharing. Here is a photograph of his companion, there is a reflection on the quality of our lomo which Stephanie divides with a fork. Life softens. The clattering of plates recedes. Over an hour passes in but minutes. 

We leave with a valued hug from our waiter and a cheerful handshake from a group of Portenos at the next table. Outside the air is now fresh, and a breeze blows leaves along the pavement. We joke about escorting each other home. The metallic sound of our key in the lock. The clang of the ornate iron framed doors to the street, and the peaceful haven of Casa Luna which we share.

Casa Luna and Los Consagrados

Casa Luna is situated in the bario Monserrat, to the west of the micro centre, just a few blocks over 9 de Julio.  Monserrat is an old, and historically poor bario, the resident population being families that have lived and worked here for generations. The street is busy teaming with life from early morning ....to early morning.

We occupy the ground floor Eva Peron room, but by choice will move to the upstairs Carlos Gardel room after our hosts Vicki and Rob leave for the USA. The Gardel room has ensuite bathroom and small sitting area, with easy access to the office. A back staircase leads to the single Porteno room. Exit through the garden door and you reach the Garden apartment, connected to, but separate from the main house. Double sliding doors ensure lots of light, whilst the garden setting provides total peace. It is at the large table in the garden here that I sit and write. A breeze rattles the leaves of the banana tree whilst red geraniums and hydrangeas add splashes of colour to dense green foliage that reaches over twenty feet above my head.

In the bario just paces away fresh fruit abounds at the corner shop, whilst diagonally across is El Gigon, a superb perilla serving the most divine steaks. On the other corner a pizza shop, and but two blocks to Campo dei Fiori where outstanding fresh pasta is served under the ancient domed brick ceilings by equally ancient waiters who started here as boys.

But now for tango. Saturday night is the night of Los Consagrados.

Buenos Aires is a city of milongas - the location where tango dances are held. Of the more traditional is Los Consagrados in Humberto Primo 1462. Those assiduous readers of my blog will recall my blog entry from 2010 in which I described an exhibition here of tango from Lucia y Gerry

We depart in limpid air as dusk arrives. The entrance way is grand, with metres of marble leading to a majestic staircase. Above the romantic notes of Lucia Demare are muffled by heavy curtains, beyond which the salon extends longways through a mirrored hall. Tables are filling, but we are booked as Vicki and Rob's guests, so separate according to convention to sit at reserved tables opposite across the room.

As a new tanda starts, prospective dancers search across the room for the cabeceo and mirada - the code  to identify a partner. Stephanie accepts my cabeceo for the first dance, and I cross to her table. She rises. We enter the pista. It is Calo, a deliciously expressive tango. As new dancers on the floor we attract inspection. Seated dancers assess the level of our skills and experience to determine whether they too will accept our cabeceo and mirada in forthcoming tandas.

Whether as guests of Vicki and Rob - veterans of Los Consagrados- or because we have just passed the test of initial inspection, we dance most tandas for the next two hours. It is clear that 'the embrace' is key. Get it right, and tango is effortless. Get it wrong - the dance is tough like stringy steak. Here the Portenos - local dancers - are unforgiving. The embrace must be close, gentle but safe, flexible but clear, sensitive, intimate but respectful. It is the door to connection. And with connection comes the perfect tanda.

Satiated with tango for one night, and fresh to Buenos Aires, we leave to eat; our destination being a loved pizza cafe in San Telmo where we will be greeted with hugs. Outside the milonga, the bario shines and gulps of warm air from an evening breeze refresh our faces. We slip our dance shoes across our shoulders and stroll hand in hand. Yes, we have arrived in Buenos Aires.

Barrister of 37 years is hotel manager for 3 months

Welcome to legal readers from https://stephentwist.wordpress.com/ and http://autortrail.blogspot.co.uk/. It is good to see you here.

This is a unique moment, when the readers of my camper and legal blogs meet those of the world of Argentine tango, and travel with me to Buenos Aires.

My trip, whilst unremarkable to tangueros, is a step into the unknown for my legal readers. Gone, the 'family court', to be repaced by the 'afternoon milonga'. Gone, the 'Ministry of Justice', to be replaced by the crazy structure of South American politics and the Ciudad Autonoma de Buenos Aires.

For legal readers, this is your chance to let go the day-to-day routine of the Bar or Solicitors' practice, and to taste a new world that rests somewhere between reality and imagination. No, you do not need to understand dance, let alone Argentine tango. You simply need to allow new breaths of a different air to enter your lungs, and let your your mind do the rest.

My next blog will be in December from Buenos Aires. Stay by, and subscribe. You may find that you are interested, and maybe surprised.

To my current readers, prepare yourselves for a new chapter of Buenos Aires life - its colour, the highs and lows, the glittering light, and the passing storms.

Welcome back.


copy from Stephen Twist Barrister Blog ↓


Thirty seven years of practice as a barrister must have an outcome. Silk; or judicial appointment to the High Court Bench? No.

A quiet fade-away into slippered retirement, wearing jazzy socks and carrying a secateurs? Not.

So, for what else, as professional life slips to a close, is an aging barrister qualified?

Those who know me know the answer without the help of this blog. Over the past nine years, fifteen months in Buenos Aires has told me about life, and the need to live it. It has incited me to dance Argentine tango – the tango walk, the moment, the giro, the embrace. So, when my friends said, “Come and look after Casa Luna while we are away”, the answer was a sudden and simple, yes.

Picture if you will, a warm balmy evening, the crickets cricketing across the paving stones, the soft sound of music drifting on night air, the lights low, a rustle in the trees where a slow draft of liquid air gently shakes glossy leaves. As we reach the steps to wide double doors, the music is defined as tango. Above, figures move in close embrace, feeling the dance and feeling life.

The orchestra strikes up a song from Di Sarli for a new tanda. I ‘cabeceo’ across the room to secure a mirada response from an unknown dance partner. She smiles. I walk. We meet at her table. She rises to dance. A passing tanguero nods for us to enter the pista. We embrace and we walk. I feel her weight, her balance, and the tenderness of her touch. I smell her perfume, and allow the infinite structure of the music to dictate the rest.

We dance the tanda of three songs, each taking us further and further into the moment of the dance, before the cortina indicates that we part. Light suffuses, our breathing synchronises, we experience that ‘melting moment’ of connection when dance becomes life, and life becomes dance. Deeper and deeper, until there is no more depth to explore. The music ceases. We stand for a moment before returning to her seat. This is the milonga of Buenos Aires. This is the magic of dance.

Seven thousand miles from England. But a million miles from legal practice on the North Eastern Circuit. Courts and clients fade to distant memory. ‘Not before 10.30 at Teesside Combined Court Centre’ ceases to have meaning. We leave the milonga at 6 am, a taxi awaits, it races through deserted streets until we reach our leafy bario, collecting media lunas (tiny sweet croissant) and brewing fresh coffee as the sun rises before another glorious balmy day.

So, there it is. Until April, Casa Luna, Buenos Aires shall be my home, a place filled with sunlight, and anchored with an embrace......