When I first came to Buenos Aires in 2007, Teatro Colón was closed for restoration. The outside of the theatre was entombed in scaffold and plastic, like a large badly wrapped parcel, water cascaded down the steps from under the wooden doors from massive internal cleaning, as if a bath had overflowed. So Teatro Colón was to remain a hidden secret, containing more hidden secrets just faintly illuminated by the guide book descriptions of its former splendour.
Amongst the top five opera houses in the world, Teatro Colón boasts some of the best acoustics for both theatre and opera. In this it is unique. The cornerstone for the current building was laid in 1889 and the theatre opened in 1908, at a time when massive immigration from Europe singled Argentina out as a distinct rival to the United States of America as one of the world's most prospering countries. The theatre was fabulously ambitious and seats nearly 2,500, making it larger than the Royal Opera House Covent Garden. Its restoration over four years, cost in excess of $100- million, involving 1,500 workers, including 130 architects and engineers. The scale of both the theatre and its restoration covered a staggering 60,000 square meters. So how could I resist the invitation to take a tour of this fascinating and hitherto unknown building.
We met at Galeria Güemes, an art nouveau edifice designed by Italian architect, Francesco Gianotti in the centre of Buenos Aires at Calle Florida 165. Galeria Güemes was to be the hors d'oeuvres for the main course of Teatro Colon. The internal doors open to the stairs and lifts soar in steel, bronze and brass detail up towards the huge glass domes way above. It scintillates with opulence and design, colour, beveled glass and sculpture. On the 4th floor, accessed from the second lift, I found Edda reading Marcel Proust's 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu' after her pilates class. Our walk to Teatro Colón represented a short stroll up Calle Lavalle and across Avenida Julio 9. Ahead was the theatre, like a large square palace positioned impressively beyond the 21st lane.
Edda had visited Teatro Colón previously, perhaps several times, and so was to be the perfect guide. Not only did she know about the theatre's history, but she had a sense of its place in history and the culture of the Portenos. After buying our tour tickets and meeting the official guide, we separated from the hub of the group so that I could enjoy Edda's bespoke denouement of the theatre's secrets in Edda's mix of English, French and Castillano.
Entry to the threatre is the first theatrical experience. The entrance hall is opulent beyond opulence, with pink, white and yellow marble from Italy and Portugal, mosaics from Venice, stained glass and mirrors from Paris, sculpture from Italian and Argentine artists and enough gold leaf to make the Bank of England shudder with envy. The ceilings rise to giddy heights surmounted by wonderful frescoes, some original, some restored. The furniture is contemporary with the construction of the threatre - from Paris. My musing was broken by Edda's beckoning as she lifted her skirts to skip up the white marble staircases leading up to the gallery before the auditorium. Here on the first floor was a gallery reminiscent of the best Loire palace, in length, in height, in depth, in glass, in light, in fabrics, in painting and in sculpture. But of course the best lay beyond. Edda walked behind me as I entered, her small light hands across my eyes so that I could not see what awaited. Not until we reached the front rail of the first gallery did she withdraw her blindfold. And there, ahead, spreading out across 2,000 seats in the richest red velvet, with 7 tiers of galleries from auditorium to ceiling, was the threatre. In a horse-shoe shape, the auditorium is surrounded by boxes comprising from 7 to 30 seats. Entry to each one is through wonderful heavy brocade fabric, pulled back and secured to form part of the threatre's acoustic. At the highest level way above the auditorium are seats surrounded by standing for 500 people who, for 30 pesos, would gaze down on the spendour of the threatre and capture glimpses of the stage. Beneath the theatre, extending way out below Avenida Julio 9 are the subteranean passages and rehearsal rooms, one 20 x 20 x 30 metres, the same dimensions as the stage. Above all is the cupola, a massive dome repainted in 1966 by the 20th century Argentine artist Raúl Soldi. It replaced the earlier painting which crashed to the floor following the pre-air conditioning habit of placing ice on the cupola to cool the threatre. And in the centre of the dome was a chandelier containing 700 light bulbs and weighing over 1.5 tons. It will bear the weight of a choir of 17 singers who replicate the ethereal voices from the heavens. Once I had taken in the scope and dimension of the theatre, I was again instructed by Edda to wait by the rail as she vanished through the brocade. A minute later she reappeared, this time in the President's box way over to the side of the stage, where she stepped forward dramatically, now her blonde hair pulled back like Eva Peron, to waive and to blow kisses to her people.
When we left to go out into the sunlight, the noise, the traffic and hubub of the city, Teatro Colón seemed almost like a dream, a secluded moment of fantastic opulence. Our next stop in 600 metres would be Cafe Paulin, Sarmiento 365, which my readers will recognise from last year's blog as the narrowest cafe in Buenos Aires, to sit upright on tall stools tightly pressed against the counter, to eat toastados and salad. Such are the contrasts of this wonderful city.
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Showing posts with label tango buenos aires. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tango buenos aires. Show all posts
Virginia Tola
Can you sense it? I have fallen in love! Two nights ago I spent the evening with a beautiful, sensual woman with whom I travelled to the stars and back. Her name is Virginia, and she was born in Santa Fe, Argentina. She is a singer. In fact, a soprano. Her voice is like silk drawn across skin, until she ascends in her almost unlimited register - when one's skin is covered with goose bumps, the silk flies on the wind, and one's heart reduced to jelly.
I have to admit that she and I were not alone, although when she looked penetratingly into my eyes, I felt that we were one. A supporting singer called Placido Domingo was also present for some of the time, as were 149,999 other opera lovers who were levered into 1 kilometre of 20 lanes of Avenida Julio 9th by Obelisco in the centre of Buenos Aires. This was one of the free concerts sponsored by the Capital Federal, attended by the average population of 10 square kilometres of the city. One week ago, Edda had queued for over two hours for the allotted two tickets. Clutching them, she returned to San Telmo triumphantly and waved them beneath my nose, telling me that if I did exactly as she asked, I could share her prize. So after my week of devoted attention, rewarded we made our way on the number 9 colectivo out across the furthest points of Avenidas Independencia, Belgrano, Mayo and Corrientes, arriving at Obelisco in the heart of the city.
Our tickets were in 'sector A' where we arrived 2 hours before the performance; but were still over 80 metres back from the stage. Ahead of us was space reserved for another guest and her friends, about which I will speak later. Alongside our seats were the speakers and huge screens that would be repeated as far as Avenida Cordoba. Once at our seats we stood to gaze across heads that extended behind us further than one could see. This was a pulsating, excited landscape of faces - every age of child to the elderly - from rich Portenos to cartoneros - all expectant - all waiting to witness the opportunity of lifetime - to enrich their lives with beautiful music.
As we sat, talked, and ate nuts coated in creamy toffee from a passing vendor, or occasionally rose to stroll, the hot day drew to a close, the blossom continued to drop from the trees, parakeets flew erratically in small formations to their roosts, and a light cool breeze stirred the air. Edda pulled her cashmere top over her arms and shared her shawl, draping it tenderly across my shoulders. Night began to settle, the ark lights came on and the screens burst into life. Just at that moment, the crowd began to rise, their arms waving in the air. The deafening sound of a helicopter sending whirring paper and leafs high into the sky signalled her arrival. Ahead of us, it touched down and we realised why we were positioned back from the stage. Cristina Kirchner, the President of Argentina, stepped down, just like Eva Peron, and the show was ready to proceed.
The crowd had little time for a half-hearted slow hand-clap before the conductor of the vast Orchestra de Colon entered stage right. The cacophany of tuning ceased and the orchestra launched into a rousing prelude. The crowd, many of whom had spent the day in the city centre for El Dia de la Memoria, 35 years after the abolition of the dictatorship, went silent as the still night air and the magic of the evening commenced.
It would be hard, and is unnecessary to list the pieces performed, or to speak of the richness and diversity of Placido Domingo's voice, shaped by years of character. His charisma needs no further embellishment from me, nor would his wonderful humorous performance be enhanced by my words. But when from the wings the slim body of the beautiful Virginia Tola entered the stage, a spell was spun that would capture each and every heart. For a moment she stood. The conductor looked carefully towards her to await her nod. 150,000 faces looked out with expectation. The orchestra strained awaiting her first note. My heart stood still. Her voice soared. Our lives and appreciation of the female voice were changed for ever. From that moment, in a tangled love afair between me, Virginia and Placido, I, along with thousands of souls, was transported in time and space - away from the crowd - the Obelisco - the gathering gloom - the cares of life: in sunlight, by rich textures, the bright cerise of her dress and the pure gold of her voice.
The varied programme comprised opera, operetta and the popular music of Buenos Aires. It was the latter which finally roused the crowd. 'Besame Mucho', formerly so cheesy, here brought the whole audience to their feet to sing and to hug, and Edda lifted her face towards mine and blew a kiss. It was over two hours later, when Placido and Virginia had sung their last tango and 'Querida Buenos Aires', that the realities of existence were to creep back from where they had been banished. The orchestra, during the second half of the concert conducted by Placido Domingo with an energy that stopped one's breath, took their last bow. The stars departed the stage and the double bass player lowered his stand. In my moment of disorientation, Edda looked searchingly into my face. "Are you alright?", she asked with care and concern. "I'll be fine", I rejoined - knowing that whilst swept by the crowd, arm in arm into Suipacha towards San Telmo, my heart would be pinned for ever to one of life's most magical musical memories.
I have to admit that she and I were not alone, although when she looked penetratingly into my eyes, I felt that we were one. A supporting singer called Placido Domingo was also present for some of the time, as were 149,999 other opera lovers who were levered into 1 kilometre of 20 lanes of Avenida Julio 9th by Obelisco in the centre of Buenos Aires. This was one of the free concerts sponsored by the Capital Federal, attended by the average population of 10 square kilometres of the city. One week ago, Edda had queued for over two hours for the allotted two tickets. Clutching them, she returned to San Telmo triumphantly and waved them beneath my nose, telling me that if I did exactly as she asked, I could share her prize. So after my week of devoted attention, rewarded we made our way on the number 9 colectivo out across the furthest points of Avenidas Independencia, Belgrano, Mayo and Corrientes, arriving at Obelisco in the heart of the city.
Our tickets were in 'sector A' where we arrived 2 hours before the performance; but were still over 80 metres back from the stage. Ahead of us was space reserved for another guest and her friends, about which I will speak later. Alongside our seats were the speakers and huge screens that would be repeated as far as Avenida Cordoba. Once at our seats we stood to gaze across heads that extended behind us further than one could see. This was a pulsating, excited landscape of faces - every age of child to the elderly - from rich Portenos to cartoneros - all expectant - all waiting to witness the opportunity of lifetime - to enrich their lives with beautiful music.
As we sat, talked, and ate nuts coated in creamy toffee from a passing vendor, or occasionally rose to stroll, the hot day drew to a close, the blossom continued to drop from the trees, parakeets flew erratically in small formations to their roosts, and a light cool breeze stirred the air. Edda pulled her cashmere top over her arms and shared her shawl, draping it tenderly across my shoulders. Night began to settle, the ark lights came on and the screens burst into life. Just at that moment, the crowd began to rise, their arms waving in the air. The deafening sound of a helicopter sending whirring paper and leafs high into the sky signalled her arrival. Ahead of us, it touched down and we realised why we were positioned back from the stage. Cristina Kirchner, the President of Argentina, stepped down, just like Eva Peron, and the show was ready to proceed.
The crowd had little time for a half-hearted slow hand-clap before the conductor of the vast Orchestra de Colon entered stage right. The cacophany of tuning ceased and the orchestra launched into a rousing prelude. The crowd, many of whom had spent the day in the city centre for El Dia de la Memoria, 35 years after the abolition of the dictatorship, went silent as the still night air and the magic of the evening commenced.
It would be hard, and is unnecessary to list the pieces performed, or to speak of the richness and diversity of Placido Domingo's voice, shaped by years of character. His charisma needs no further embellishment from me, nor would his wonderful humorous performance be enhanced by my words. But when from the wings the slim body of the beautiful Virginia Tola entered the stage, a spell was spun that would capture each and every heart. For a moment she stood. The conductor looked carefully towards her to await her nod. 150,000 faces looked out with expectation. The orchestra strained awaiting her first note. My heart stood still. Her voice soared. Our lives and appreciation of the female voice were changed for ever. From that moment, in a tangled love afair between me, Virginia and Placido, I, along with thousands of souls, was transported in time and space - away from the crowd - the Obelisco - the gathering gloom - the cares of life: in sunlight, by rich textures, the bright cerise of her dress and the pure gold of her voice.
The varied programme comprised opera, operetta and the popular music of Buenos Aires. It was the latter which finally roused the crowd. 'Besame Mucho', formerly so cheesy, here brought the whole audience to their feet to sing and to hug, and Edda lifted her face towards mine and blew a kiss. It was over two hours later, when Placido and Virginia had sung their last tango and 'Querida Buenos Aires', that the realities of existence were to creep back from where they had been banished. The orchestra, during the second half of the concert conducted by Placido Domingo with an energy that stopped one's breath, took their last bow. The stars departed the stage and the double bass player lowered his stand. In my moment of disorientation, Edda looked searchingly into my face. "Are you alright?", she asked with care and concern. "I'll be fine", I rejoined - knowing that whilst swept by the crowd, arm in arm into Suipacha towards San Telmo, my heart would be pinned for ever to one of life's most magical musical memories.
Late Summer in Buenos Aires
Whilst at Flor de Milonga, the bohemian tango event run by my friends Lucia and Gerry, I felt it. The tall doors were open leading to balconies above the busy street of Independencia, and the fans stirred the air; yet there was a weight that came from the heat and humidity. Dancers drifted from the milonga pista towards the night air to catch the last remnants of a breeze. The energy that was Buenos Aires at night seemed to soften. Then, during the night came the rain, heavy, almost unbearably as it cut through the hot humidity, first fizzing on the broken pavements, then washing them in rivulets and streams. Now, as I sit and write, the morning light is grey and the cloud low. This does not portend well for Placido Domingo's open air concert at Obelisco tonight. Preparations started over two weeks ago, with huge stands, barriers and rows of folding chairs set out over four acres of Avendia 9 de Julio, the 20 lane road that disects the Capital Federal. I suspect that they will remain empty whilst the set will be like a grounded ship in a sea of puddles.
Over the last two weeks Buenos Aires has been sumptuous in sunshine, crystal light and positive energy. It is hard to imagine that late March means the approach of autumn. But across the city, the Jacaranda trees have started to float in pools of blossom as the flowers fell to the ground, mirroring the bright pink canopy. This should have been the sign, and probably was to the Portenos of Buenos Aires. A further sign was the need to pull the thin cotton sheet from the foot of the bed to give comfort as the cool night air breathed through the shutters here in El Sol.
So the season matures and prepares to pass. I sense my last three weeks have started to carry me to my return to Europe. Now, as I listen to the falling rain and the colectivos splashing past, England seems not so distant. Olivia has just passed my door wearing a large plastic sack that sticks to her long, slim, shapely legs, but does not distract from her winning smile as she calls to me. El Sol's roof patio is deserted, save for Delphine preparing breakfast and slipping quickly back to her room. We are like the Jacaranda flowers, still blooming but preparing for the fall back to another reality and our navigation in a world of change.
Over the last two weeks Buenos Aires has been sumptuous in sunshine, crystal light and positive energy. It is hard to imagine that late March means the approach of autumn. But across the city, the Jacaranda trees have started to float in pools of blossom as the flowers fell to the ground, mirroring the bright pink canopy. This should have been the sign, and probably was to the Portenos of Buenos Aires. A further sign was the need to pull the thin cotton sheet from the foot of the bed to give comfort as the cool night air breathed through the shutters here in El Sol.
So the season matures and prepares to pass. I sense my last three weeks have started to carry me to my return to Europe. Now, as I listen to the falling rain and the colectivos splashing past, England seems not so distant. Olivia has just passed my door wearing a large plastic sack that sticks to her long, slim, shapely legs, but does not distract from her winning smile as she calls to me. El Sol's roof patio is deserted, save for Delphine preparing breakfast and slipping quickly back to her room. We are like the Jacaranda flowers, still blooming but preparing for the fall back to another reality and our navigation in a world of change.
Cafe life
I am sitting alone in a cafe here in San Telmo. The day is bright and sunny. Rather than the pavement table, I have chosen one by the open window, the casement pushed high and I rest my right elbow on the window ledge so the sun catches my sleeve. Jackie, the waitress smiled a beam, just like the morning sunshine, and without a word exchanged, returned with cafe con leche, two media lunas and a tiny glass of sparking water. She also must have sensed my hunger as the media lunas were joined by two small squares of cake, little gifts that sometimes accompany an unaccompanied coffee.
Today the light is special in the way in which it flashes - with the occasional high passing cloud, and the windows of the passing colectivos. Whilst the city council has sought to address the plumes of diesel smoke emanating from their engines, they have not got on top of the sound. I hear them approach, their engines whine, the brakes squeal, the doors bang, and the gear change is many decibels too late as they scream away from the bus stop. The one opposite as I note is decorated inside with mirrors and plush blinds at the windscreen; the control panel is covered in simulated fur. The driver adds to the noise with his transistor radio that is playing tango. It is now departing with a flurry of activity, and as it shakes and screams off, there are more flashes of light from a dozen rattling windows and the eyes of crowding, standing passengers.
Here inside the cafe is relatively peaceful. The oak panels are dark as are the table tops which display large paper placemats and a chrome container of the most fragile tissues bearing the cafe logo. The cafe con leche is hot and strong, and the media lunas deceptively sweet. I dip one into my coffee and taste Buenos Aires. I sip the sparkling water, which effervesces on my tongue and gives intensity to the coffee. Around me, just as in the street outside, is all of San Telmo society - the tradesmen, the tourists, the shop workers, the street workers, the lovers, the retired, simply meeting to chat.
It tells me what I most miss about Buenos Aires when I return to England. It is the natural contact between people who live to share their thoughts, views, worries and delights. I watch the touches, the smiles, the caresses, the gestures and the kiss. Opposite, two elderly men rise from their table, their small cups of cortado empty, and they hug - an embrace that speaks of parting with respect and affection, of shared past and wishes for the future. It is both strong and tender, and utterly un-self conscious. In leading our lives, we still have a lot to learn from other cultures, connections and ages. Perhaps now is the time to put away the the cyber contact and to feel something real. So, as you close my blog today, sense the hug like a breath and feel the value of something very real.
Today the light is special in the way in which it flashes - with the occasional high passing cloud, and the windows of the passing colectivos. Whilst the city council has sought to address the plumes of diesel smoke emanating from their engines, they have not got on top of the sound. I hear them approach, their engines whine, the brakes squeal, the doors bang, and the gear change is many decibels too late as they scream away from the bus stop. The one opposite as I note is decorated inside with mirrors and plush blinds at the windscreen; the control panel is covered in simulated fur. The driver adds to the noise with his transistor radio that is playing tango. It is now departing with a flurry of activity, and as it shakes and screams off, there are more flashes of light from a dozen rattling windows and the eyes of crowding, standing passengers.
Here inside the cafe is relatively peaceful. The oak panels are dark as are the table tops which display large paper placemats and a chrome container of the most fragile tissues bearing the cafe logo. The cafe con leche is hot and strong, and the media lunas deceptively sweet. I dip one into my coffee and taste Buenos Aires. I sip the sparkling water, which effervesces on my tongue and gives intensity to the coffee. Around me, just as in the street outside, is all of San Telmo society - the tradesmen, the tourists, the shop workers, the street workers, the lovers, the retired, simply meeting to chat.
It tells me what I most miss about Buenos Aires when I return to England. It is the natural contact between people who live to share their thoughts, views, worries and delights. I watch the touches, the smiles, the caresses, the gestures and the kiss. Opposite, two elderly men rise from their table, their small cups of cortado empty, and they hug - an embrace that speaks of parting with respect and affection, of shared past and wishes for the future. It is both strong and tender, and utterly un-self conscious. In leading our lives, we still have a lot to learn from other cultures, connections and ages. Perhaps now is the time to put away the the cyber contact and to feel something real. So, as you close my blog today, sense the hug like a breath and feel the value of something very real.
Temazcal
In glorious summer sunshine, days have a habit of slipping quietly into weeks; and so it is since I last wrote on my blog. But today, there is something very special to tell you. So, sit up and listen to my latest tale.
Eva and I met on the corner of Humberto Primo and Chacabuco. She is to visit her friends Hippolato y Katerina and I have been invited. Before we met, her instruction to me was to bring a towel, wear little, and be prepared to strip. My mind flashed, as it would, over roof-top swimming pools or sun-drenched beaches, but such are rather rare here in Buenos Aires. So tonight was to be a surprise and I did as instructed.
The carnival bands were already meeting up, with city buses decanting dancers and singers into Chacabuco for the short walk through to San Juan. They were gaudy and noisy, with loud shouts, trumpets, and drums. Carnival seems to last continuously from February through to March, with parades and pagents, and drumming through to the early hours of the morning. Yes, you need to be young at heart to survive carnival.
But as the dancers gather, we slip by, to stop at an almost invisible doorway set back in Chacabuco. Eva presses the bell and after what seems an age, Hippolato arrives to give us entry down the long, wide, green corridor that leads to small apartments occupied by the poorer families of San Telmo. Hippolato is not tall, but his strong Mexican Indian features draw the eye, as does the way he moves. He is like a cat, pinching the ground as he walks, his long jet black hair tied into a tail which flows as he walks, just as his loose Indian trousers catch the slight breeze.We quickly arrive at double doors that lead to a small enclosed court yard. And there is the secret of the evening: the temazcal.
Here, I suspect that I need to hold your hand. A temazcal is a Mexican sauna. Hippolato has already woven slim bamboo canes into a structure that resembles something between a tepee and an igloo. It is low, with a circular frame, sufficient to seat four, and a domed roof that rises from the tiled floor. In the corner of the court yard are animal skin to seal the temazcal, and a brazier of hot rocks. These are volcanic stones from Popocapteptl and are glowing white hot.
We greet. Katerina, Hippolato's young wife holds their baby who beams on the arrival of strangers. Water and fresh fruit are offered and we sit on chairs and stools to watch the last points of construction of the temazcal. Now Hippolato seals it, with heavy rocks to hold the skins and large sheets of plastic thrown over to contain the humidity. Gently, we are invited to leave our clothes to be cleansed with incense vapours which rise from a hot rock placed in a large goblet. Each of us in turn is covered in gentle swirls of aromas, and then invited into the temazcal. We sit on towels and the hot rocks follow us, piled by the doorway straight onto the tiled floor. In one corner is a large bowl of basil; in another, a flask of hot anise water which will be spashed from a large bunch of basil leaves over the hot rocks causing scalding aromatic steam to rise and fill the structure.
As the temazcal commences, Hippolato incants mother earth and thanks her for her blessings.
“Agua mi sangre, Tierra mi cuerpo, Aire mi aliento, Y Fuego mi espíritu.” “Water my blood, Earth my body, Air my breath, And Fire my Spirit.”
The moment is charged with energy. Silence falls as the temperature soars. Now the only sound is of Katerina's baby suckling. His first temazcal was at the age to 9 weeks, so he is a veteran, whilst Eva and hold our knees, feeling the humidity rise, tasting the basil and fennel at the back of our throats in a wonderfully hot and pleasurable process. With more water, further clouds of scalding aromatic steam rise into the tepee and the temperature and humidity rise. The incantation was accompanied by songs and blessings; the process being repeated three times over about an hour, with a short moment of fresh cool air whilst the hot stones were refreshed. When the heat gets too strong, we take handfuls of basil leaves and hold them to our noses, or press them against our bodies. It is totally fabulous as an experience and also as a sensation. Afterwards we take a cool shower and, still naked, feast in the court yard on cheese, olives, home made sun-dried tomatoes, bread and water.
Later,Eva and I return, rising up Chacabuco towards the sound of the carnival. We have left our green oasis and walk towards the bustle of San Telmo. Our skin feels soft and our faces fresh, our step is light. Parting, we return to our private worlds, but feel changed. This experience has been both physical and spiritual - yet another step along the wonderful, wild and free journey of life in Argentina and South America.
Eva and I met on the corner of Humberto Primo and Chacabuco. She is to visit her friends Hippolato y Katerina and I have been invited. Before we met, her instruction to me was to bring a towel, wear little, and be prepared to strip. My mind flashed, as it would, over roof-top swimming pools or sun-drenched beaches, but such are rather rare here in Buenos Aires. So tonight was to be a surprise and I did as instructed.
The carnival bands were already meeting up, with city buses decanting dancers and singers into Chacabuco for the short walk through to San Juan. They were gaudy and noisy, with loud shouts, trumpets, and drums. Carnival seems to last continuously from February through to March, with parades and pagents, and drumming through to the early hours of the morning. Yes, you need to be young at heart to survive carnival.
But as the dancers gather, we slip by, to stop at an almost invisible doorway set back in Chacabuco. Eva presses the bell and after what seems an age, Hippolato arrives to give us entry down the long, wide, green corridor that leads to small apartments occupied by the poorer families of San Telmo. Hippolato is not tall, but his strong Mexican Indian features draw the eye, as does the way he moves. He is like a cat, pinching the ground as he walks, his long jet black hair tied into a tail which flows as he walks, just as his loose Indian trousers catch the slight breeze.We quickly arrive at double doors that lead to a small enclosed court yard. And there is the secret of the evening: the temazcal.
Here, I suspect that I need to hold your hand. A temazcal is a Mexican sauna. Hippolato has already woven slim bamboo canes into a structure that resembles something between a tepee and an igloo. It is low, with a circular frame, sufficient to seat four, and a domed roof that rises from the tiled floor. In the corner of the court yard are animal skin to seal the temazcal, and a brazier of hot rocks. These are volcanic stones from Popocapteptl and are glowing white hot.
We greet. Katerina, Hippolato's young wife holds their baby who beams on the arrival of strangers. Water and fresh fruit are offered and we sit on chairs and stools to watch the last points of construction of the temazcal. Now Hippolato seals it, with heavy rocks to hold the skins and large sheets of plastic thrown over to contain the humidity. Gently, we are invited to leave our clothes to be cleansed with incense vapours which rise from a hot rock placed in a large goblet. Each of us in turn is covered in gentle swirls of aromas, and then invited into the temazcal. We sit on towels and the hot rocks follow us, piled by the doorway straight onto the tiled floor. In one corner is a large bowl of basil; in another, a flask of hot anise water which will be spashed from a large bunch of basil leaves over the hot rocks causing scalding aromatic steam to rise and fill the structure.
As the temazcal commences, Hippolato incants mother earth and thanks her for her blessings.
“Agua mi sangre, Tierra mi cuerpo, Aire mi aliento, Y Fuego mi espíritu.” “Water my blood, Earth my body, Air my breath, And Fire my Spirit.”
The moment is charged with energy. Silence falls as the temperature soars. Now the only sound is of Katerina's baby suckling. His first temazcal was at the age to 9 weeks, so he is a veteran, whilst Eva and hold our knees, feeling the humidity rise, tasting the basil and fennel at the back of our throats in a wonderfully hot and pleasurable process. With more water, further clouds of scalding aromatic steam rise into the tepee and the temperature and humidity rise. The incantation was accompanied by songs and blessings; the process being repeated three times over about an hour, with a short moment of fresh cool air whilst the hot stones were refreshed. When the heat gets too strong, we take handfuls of basil leaves and hold them to our noses, or press them against our bodies. It is totally fabulous as an experience and also as a sensation. Afterwards we take a cool shower and, still naked, feast in the court yard on cheese, olives, home made sun-dried tomatoes, bread and water.
Later,Eva and I return, rising up Chacabuco towards the sound of the carnival. We have left our green oasis and walk towards the bustle of San Telmo. Our skin feels soft and our faces fresh, our step is light. Parting, we return to our private worlds, but feel changed. This experience has been both physical and spiritual - yet another step along the wonderful, wild and free journey of life in Argentina and South America.
Sunday afternoon in Plaza Dorrego
Of course you know Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo. Everyone does. It is at the foot of Defensa. If you visit Buenos Aires it is one of the essential visits, whether as a tourist, a traveller or a tango dancer. You will recall from my earlier blogs the street atmosphere of Defensa, the street through San Telmo that is pedestrianised on Sundays to make way for the traders, performers, touts and tourists. The whole length of Defensa is transformed into a microcosm of city life, an ants nest of activity which to the observer seems like disorder. But each person has their place - the street performers who perspire in the hot Sunday sunshine, the police officer who leans lazily in the shadows to smoke a cigarette, the baker parking his cycle laidan with churrios, the tourists who pull notes from a thousand wallets to buy their gifts for loved ones at home.
When I arrive, the sun has already started to sink behind the roofs of San Telmo, and the narrow streets are gathering a night-fall gloom. Lights now twinkle, and the hustle of the day settles into the wind-down of the evening. Traders are packing up, and pushing away folded stalls on handcarts. The wheels rumble on the cobbles. I sit in a street side café with Anemone sipping strong beer and talking about her 1400k journey alone through Argentina. The waiter returns and bows with the bill. Anemone seems to have this effect on men; one of deferential appreciation.
We are not here simply to drink beer, but to dance. Music is drifting from the plaza, competing with the other San Telmo sounds, like a busy orchestra tuning. We walk to the square, our arms linked so that Anemone can protect her valued heels. The open air milonga is under-way. A large crowd of spectators is gathered around handfuls of dancers who take small, delicate steps on the recently laid and non-to-easy flooring. Pedro "El Indio" Benavente organises this milonga, providing the sound system and the floor, together with his commentaries and glorious music. He is tall for an Argentine, handsome with dark hair pulled into a pony tail.
We join the floor and nod to Don Bernabe who is the senior milonguero. His acknowledgement is the seal of approval that says "Yes, you are welcome if you dance in a straight line and observe the codigios". For Anemone and I this is our first dance together. She is beautiful and draws the eyes of the crowd. I take her into my embrace in which unusually for her, she is able to dance tall. We settle and wait. I initiate a change of weight and then our first step. Two bodies are to be one on Plaza Dorrego and I am to be a happy man. The dance has a feeling of ease, our stride evenly matched, our weight equally balanced and our intention seamlessly directed in unity. I sense that the crowded floor opens ever-so-slightly for us as we progress and I note the envious looks on the faces of the tangueras watching her feet as they wait to dance. We create a romantic dream, parting reality and fantasy to embody the possibilities of tango.
We dance until Chacarera interrupts the tango. Now local dancers claim the floor for two songs of folk music and dance. Here is energy, a dance of flirtation and conquest. Compared with tango it is explosive and totally intentional. Involving turns, display and courting, it culminates in the possibility of a kiss. The boys who secure a partner for Chacarera rush to become men, the girls who start the dance complete it as women. It is impossible to be ambivalent about chacarera; it is the exciting life-blood of the Argentine mating game.
It is now getting late to eat, so we slope with friends down Bolivar to Horacios' cafe. Horacio is simply the 'Moso'- waiter, but he embodies all of the character of San Telmo, slim, artesan with curly hair and the voice of performance. A visit is not necessarily for the food, but for the essential and unique atmosphere of this family owned café. Mother waits in the day, and her son cooks by night. Horacio, adopted by the restaurant as a boy, is still here as a man. He greets each customer as brother, sister, father or mother and describes the simple food in such terms that choice is almost impossible. Then, without warning he will smile and come to the rescue, "I would try the bife, Mister, it is, how do we say....delicious!", and the decision is made.
We leave as the streets are almost empty. Anemone and her friends seek an illusive taxi back to Palermo, and I part with an embrace to stroll, clutching my dance shoes, back to Chacabuco and Fabrizio's. As I turn the corner into Humberto Primo it is like leaving a glitzy show, a performance of life, where colour and music blend with movement and aspiration. Now is the moment to reflect on the true hues of Buenos Aires and the possibilities of tango in San Telmo.
Confiteria Ideal
If you have not heard of Confiteria Ideal you have not heard of tango.
Today it has rained. The huge clap of thunder this morning signalled a gorgeous downpour that cleaned the air and washed the streets. Only afterwards did the pair of blackbirds start to sing, and steam rose from the evaporating pavements. After a light lunch of avocado, bread and soft cheese - with home made chimichurri vinaigrette, I strolled out through San Telmo, crossing Av de Mayo at the centre of the city and turning right into Suipacha. There at 380 is Confiteria Ideal. The entrance is imposing in a lost century way. The cafe dates back to 1912 and is in the Parisian fashion of 'glittering splendour'. Manuel Rosendo Fernandez was its founder and his beautiful French wife was its inspiration. The tea room is on the ground floor, with marble, mirrors, wrought iron and dark wood panels. Between the tables, set with white starched cloths, is a sense of space - as if at any moment this place could evaporate in time like the earlier rain. It is faded elegance at its best.
I do not linger at the ground level, but follow the turned marble staircase and music. Above is a large, airy salon, the floor again marble, surrounded by tables set with red cloths. The first impression for the Argentine tango dancer is that one has either come home or gone to heaven. There is a quality to the atmosphere which says, "You will leave this place but it will always be within you". My hosts are Rudi and Linde who have arrived early to dance and secured the best table with the support of the best waiter at the head of the room, where I join them. We embrace and sit together sipping chilled sparkling water. It is 3,00 pm and small handful of elegant dancers grace the floor for Diego Alvaro y Zoraida Fontclara’s afternoon milonga. I prepare to test my new dance shoes.
For the cynical tangueros amongst you who may read this blog, I have to correct one thing. Despite the presence of tourists (now the life-blood of tango here in Buenos Aires), Confiteria Ideal is still unsurpassed as a venue for dancing. The floor is large, the room cooled by fans rather than chilled by air conditioning, and the music soft and lyrical. Here are exquisite dancers of all ages who take joy in dance. If your experience of Ideal is not of the best, visit on a Friday afternoon before mid April each year, and accept my cabeceo. Together we will weave the dream afresh to restore your faith in dancing in this place.
Today it has rained. The huge clap of thunder this morning signalled a gorgeous downpour that cleaned the air and washed the streets. Only afterwards did the pair of blackbirds start to sing, and steam rose from the evaporating pavements. After a light lunch of avocado, bread and soft cheese - with home made chimichurri vinaigrette, I strolled out through San Telmo, crossing Av de Mayo at the centre of the city and turning right into Suipacha. There at 380 is Confiteria Ideal. The entrance is imposing in a lost century way. The cafe dates back to 1912 and is in the Parisian fashion of 'glittering splendour'. Manuel Rosendo Fernandez was its founder and his beautiful French wife was its inspiration. The tea room is on the ground floor, with marble, mirrors, wrought iron and dark wood panels. Between the tables, set with white starched cloths, is a sense of space - as if at any moment this place could evaporate in time like the earlier rain. It is faded elegance at its best.
I do not linger at the ground level, but follow the turned marble staircase and music. Above is a large, airy salon, the floor again marble, surrounded by tables set with red cloths. The first impression for the Argentine tango dancer is that one has either come home or gone to heaven. There is a quality to the atmosphere which says, "You will leave this place but it will always be within you". My hosts are Rudi and Linde who have arrived early to dance and secured the best table with the support of the best waiter at the head of the room, where I join them. We embrace and sit together sipping chilled sparkling water. It is 3,00 pm and small handful of elegant dancers grace the floor for Diego Alvaro y Zoraida Fontclara’s afternoon milonga. I prepare to test my new dance shoes.
For the cynical tangueros amongst you who may read this blog, I have to correct one thing. Despite the presence of tourists (now the life-blood of tango here in Buenos Aires), Confiteria Ideal is still unsurpassed as a venue for dancing. The floor is large, the room cooled by fans rather than chilled by air conditioning, and the music soft and lyrical. Here are exquisite dancers of all ages who take joy in dance. If your experience of Ideal is not of the best, visit on a Friday afternoon before mid April each year, and accept my cabeceo. Together we will weave the dream afresh to restore your faith in dancing in this place.
Club Gricel Thursday night
I left you, my dear reader, as I left the terrace here at El Sol de San Telmo to prepare for a night of dancing at Club Gricel. This was to be only my second visit to Gricel, the first being back in 2007 when Anna and her Danish companions invited me to join them for an evening of indulgent tango. You will recall, on that occasion, my steps at Gricel were somewhat faltering, but were later improved by champagne whilst dancing until sunrise on the roof of Anna's downtown hotel.
I decided that I would walk off the effects of my glorious pizza from Moderna at the corner of Chacabuco y Humberto Primo by taking the straight route from Chacabuco to La Rioja. For those who do not like walking, first, do not come to Buenos Aires, and second, do not attempt this journey. But for me it was an adventure to skirt the barios of Monserrat, San Cristobal and the dangerous Constiucion. Proceeding west on San Juan, one leaves the comfort of familiar streets to pass along the principal Avendia that separates the coping from the poor. To the north is a recognisable Buenos Aires, to the south is the area that Portenos tend to shun and tourists never see.
As I pass along the Avendia, local families are sitting on the steps to their homes, drinking in the night air despite the passing traffic. Outside the caged shop fronts, I smell a whiff of cannabis and to my right see the local youths have taken over the garage forecourt as a makeshift football pitch. Gradually, the full parillas give way to cafes, and the crisp linen table cloths gives way to shiny plastic. The walk is a brisk 35 minutes when La Rioja appears as if from nowhere and presents a left turn to the shabby doors of Club Gricel. It is now 25 pesos to enter the milonga (currently about £4.50). I wait inside the door to be shown to a table. The organiser does this personally after a handshake and brief words of welcome. I am placed at at table with other men, all mature and clearly regular dancers here. Club Gricel does not operate a segregation of men and women, so to my left and right the regular dancers are seated, in order of precedence, the older more venerated, and the exceptional dancers claiming floor-side tables. I settle, having changed my shoes in the entrance way, order still water (8 pesos) from a passing waitress, and examine the dancers. Here the trick is to wait. Do not act in haste. Watch and learn the codigios of the milonga, identify dancers who may be available to your cabeceo, and only then secure a dance.
Behind me is a dancer of considerable experience who returns to her seat. I wait. As the first dance of the tanda starts she has not accepted an invitation. As the next song starts I turn and catch her glance. She nods, I rise, I invite and she accompanies me towards the dance floor where she accepts my embrace. This is the design point for the whole tanda, where dances are made or lost. She settles into my arms and the music does the rest. Dancing with her is an easy delight, unhurried and savoring moments both of movement and of stillness. The floor is crowded so there is no room for bold moves; nor would these be appropriate at Gricel, one of the more traditional milongas. At the conclusion of each song we wait for the next, and the dancers to take up their embraces and start to move. These moments are intended for small talk, which I avoid. I have come to dance and not to question my partners. Again, we settle into the embrace, this time with the familiarity of having completed a first dance, and slip into a stream of dancers who describe little pools of life and connection.
Later, I catch Suzie's eye. She has been dancing with the local milongueros, so I start with trepidation. Our first couple of dances are somewhat stiff, but then, with a breath, we relax into each other's arms and pulse with the energy of dance. It is now evident that we are well matched, she is taller than the average tanguera, and slim, her long legs taking what I lead in her stride. Later, she returns to her milongueros and I have some lovely dances with both local women and tango visitors. Suzie and I come together for a final dance in which we melt into the floor, and after to a passing taxi to be whisked back down San Juan to Chacabuco and El Sol, where I depart, leaving Suzie to complete her journey to Park Lezame.
I decided that I would walk off the effects of my glorious pizza from Moderna at the corner of Chacabuco y Humberto Primo by taking the straight route from Chacabuco to La Rioja. For those who do not like walking, first, do not come to Buenos Aires, and second, do not attempt this journey. But for me it was an adventure to skirt the barios of Monserrat, San Cristobal and the dangerous Constiucion. Proceeding west on San Juan, one leaves the comfort of familiar streets to pass along the principal Avendia that separates the coping from the poor. To the north is a recognisable Buenos Aires, to the south is the area that Portenos tend to shun and tourists never see.
As I pass along the Avendia, local families are sitting on the steps to their homes, drinking in the night air despite the passing traffic. Outside the caged shop fronts, I smell a whiff of cannabis and to my right see the local youths have taken over the garage forecourt as a makeshift football pitch. Gradually, the full parillas give way to cafes, and the crisp linen table cloths gives way to shiny plastic. The walk is a brisk 35 minutes when La Rioja appears as if from nowhere and presents a left turn to the shabby doors of Club Gricel. It is now 25 pesos to enter the milonga (currently about £4.50). I wait inside the door to be shown to a table. The organiser does this personally after a handshake and brief words of welcome. I am placed at at table with other men, all mature and clearly regular dancers here. Club Gricel does not operate a segregation of men and women, so to my left and right the regular dancers are seated, in order of precedence, the older more venerated, and the exceptional dancers claiming floor-side tables. I settle, having changed my shoes in the entrance way, order still water (8 pesos) from a passing waitress, and examine the dancers. Here the trick is to wait. Do not act in haste. Watch and learn the codigios of the milonga, identify dancers who may be available to your cabeceo, and only then secure a dance.
Behind me is a dancer of considerable experience who returns to her seat. I wait. As the first dance of the tanda starts she has not accepted an invitation. As the next song starts I turn and catch her glance. She nods, I rise, I invite and she accompanies me towards the dance floor where she accepts my embrace. This is the design point for the whole tanda, where dances are made or lost. She settles into my arms and the music does the rest. Dancing with her is an easy delight, unhurried and savoring moments both of movement and of stillness. The floor is crowded so there is no room for bold moves; nor would these be appropriate at Gricel, one of the more traditional milongas. At the conclusion of each song we wait for the next, and the dancers to take up their embraces and start to move. These moments are intended for small talk, which I avoid. I have come to dance and not to question my partners. Again, we settle into the embrace, this time with the familiarity of having completed a first dance, and slip into a stream of dancers who describe little pools of life and connection.
Later, I catch Suzie's eye. She has been dancing with the local milongueros, so I start with trepidation. Our first couple of dances are somewhat stiff, but then, with a breath, we relax into each other's arms and pulse with the energy of dance. It is now evident that we are well matched, she is taller than the average tanguera, and slim, her long legs taking what I lead in her stride. Later, she returns to her milongueros and I have some lovely dances with both local women and tango visitors. Suzie and I come together for a final dance in which we melt into the floor, and after to a passing taxi to be whisked back down San Juan to Chacabuco and El Sol, where I depart, leaving Suzie to complete her journey to Park Lezame.
Chacabuco 1181 and roof life
I am here on the terrace of Fabrizio's in Chacabuco, San Telmo. It is really the roof rather than a terrace, with terracotta tiles which soak up the late morning sun and radiate soft light. Liberally and strategically placed across the roof are large tubs containing plants and trees, some reaching up to 15 feet in height, positioned to make bowers of green and gold. The sparrow now hops from tree to bower and descends to the terrace long enough to inspect the small trail of ants that carry fragments of leaves shredded from an nearby plant. He spots Astor, Fabrizio's cat and flutters to the safety of a cypress.
After last night in this very place on the terrace, where Fabrizio entertained a handful of his departing Australian dance students with many handfuls of empanadas and more bottles of wine, an event which he generously asked me to join, I am sensing a leisurely day in which I fancy doing nothing but sitting, watching and writing. It seems that have much opportunity. Fabrizio is providing entertainment on the next stage of the roof, inspecting and maintaining his creation. It is a solar water system, that appears to involve many meters of pipework, threaded with plastic water bottles to create polytunnels to heat the water as it returns to the roof-top tank. How ingenious, and costing a fraction of the commercial price, which would of course be un-affordable here. Whilst he works, I sit and sip my fresh coffee, glancing up to experience the return of Delphine, young, beautiful, fresh and French, wearing a simple black dress that shows her youthful figure. She edits films in Paris and has taken four months away to dance tango, learn Castillano, perform yoga, party and sleep. On meeting, curiously I feel at home in her company. We sit together and chat, in French and in English. And then she departs for her Spanish class, I exhale and catch Fabrizio's watching eye. My coffee is now cold, but I still find it strangely warming.
At the end of the terrace is a simple summer house, constructed in plywood with a plastic sheet roof. This is Fabrizio's summer home, from which he will return to the house as the autumn draws in and the guests leave. Vanessa is a midwife, but presents as a 19 year old college girl with a winning smile. Not speaking English, our short conversations are entirely visual with smiles and gestures. She dances Zouk, and Fabrizio is the reigning Zouk king. Perhaps before I leave, tempted with sufficient bottles of Malbec, we may be able to persuade them to dance an exhibition for us? Here on the roof, anything seems to be possible.
Those of you who followed my previous blogs will remember Iguassu. Yes, you principally know it as the world famous waterfalls that dramatically separate Argentina from Brasil, but I know it as the terrace waterfall, six feet in height, built in layered slate. As I sit, water cascades its full length into the circular lily pond beneath. In the proportions of the terrace, it is a dramatic feature, and one in which now my sparrow delights as it bathes and drinks the cool, clear water flowing from a ledge. Like the true Iguassu it now separates the sparrow from the cat. Squinting at it through reflected sunlight, it has the character of a ecological mountain down which disparate streams flow, to join, separate, and fall before disappearing into the lily pool.
I now pull myself together and back to the present. Which stream of life shall I follow today? Will it involve tango? Will it take me to dance, to join and separate at the end of a tanda, fall and eventually disappear into the pool of life? Like so much here in Buenos Aires, the answer arrives as the question is asked. My Galaxy tab tings and I have one message: "Meet at Club Gricel tonight, La Rioja 1180, dancing til dawn, Suzie"
After last night in this very place on the terrace, where Fabrizio entertained a handful of his departing Australian dance students with many handfuls of empanadas and more bottles of wine, an event which he generously asked me to join, I am sensing a leisurely day in which I fancy doing nothing but sitting, watching and writing. It seems that have much opportunity. Fabrizio is providing entertainment on the next stage of the roof, inspecting and maintaining his creation. It is a solar water system, that appears to involve many meters of pipework, threaded with plastic water bottles to create polytunnels to heat the water as it returns to the roof-top tank. How ingenious, and costing a fraction of the commercial price, which would of course be un-affordable here. Whilst he works, I sit and sip my fresh coffee, glancing up to experience the return of Delphine, young, beautiful, fresh and French, wearing a simple black dress that shows her youthful figure. She edits films in Paris and has taken four months away to dance tango, learn Castillano, perform yoga, party and sleep. On meeting, curiously I feel at home in her company. We sit together and chat, in French and in English. And then she departs for her Spanish class, I exhale and catch Fabrizio's watching eye. My coffee is now cold, but I still find it strangely warming.
At the end of the terrace is a simple summer house, constructed in plywood with a plastic sheet roof. This is Fabrizio's summer home, from which he will return to the house as the autumn draws in and the guests leave. Vanessa is a midwife, but presents as a 19 year old college girl with a winning smile. Not speaking English, our short conversations are entirely visual with smiles and gestures. She dances Zouk, and Fabrizio is the reigning Zouk king. Perhaps before I leave, tempted with sufficient bottles of Malbec, we may be able to persuade them to dance an exhibition for us? Here on the roof, anything seems to be possible.
Those of you who followed my previous blogs will remember Iguassu. Yes, you principally know it as the world famous waterfalls that dramatically separate Argentina from Brasil, but I know it as the terrace waterfall, six feet in height, built in layered slate. As I sit, water cascades its full length into the circular lily pond beneath. In the proportions of the terrace, it is a dramatic feature, and one in which now my sparrow delights as it bathes and drinks the cool, clear water flowing from a ledge. Like the true Iguassu it now separates the sparrow from the cat. Squinting at it through reflected sunlight, it has the character of a ecological mountain down which disparate streams flow, to join, separate, and fall before disappearing into the lily pool.
I now pull myself together and back to the present. Which stream of life shall I follow today? Will it involve tango? Will it take me to dance, to join and separate at the end of a tanda, fall and eventually disappear into the pool of life? Like so much here in Buenos Aires, the answer arrives as the question is asked. My Galaxy tab tings and I have one message: "Meet at Club Gricel tonight, La Rioja 1180, dancing til dawn, Suzie"
Back to Buenos Aires
It is Tuesday and I am underway traveling from London to Buenos Aires via Madrid. This is the start of my latest adventure to learn the secrets of dancing Argentine tango, and to tell you about it, so my new blog. Welcome on board.
With the usual delays we are now mid Atlantic having left Spain, and are now flying one hour late. Although my Galaxy tab tells me its 1631 hours GMT, we have recently been fed lunch and the blinds of our Airbus Industrie A321 7 seat wide 350 capacity plane have been drawn. Is this because it is 1331 hours Buenos Aires time and we are simply expected to siesta? Perhaps it is because the cabin crew want to confine us to our seats to give them respite from our demands. There is a further option to do with turbulence here half way across the world. Whilst the middle aged French couple to my left are sleeping, I am typing and ignoring this possibility and the in-flight film which seems to add to the soporific effect of the late (or early) afternoon.
Well, you didn't visit my blog to hear about in-flight trials, but about the life of a traveler in Argentina. And it may appear that you have arrived prematurely, just as I spoke too soon about turbulence which now lifts, drops and rocks our plane, and seems to toss it from side to side like a fairground ride.
But I have to tell you about this part of the journey as it is so vast and forms the first important bridge between your world and mine. You are probably working away whilst I am traveling. If in England you may be suffering cold winter nights and I am on my way to hot summer days. As the miles tick away, it feels as if I am moving to a parallel universe where demands and responsibilities are to be replaced by opportunities and dancing. And yes, hopefully I am on my way to new tango experiences which it will be my pleasure to tell you about shortly on arrival.
With the usual delays we are now mid Atlantic having left Spain, and are now flying one hour late. Although my Galaxy tab tells me its 1631 hours GMT, we have recently been fed lunch and the blinds of our Airbus Industrie A321 7 seat wide 350 capacity plane have been drawn. Is this because it is 1331 hours Buenos Aires time and we are simply expected to siesta? Perhaps it is because the cabin crew want to confine us to our seats to give them respite from our demands. There is a further option to do with turbulence here half way across the world. Whilst the middle aged French couple to my left are sleeping, I am typing and ignoring this possibility and the in-flight film which seems to add to the soporific effect of the late (or early) afternoon.
Well, you didn't visit my blog to hear about in-flight trials, but about the life of a traveler in Argentina. And it may appear that you have arrived prematurely, just as I spoke too soon about turbulence which now lifts, drops and rocks our plane, and seems to toss it from side to side like a fairground ride.
But I have to tell you about this part of the journey as it is so vast and forms the first important bridge between your world and mine. You are probably working away whilst I am traveling. If in England you may be suffering cold winter nights and I am on my way to hot summer days. As the miles tick away, it feels as if I am moving to a parallel universe where demands and responsibilities are to be replaced by opportunities and dancing. And yes, hopefully I am on my way to new tango experiences which it will be my pleasure to tell you about shortly on arrival.
La Viruta Armenia 1366
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.
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.
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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