Milonga de Juan

Milongas: after years of survival of the fittest, even some of the survivors have disappeared. Confiteria Ideal at Suipacha 384, El Arranque at Bartolome Mitre 1759, Centro Region Leonesa at Humberto Primo 1462,  Milonga La Nacional at Adolfo Alsina 1465 - who would have thought that they would ever close?

But milongas still survive and thrive at Associazione Nazionale Italiana, Adolfo Alsina 1465, a location that has inherited Yira Yira and Los Consagrados from Humberto Primo. A new event here is Milonga de Juan, held each Wednesday afternoon from 3 - 9 pm.

Stephanie and I arrive just after 4 pm and are led to the prime table in the centre of the front row across the pista from the bar and backing the stage. Tonight, organiser Juan Angel Rosales is not present, so his tasks have been delegated to assistants. The salon is animated, but lightly populated, giving room to extend and to dance.

There is something special about afternoon milongas, particularly those in Buenos Aires. The atmosphere is more relaxed, with a feeling of fun. They are more recreational and less intense than their evening counterparts. Of course, they attract a different clientele - clearly those that do not work on a Wednesday afternoon. That said, with the welcome addition of tango tourists, the demography is not ancient - let us say, ‘simply mature’.

To feel our way into a milonga, Stephanie and I dance the first tanda with each other. It happens to be our favourite vals. An advantage of dancing together at the outset is that it presents us and our respective skill sets to watching tangueros, who then discern whether or not to cabeceo and mirada either of us for subsequent tandas. In this regard we need not have been concerned, for as the afternoon unfurled, we danced almost continuously.

A feature ot Milonga de Juan was just how friendly the regular attenders were, and how accommodating to us as tourists. At several points in the afternoon, local tangueros came to chat and share a moment of their time. 

For those looking for an afternoon milonga, look no further. Milonga de Juan is a great and well needed addition to the milonga circuit and should feature on your list of places to dance when you next visit Buenos Aires.

San Telmo Diary - the first weekend

  

8.30 am and sun streams through the open window onto a table covered with a white lace tablecloth and bearing Francesca’s cream teapot full of fresh tea. Someone sings below, birds chirp from the roof rails, eight parakeets squark as they fly past in formation, in the distance lorries grind away from the lights on Av Independencia.

A Saturday city. Weekends in Buenos Aires slow down from the weekday race. They have an altogether different pace. Waiters at the little cafes on Calle Defensa no longer rush from table to table, but stroll in the sunshine. The air is lighter, softer, crisper, as is our weekend mood.

    

This year I have brought binoculars with which I scan rooftops from the terrace. To the north maroon-red brickwork marks a monastery. Beyond, the distant towers of Puerto Madero pepper the skyline towards Retiro. East, the view is towards the classical colonnades of the university engineering faculty building. All around are roofs and terraces, some with palms, others with plant pots. Half a kilometer away an elderly woman retrieves a towel from the roof line. Four cats laze on a remote ledge. Windows glitter as morning shutters are opened. 

  

One tiny, white, passing cloud blows past on a light breeze. As it moves, it dissipates into the morning’s warmer air. It is time for breakfast. “Let’s head for Origen?”, suggests Stephanie. “What a good idea”, I rejoin as we head for the stairs.

San Telmo Diary

He looks over his glasses and directs a thumb to a screen. Fingermarks register our return visit. He smiles. Without words his eyes say ‘Welcome to Argentina’. Through the ‘nothing to declare’ channel, from the kiosk we buy a Manuel Tienda Leon coach ride from Ezeiza to Buenos Aires, and walk towards the electric doors. 

I look at Stephanie and our eyes meet. We had pictured this moment as one we would recognise: the point of transition between two worlds: leaving Europe and returning to Latin America.

There is something about the moment that is singular. Flight side is busy in a workmanlike way. It is a last refuge, where you may check your luggage, retrieve a purse of pesos or find an address. The doors slide and we pass through to the city side - a new, vibrant, pulsating Latin world of humanity. Tiers of drivers hold placards, some hastily drawn in felt-tip, others boldly announcing corporations; porters rush around with trolleys and cases; families holding flasks of mate are meeting and hugging; police stand in small clusters; voices call; a shrill whistle blows and a surge of taxis and coaches jockey for position on the grid.

Outside the terminal its hot, yet fresh. A light breeze stirs tall palms and blows fallen blooms of purple Jacaranda across the paving. We have arrived.

All vehicles arriving at Ezeiza at some stage must leave. Like other airports around the world, it is after all just a point of transition, its currency being ‘the journey’. But whilst arrival here is simple and seamless, departure is typically Argentine. 

Our coach bustles onto the exit lane. Already horns are sounding, the coach driver shouts at a taxi. Vehicles rush for the exit, each space a small war-zone. Our bulk and the telling dents to the rear off-side carry the day as queues of small cars and taxis snarl behind us. Now the breeze ruffles stretched curtains at the windows and there is a rhythmical chink from the limp workings of the speed limiter as it hangs uselessly against the bulkhead.

On the autopista and through two sets of tolls, we are now heading into the city. Alongside is our strangely familiar Buenos Aires, a city in constant flux with half-built blocks and roofs covered with water tanks and satellite discs. From the raised sections of the carriageway the city stretches interminably, dense, sprawling and compact. Millions of lives are buzzing like small electrical currents and with them, the hustle of city life. We descend from the elevated Autopista 25 de Mayo, turn east in Avenida San Juan onto Paseo Colon. Working our way through the crisis bus-lane road works, we arrive at Retiro. The coach squeezes into the narrow dog's-leg entrance to Manuel Tienda Leon coach stop where we transfer to a little grey taxi, and start our return journey to San Telmo. 

Women's Essentials Guide to Buenos Aires - 'Top Ten Tips for Tangueras'

It is with great pleasure that Stephanie Rose has given me the opportunity to host her guest blog. Ten months living in Buenos Aires, of which the last 3 have been spent co-managing a tango house, puts Stephanie in the perfect position to help other women as they plan their first tango visit to the capital.

When I came first to Buenos Aires in 2007 I didn't know what to expect. I was a seasoned traveller having lived in South Africa for twelve years; but this was my first South American trip, and my debut as a tanguera.

After numerous visits since, I thought it was timely to list my ‘Top Ten Tips for Tangueras’. My choices may not be right for every woman, but should provide a starting place for your trip. For new visitors, I shall update this blog from time to time to ensure it is topical. This entry is updated as of December 2017.


TIP 1 - Flight
They tell us when to travel to Buenos Aires and where to stay, but little about the journey to get here - a 15 hours flight, maybe with a delay at the airport or runway. You will spend a day and night travelling in a confined space, so whatever class you travel, select a direct flight if possible, wear flight socks, drink lots of water, decline the temptation of alcohol, and get it done. Importantly, don’t make the mistake of taking a cheap USA connecting flight, requiring a visa and making you immigrate, emigrate and collect your baggage between the two.

Put a travel pack of wet-wipes, eye spray and antioxidant hydramist in your handbag for on the plane, together with your shoulder wrap, and keep a pen and your passport number to hand to complete your landing card in flight. Bring a good read (or your Kindle) for waiting times at the airport.
Consider separating some basic essentials into your cabin luggage - some underwear, a spare top and makeup so if your suitcase goes missing at Ezeize, you have some basics to keep you going.

TIP 2 - Clothes
We pack too many clothes, then wonder why stairs and check-in are stressful. If you are travelling to dance in a mild spring or autumn, why bring lots of changes?

My advice is to bring the essentials and layer clothes: comfy flats or sandals teamed with a couple of pairs of loose lightweight wash-and-wear pants to walk the dusty streets. Remember to take your flight wrap on those cooler nights or under over-zealous air conditioners. Pack a long plastic mac for the torrential downpours, and buy a cheap ‘leave-behind’ umbrella when you get here.

For tango, a couple of pretty, wash-and-drip-dry dresses or tango skirts, open toe tights, plus a pair of tango pants, a cheap throw-away fan for milongas, and your duty-free perfume. Remember, if you want more, Buenos Aires is awash with great tango clothes at keen prices. And don’t forget to pack one pair of trusty worn-in tango shoes. Keep them in your hand luggage should you be ‘Stranded at the Airport’.

TIP 3 - Shoes!
I am surprised that tangueras arrive with a bag full of shoes. Wear your comfy flats for walking uneven pavements, and simply pack a spare pair of tried and tested slip-ons as spares. The best tango shoes can be found in Buenos Aires, and although prices have risen dramatically here, due to import taxes they are still cheaper than outside Argentina. If you plan to stay a while, have them bespoke made by Katrinski. If your visit is short, pop along to Comme il Faut or DNI for a good, safe bet and nice designs. Bear in mind that Comme il Faut Buenos Aires may not stock the full range of shoes available on their European web.

TIP 4 - Hair
As you may have read in Stephen’s blogs, my greatest worry before arrival in Buenos Aires was of ending up with ‘Argentine hair’. There are many gorgeous women with great hair here, but with heat and humidity, hair looks good only for an hour before becoming a frizzy bundle. Finding Daniel Diaz through the BA Ex Pats group was a huge relief. Sassoon trained, tried twice, Daniel ticks all the boxes, and who needs more when it come to cut, colour and chat.

TIP 5 - Tango teachers
Where to start? They say that wherever you are in Buenos Aires you are never more than 10 meters away from a tango teacher. Milongueros accost at milongas, offering their ‘special lessons’, internationally renown performers entice with impossibly elaborate exhibitions. What we want, and what we need may be two different things. After several years of trial and error, I always return to Carolina Bonaventura’s tango school at Mariposa de San Telmo. It is safe and easy to find off 9 de Julio, and offers excellent methodology with dedicated women’s technique classes that are exacting and fun.

Book some privates, and join a group class to make new friends and get invites to milongas with the teachers. If you are young and staying in Palermo you may prefer to check out DNI.
If however you want to major on technique and step up to performance excellence, add in some master classes with top names such as Daniela y Luis.

TIP 6 - Body care

The chemists here in Buenos Aires stock all of the basics you will need, but if you have a favorite body care regime, don’t expect the products you want to leap from the shelves in your local farmacia. You may have to bring them with you. Remember that the sun can be hot, and humidity levels high - so bring protection. The brilliant Incognito mosquito repellent, zapper and bite treatment cream are a ‘must’. Bring a travel hand gel for the milonga, and whilst in Buenos Aires, visit cheap nail bars in the peluquero. If you intend to dance a lot, don’t forget to book a series of pedicures with Graciela at Piedras 1025, San Telmo (tel 15 6700 2479).

TIP 7 - Stay safe
Buenos Aires is not the place to bring good jewellery, favorite watches and Chanel or
Birkin bags. Don’t get me wrong, the city is as safe as many in Europe, but with real poverty on the streets valuables provide a snatch temptation. I restrict myself to stud earrings and a cheap waterproof watch - they send out the right, rather than the wrong signal. If you carry a handbag, bring a small, robust, long strapped one that you can carry in front. Additionally, I pack a fold-away, temptation-free, transparent rucksack in which I keep my mac, dance shoes, fan, hand gel, tissues and mints for milongas.

TIP 8 - Budget
I think Stephen has addressed the need to prepare in advance of your trip. Bear in mind that the days of cheap living in Buenos Aires are over - dining out with wine is still a little cheaper, but other costs, including shopping and milongas are similar to those in Europe, so budget accordingly. When out and about I only carry the money I need, and leave the rest in the apartment safe. Run off a couple of photocopies of your passport before departure and bring your photo driving license - you may need them to authenticate your credit card purchases. Whilst on the topic of credit cards, bring a spare - you never know when you may need it. Place photos of cards and passport on ‘the cloud’ for easy reference in case of loss or theft.

TIP 9 - Food and drink
In addition to steak and pizza, Buenos Aires now caters for a wide range of food needs, so vegetarians and gluten free travellers need have no concerns. Make the most of the seasonal fruit and vegetables that are available on each street corner and supermarket entrances. Find your favorite bakery. If you are lucky to have access to a BBQ, buy bife de lomo from your local butcher, team it with chorizo sausages and invite your friends to cook - and bring the Malbec!

Which brings us onto drink. Whilst they say tap water is safe, many Portenos opt for bottled water, plentiful in the supermarkets. My top three inexpensive wines are: red - Uxmal Malbec (13%), white - Lopez (12%); sparkling - Federico de Alvear, Brut or Extra Brut (11.60%). For a light beer, try the ubiquitous Quilmes Cristal (4.9%). For best value, buy these from your local Chinese supermarket.

TIP 10 - Language
My biggest regret when visiting Buenos Aires is not speaking conversational Castillano adequately. Many Portenos speak some English, so getting by is possible without Spanish, but simply getting-by excludes you from many friendships and experiences. Focus before your trip, get the free Duolingo app, learn your numbers to 100, the names of basic foods and drink and get as good as you can before you leave. I always ask the first names of assistants in shops that I frequent, and invariably get a winning smile for my effort.


Stephanie Rose © December 2017

Tomorrow is......

 

"Tomorrow is 1 April, and we have just five days left in Buenos Aires", says Stephanie, adding "before the month changes, you would be a fool not to describe our four months here in the city of Argentine tango". "Tell them about the city of dreams".

It is really difficult to capture succinctly the experience of an extended stay in this city. A first observation is just how much I love Buenos Aires. Its a busy, congested place with broken pavements and crumbling buildings. Old buses used to transport activists and demonstrators belch out plumes of diesel fumes that hang like curtains in the calles. On occasions the humidity rises so that shirts stick to backs, and backs to chairs. Sometimes even tango fails to enthral and we leave a milonga to search for consolation pizza.

But mostly Buenos Aires captivates. We wake to sunshine, blue skies with a dissolving wisp of white cloud and breath of cooling air - the 'buenos aires' after which the city is named. People walk the streets at a modest pace, relaxed, unhurried. From passing cars we hear music, often tango, sometimes cumbia blaring with its heavy contra-beat rhythm. Groups of men sit in cafes to chat. Women share experiences over a light lunch.  If you were to smile at strangers, they will smile back. And, if lucky, you too will catch the seductive aroma of an asado, as yesterday in Plaza de Mayo where an asador served smoking beef and chorizos from his charcoal filled half barrel.

As tangueros, a huge attraction of the city is ubiquitous tango. Each night there will be approaching forty milongas where you can dance tango, and beforehand take a class. We arrive early to see beginners walking in close embrace - harder than you would imagine; and improvers executing new found skills or filming the final demo by their teachers. The music is that of tango's 'Golden Age' - from the late twenties through to 1950. It is melancholic, teasing distant memories from lost generations of Portenos. It speaks of tough lives lived in poverty and sadness, forged on an anvil of half-forgotten emotion. When we dance tango that is what we hear - and feel. That is why tango should be danced to the music of tango and nothing else.

The pace of life is the pace of choice - so different from Europe's metronome beat dictated by work, by commerce and unnecessary necessity. On the streets of Buenos Aires you rarely see anyone run, and hardly anyone hurry. Life's art is the 'stroll' - a pace assisted by the fact that if you walk quicker, you simply wait at the next intersection for the pedestrian lights to change. 

 

"What will you miss most?", asks Stephanie. "All of it", I reply. "The fact that my watch stays unnoticed on the kitchen table; that my stomach tells me when to eat; that when we hear music we love - we dance; the sound of a champagne cork popping and landing on the receipt for 56 pesos; that our days stretch limitlessly into exotic nights". 

"And most of all, I will miss the embrace", I add. "The hug that men give to men; that men give to women; that we return without self-conscious question". "It's a moment that speaks of love and respect, one which at the milonga is mirrored in tango's safe, warm and close embrace".

 

Soundscape - San Telmo

 

I am sitting on a roof in San Telmo in the sunshine; above me not a cloud, save for a paleing* of the sky towards the River Plata. Otherwise as blue as you have ever seen.

March is progressing and the season slips towards a Buenos Aires autumn. It is still warm, Europeans might say hot, but no longer the intense heat of previous months.

So I sit in the sun, close my eyes; and this is what I hear.

The opening strains of 'Cumparaseta' rise from San Lorenzo. The first few bars are louder, as if to announce a presence, then they subside, to be carried away on the breeze that ruffles the leaves of the banana plant. A Yamaha motorcyle roars along Independencia. A cartonero - the street people who recycle cardboard and plastic - wheels his rattling, squeaking laden trolley in Defensa.

Music on a transistor radio competes momentarily with Cumparaseta, before reverting to a scramble of Castillano. Somewhere at a distance, a workman uses something pneumatic, but too far for reverberations to interrupt the soundscape. Now a lift door closes - the old type with a lattice of riveted bars that open like a bandoneon, and close with a 'clack'. 

There are voices down at the corner of Independencia and Defensa - two men seem to be speaking about something important, or about where they should go for coffee. Bottles are being recycled, or simply thrown into a bin, for glass recycling is not high on the agenda here. Of course there are car horns - not as you may hear in India or the East, but occasional, out of recognition and frustration.  Beneath the whole soundscape is the hum of traffic and the occasional air conditioner unit. Lorries grind at a distance as they progress along Av Ing Huergo, and nearby a race starts with the changing lights  on Independencia. 

In San Telmo (unlike Monserrat) there is little birdsong. Perhaps our building is too high (we are on a 5th floor roof), or maybe the density of buildings and dearth of open spaces takes its toll. Below I can just hear a single street pigeon - but not the accompanying chirrup of the sparrows that perch expectantly at cafe tables.

There is however a sudden explosion followed by the sound of drumming. Elsewhere in the world this would be of concern, or at least significance. In Buenos Aires we recognise the sound as a firecracker launched by the protest marchers that each week protest about something different. The bang is loud enough to send the pigeons flying, but is ignored by the Portenos that walk to work along Defensa.

A light helicopter makes its way along to Aeroparque Jorge Newbury via Puerto Madero docks with more of a presence than a noise, its rotor blades compressing the air. Van doors slam, iron apartment doors clang, and footsteps clack on marble stairs.

There is always sound here in Buenos Aires. Both the day and the night air is never silent. After a while, it becomes part of the city's pattern - to be ignored and then unheard. Unless, that is, you are walking on a narrow footpath being passed by deafening colectivos, or hearing their air brakes released as they set off across the grid of San Telmo streets.

Up here, the quality of noise is different - distant - diffused, enabling a disconnection from the busy city. And so I sit with tea and ' drink in' the city sounds.

Plaza Dorrego - the final tanda

In a trip to Buenos Aires, you should at least once dance in Plaza Dorrego.

Here in the heart of San Telmo is the most iconic square, where on Sunday nights locals and tourists dance tango under the stars. Pedro ‘El Indio’ Benavente organises the milonga, providing sound system, lighting and a demonstration, and it runs from 7 - 11 pm in the summer months. It is part of what makes San Telmo the tango barrio.

Stephanie and I arrange to meet Miss Moneypenny and TT there after 8 pm. “We will be sitting on the little wall where you change your shoes, or dancing” adds Stephanie; and indeed we are dancing when they arrive from their different barrios. 

With our street shoes tucked inside our bags, and the bags placed securely in the pile next to where Pedro masterminds his playlist, Stephanie and I have squeezed onto the floor for a tanda of Calo. We join dancers of all ages and abilities. Our attention is drawn to a young and energetic couple as they ladle their DNI moves across the polished tiles. Then our discerning eye fixes on a mature couple in their 70’s who dance in close embrace. He gives a clear but sensitive lead, and despite her elderly thickened calfs, she collects her heels perfectly and dances like a dream. They are the prize of the pista. 

We dance a circuit of the floor just before the tanda finishes. For Stephanie, this is like tasting a shard of chocolate from a whole bar, and she wants more. So despite the next tanda being ‘milonga’ - a quicker form of dance - we return starting sedately with Canaro’s Milonga Sentimental. 

I do my best with my new found milonga skills following Patrick Arellano’s instruction, and these are just good enough for the first three tunes of the tanda. A fourth song is fast and the floor has become crowded, so at my request, Stephanie and I step from the pista to resume our places on the wall to watch.

As the final song progresses there is a moment of consternation. Dancers group to one side of the pista. From our position it is impossible to see what transpires. Shortly, we are aware of figures rushing from the southern end of the plaza. The music falters, then stops. Circling dancers stand in couples; and couples in silent groups. They look from side to side questioningly. The non-dancers that crowd and watch from the perimeter of the pista break the moment with animated questions and comments.

Gradually, the pista clears. Tangueros are returning to their places at the edge of the square. A hush descends.

The joy of tango is not simply the mastery of an intricate and difficult dance. It is about a journey within an embrace. Often we hold - or are held by strangers in an intimate embrace, that speaks of a primeval need to be loved, to belong, or at least acknowledged as we go through life.

Tango is a hard journey, through testing times before reaching the goal of fluidity and true connection. For this reason, the skills of young, quick dancers are not the ones that we covet. They are yet to qualify for milonguero status. The older, experienced dancers often hold the key to tango. They take time, in silence they listen to each other and the music, they connect, and they accommodate the moment. And so it is here in Plaza Dorrego. Life, love, anxiety, and intimacy are played out each Sunday as dancers travel to their chosen destination in their own personal tango journey.

Four figures are now kneeling on the ground in concentric focus. There is movement, but little activity. A circle of watchers gathers. Something is amiss. Don Bernabe, the grandfather of this little milonga, speaks quietly with Pedro. He in turn moves forward, but to stop. We hear the sound of a siren as it draws closer on the night air.

The figure on the ground is that of a tanguero of senior age. His polished tango shoes glint in the evening light as he lays. 

Time suffuses and the evening gathers in a surreal envelope. Dancers wait in the shadows, patiently, and expectantly. The expectation is that the figure will rise from the floor. Perhaps he will be helped to a seated position, be assisted to the wall where someone will produce a bottle of water for a much needed drink.

But that expectation is not to be. The figure does not rise, nor now can anyone assist him on this final journey. Even the crowd of tango watchers falls silent. On the far side of the plaza in Defensa, the drumming of the carnival drummers ceases. Plaza Dorrego has never witnessed such silence. People huddle together and whisper. Faces that were intent on dance now look drawn with sadness. A frailty is cast across this place. It is the frailty of life itself. It is - at the end of the final furlong - the end of a journey.

Miss Moneypenny brushes a tear from her eye, and TT places a motherly arm around her shoulder. I pull a shoe lace and reach for my street shoes. Stephanie gathers her bag and folds a wrap close around her. Without words, we walk. I pass Don Bernabe to give him a hug. “This is how life is”, says Pedro Benavente philosophically and without drama.

Back in Defensa we climb four flights of stairs to our rooftop apartment. Moneypenny and TT join us for they sense this moment should be shared, rather than ignored. With a bottle of wine to ease the weight, we sit in the half light and speak of tango, and of mortality.

His was a tango journey that ended as tango journeys should end. Whilst the aftermath is of unimaginable grief, the moment was that of a tango dancer on a tango floor within a close embrace. Together we clink our glasses and wish him 'Godspeed'.

 

Mariposita

We are crossing Avenida 9 de Julio, heading for Carlos Calvo 950 - the home of Mariposita de San Telmo. It is now a regular journey for us, easily undertaken by instinct, especially for Stephanie who attends the fabulous ‘Ladies Technique’ classes there.

Mariposita is a tango hotel and tango dance school. Sitting modestly next door to a towering green glass block, there is no outward sign of either hotel, or tango, simply an unmarked grey door with an adjacent caged bell, which we press. A voice answers. We hear footsteps on the long corridor and the sound of the latch. The door is opened by graceful Lettie, mother to the proprietor, Carolina Bonaventura. Behind her is Simon, a terrier of unknown breed, clearly the master of the house.

Towards the end of the corridor we turn right, entering a grand dance salon. No simple studio here - this is a large, elegant space with high ceiling, running the depth of the building. The floor is polished wood. It is mirrored along it’s full length. 

Centre stage is Patrick Arellano, supported by Giannina Roncagliolo who teach here under Carolina’s direction. Tonight there is a class of twelve dancers, distinctive in the ‘Mariposita style’ - a gentle V embrace designed to give perfect freedom to the follower. Whilst the student’s dance levels differ, Patrick appears to tune seamlessly to their experience, offering empowering advice to each. This is the most respectful and focused method of teaching.

Leti returns to the counter to one side at the head of the salon. Behind her is a small kitchen containing a glass-fronted refrigerator full of cold drinks. Beyond double doors are steps to a large terrace garden running down the rest of half a block to a huge subterranean dance studio. The hotel room balconies overlook the terrace. 

 An easy Calo marks the end of the earlier class as students circle the floor practicing what they have learned. Patrick teaches technique, then translates this into a simple, accessible pattern to ‘nail’ the technique into the subconscious mind. Those looking for ‘flight-of-fancy’ steps will be disappointed: discerning students seeking a true tanguero style will be totally delighted.

Our session is for improvers, although again the range of the students’ experience varies in the class. This poses no problems - for the change of partners is optional - Stephanie and I ensuring that we understand the technique before we switch. Patrick and Giannina demonstrate with an amazing clarity, speaking in both Spanish and English, then direct their attention to individual couples as they assimilate Patrick’s teaching. Here, Patrick assists with modest and energizing corrections, gently given with humour and warmth. His teaching is like an embrace - telling us that we are safe with him, and valued. His is a great gift.

Two hours (we chose a double class) pass in a trice. We finish with a short practica in which Stephanie and I dance with our favorite fellow students. We pause to correct our giro; to replace a step; to feel a different embrace. We dance until the music stops, sensing that Patrick and Giannina may be exhausted by their own generosity. We part with a hug. Carolina Bonaventura has arrived back from a tour, so we share a special moment with her, then Lettie leads us through the passage to the street.

For tangueros of any standard, Mariposita proves to be a delight. Carolina provides a safe haven in which her community of students thrive. Stephanie speaks of her technique classes as ‘an inspiration’. For once - at group classes here in Buenos Aires - I sense that I too may achieve something special.

Another Sunday in Monserrat, Buenos Aires

 

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

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

 

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

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

One day - three eras

In the wake of Joe Biden's words about his 'Second Lady', I should acknowledge Stephanie's support for me - not simply with our trip, but also with this blog. She reminds me when I reach a point where my writing stretches meaning, and she comes to the rescue with 'the right word'. So this blog is for her, and for her friends; for it is about pamper and about clothes.

Today was always going to be a special day; for no particular reason other than that was the way it happened. 

After a breakfast of fresh fruit in delicious combinations, we set about our first event of the day: a 'floating feet' pedicure. Whilst in Buenos Aires, regular visits for a pedicure are both affordable and wise.  

Graciela works from Piedras 1025. Piedras is one of those San Telmo roads that planners and time forgot to mark. It happens from - and on the way to - somewhere else; unmemorable and easy to miss. Between a shop and a boarded front, just along from a great rubber tree, is Graciela's doorway, marked only by a number. We push the white bell and wait for her footsteps on the long corridor to the street.

Her studio is small - comprising a couple of interconnecting rooms at the back of the house. A white leather sofa stands by a small counter in the first room; the second being her treatment room. Here is a feeling of Buenos Aires simplicity, frozen in the 1970's, beige tiles to the floor, pale green panels screwed to the walls, a radio cassette player tuned to a local station suspended from the ceiling in one corner. 

Graciela is the queen of pedicures. Hers are not superficial beauty treatments: lasting 30 minutes they comprise total mastery of the feet and are like no other pedicure. Stephanie reaches from her toes to the treatment platform, swinging her legs towards Graciela's roller seat. Within moments, her toe nails are softened and ready to trim, each surface of the foot examined, all rough skin removed and sanded, with attention to the finest detail. As the treatment progresses one feels that a burden is released, a softness achieved, and a stillness attained. Then there is the final massage with cream, and in Stephanie's case, the painting of the toe nails. 

At the end I look to see if she is still awake. Her feet, always pretty, are now more slender, light and beautiful. And so to my turn.

We leave Graciela with a hug and appointments for three weeks hence. Now is time for serious shopping.

Those that follow our 'Twinwoodians' page on Facebook will know about Stephanie's passion for vintage. Together with 'Golden Age' tango, Stephanie's love for the 1930/40's takes us today to Alma Zen Arte at Belcarce 1056. 

Nora is one of those timeless San Telmo women that simply belong in the bario. Her shop is a small cave of vintage, with a slight Parisienne feel. Nora looks quickly at Stephanie and recognises a kindred spirit. "Come this way my dear and let's see what we can find", she says as she leads Stephanie to a rack of 1940's dresses. They are crammed together, in a sort of colour-code, but otherwise random stack. She lifts a pale blue linen dress with patch pockets from the rack. Above and beyond is every dress, skirt, blouse and coat imaginable. They rise in row after row - right up to the vintage wedding dresses against the ceiling. Across the small store are kimonos, and beyond a cabinet stuffed with handbags - this one in dark brown suede with pearl clasps; another in soft black leather with scrolled art deco handles. I sit on a stool and watch Stephanie explore two decades of fashion.

After a visit to Origen, Humberto Primo 599 - cafe con leche served 'French style' in a cup the size of a soup bowl - our still floating feet take us to Maria Jazmin Ropa de Tango at Humberto Primo 558.

The serious tanguera should know about Maria Jazmin. Maria's is my favourite tango shop. It is a place where dreams are made. I sit on the long sofa to watch women arriving in jeans transform into tangueras. Maria designs and makes the clothes. She is tall for a Porteno, with a slim tanguera body. Today she walks in heels elegantly wearing a slimline skirt in black trimmed with lace to the waist. You know when she approves of a choice, her designer's eye fixing and breathing a soft "belissima". This is why Stephanie is one of her favoured customers - she displays Maria's creations perfectly without a lump or bump to be seen. 

We leave, Stephanie clutching a Jazmin bag containing two of Maria's latest designs, one made specially for her. For me it has been a full day of activity. "Now, which milonga tonight?", Stephanie asks.

Buenos Aires - after the weekend

Buenos Aires is a place where the weekend matters.

In Europe, that 'weekend feeling' has largely evaporated, Saturday and especially Sunday becoming indistinguishable from other days of the week. In a summery Buenos Aires, Friday still sounds a clarion call for the weekend. Here is a feeling of anticipation, and wind-down - as traffic chokes 9 de Julio for an hour and office workers return home on busy colectivos. Soon that is all over, and the weekend starts in earnest.

Pass any restaurant on Friday night between 9 pm and late, and you will see families dining together. Not as in Europe, where the cost of eating out precludes all but the well-off. Here, ordinary working people arrive - often with tiny, well-behaved children who sit, smile and eat with their parents, grandparents, aunts, cousins - and especially their favorite uncles and grandfathers, their slicked back grey hair, whiskers and friendly faces setting them apart as fun people.

Later, after 11.30 pm, the young families give way to families with older children, couples and groups of friends, eating steak or sharing a pizza, together with a bottle of wine, large Quilmes Cristal beer or litre bottles of fizzy fruit juice, so popular in the humid evenings.

Eating out has an altogether different feel and connotation from that outside the Latin world. It is a leisurely affair, the table for the night, the little cameras, the toasts, the hugs, the waves across to other tables that are not really separate but form an organic whole. The waiters stay busy, moving quickly from table to table, carrying large plates of meat, or calamari, or pasta - or a pizza the size of a small bicycle wheel. Glasses clatter to the table, and corks are pulled without ceremony - save for the peremptory tasting ritual. The atmosphere is like two interconnecting cogs, the small, fast one of waiters - revolving the large slower one of diners.

On Saturday traffic is lighter than midweek. The emphasis is on shopping and portenos fill the streets; but not in the same way as previously. Now the pace slackens to a stroll, and greetings are shouted across the sun-filled street in Castillano. Neighbours meet under the shade of an occasional street tree to stop and chat. Saturday is a big preparation for party night.

As the evening arrives, young girls brush out their hair and apply their makeup; teenage boys are torn from their computers, and wives will pass over a freshly ironed shirt. The clubs, bars, milongas fill towards midnight, and the restaurants resume their busy trade. Portenos are out on the street, some simply sitting on steps by the pavement, or enjoying the luxury of a balcony above. For festivals, the portable barbecues appear on the sidewalks, together with stools or upturned buckets as seats. Smoke and the smell of cooking drift on the evening air. Shadows fall and voices hum under the Jacaranda trees.

Sunday brings yet another change. Where have the Portenos gone? The streets are deserted, even by the cartoneros - the street people that collect boxes and plastic to sell. The baker is closed. Cafes struggle to open by noon, and perhaps mid-afternoon the few teatime couples or groups of older women sit and drink coffee together. Even the solitary taxi drifts, as if the driver has lost his way, free-wheeling to lights and stopping well before they change to red. On green there is a further pause whilst the driver returns his mobile phone to the dashboard, and the taxi slides slowly away looking for a fare. 

Then Sunday evening. A quiet settles over the city. Families are indoors to eat, or sitting in hidden gardens to the rear of their homes. Family time is coming to an end. The boys are solitarily back in front of their screens; the girls are messaging their friends. He brushes the collar of his jacket, she carries a pile of fresh laundered towels to the bathroom. The weekend is over. Tomorrow, the city will return to its weekday state of agitation and rush. The dove that has called from eves will disappear for the week. And we await the next weekend with fresh anticipation. 

 

Dancing with the cat

Here at Casa Luna there is never a shortage of tangueros. It is a tango house. But sometimes, it seems the usual tango proposals are not enough. Stephanie is dancing with Cleo.

I sit in the drawing room and watch and write, the perfume of Michael's gift of flowers wafting across the table, early evening light catching an antique sideboard, and though the doors to the dance studio the sound of Monique Haas playing Debussy's Claire de Lune.

Daniela Pucci y Luis Bianchi's classes have set Stephanie on a new dynamic course of tango, Key to this is working with the core - developing the perfect level of strength balanced against flexibility - every step lead by the hip.

This presents challenges. The first is to leave behind so much that has been learned inadvertently -  mistakenly. Thinking in terms of steps must go; to be replaced with a forward or backward projection of the hip, bringing in its turn, the movement of the leg. The muscles that count are those of the core, not the leg. The core creates intention. And beauty.

So Stephanie dances with Cleo, the house cat. Cleo stalks her every move, walking deftly as Stephanie's feet caress the floor. The cat knows where to be, as only a cat can. She does not slip between her legs. She waits, as a phrase on the score.... the phrase complete, she moves. She glances not up, nor down, but simply feels Stephanie's intention and direction - the perfect follower.

Ravel's 'Pavane Pour un Infante Defunte' gives way to Chopin's 'Nocturne No 1 in B flat minor', as if from Biagi to Pugliese. The light is now fading. A lifting breeze causes the garden to shudder, then fall into stillness. 

Schubert's '4 Impromptus' set the evening score. No 2 in E flat sings gently from the studio. Cleo has retreated to a wooden chair where she now curls and dreams. And I watch Stephanie as she concludes her practice and lifts her hair clear of her head. Yes, Buenos Aires is about tango. 

And tango is about life.

 

Teatro y Tango

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22ND

CARL MARIA VON WEBER
“OBERON” OVERTURE

PIOTR ILICH CHAIKOVSKI
VIOLIN CONCERTO IN D MAJOR, OP. 35

ALEXANDER GLAZUNOV
SYMPHONY NO. 5 IN B-FLAT MAJOR, OP. 55

  

When civilisation as we know it, ends, there will still be music -  there will still be tango.

Teatro Colon is Buenos Aires' premier theatre. Using the search facility at the side of my blog, readers will be able to see what I have written about this wonderful building, and my previous visit.

Michael informs us that he will procure tickets for a 'rehearsal performance' at the theatre. Each Wednesday, the theatre is opened for Portenos to attend the 11 am final rehearsal of the week's programme for which tickets are free if collected the day before.

We set off on collective 59 for Teatro Colon, disembarking at Obelisco Norte in the city centre. With the recently introduced Metrobus, travelling uninterrupted along the centre of 9 de Julio, the journey is quick, efficient, and economic at a 6.5 peso fare.

Our early arrival affords us the opportunity to savour the atmosphere and architecture of the auditorium - horseshoe shaped, its huge splendor with circle balconies above cascading in tiers, every section dressed with rich brocade curtains held back on brass arms. At each level clusters of Art Deco lamps - 7+4 at the first level, 5+3 at the next, and so on to 'the Gods'. Above us, illuminated by countless lights, the famous 318  square meter dome decorated by Raul Soldi, on which a choir can be seated as if to sing from heaven. 

But today is an orchestra rehearsal, hence the free invitation, so no heavenly choir. The musicians are dressed in day clothes, some wearing jeans and tee shirts, others in bright summer dresses. They start to tune up and the sound amplifies. French horns find their pitch, the flautists practice their arpeggios, the second cello wriggles his toes in his sandals. 

The leader arrives promptly at 11 am and the orchestra instantly subdues. It is as if  'teacher' has entered the room. There is silence whilst he secures unity of pitch, without oscillation to disturb perfection. And now the conductor arrives. He too is dressed casually in polo shirt and chinos. He glances briefly at the audience filling the auditorium.

We start with Webers "Oberon". This is a play-through piece, uninterrupted by the conductor, but it concludes with his directions, in which various sections and phrases are re-defined to his style. Even to my non-professional ear, the alterations bring a significant change of mood and emphasis, a new palate of musical colour.

The orchestra reconfigures with part of the brass section leaving. A short, inconspicuous man wanders onto the stage and chats briefly to the orchestra leader before walking over the conductor for a hug. He holds an instrument, similar to that of the first violins, but with an ageing patina that sets it apart. He glances across at a double bass player and smiles in recognition. And the performance of Tchaikovski's Violin Concerto in D commences.

The morning rehearsal has an informality about it; and yet an energy, helped by the fact that the audience are here because of a love of music rather than a social grace. The soloist starts his cadenza which winds, turns and tumbles, capturing everything that is Russian, Argentine and Classic. The violas smile, the first violins gape at his virtuosity. This is a brief but significant gift to both orchestra and audience.

Later we sit together at De Querusa milonga. The early dancers are giving way to the experienced tangueros. Beautiful - sensationally beautiful women, and handsome men dress the floor. The Pugilese tanda draws a new expression.

Amongst the dancers one couple stand out. He is tall and leads strongly with fluidity. She dances exquisitely from the hip, her feet precise and expressive. They are perfectly connected.

Stephanie and I glance at each other. Without words we realise that this is a replay of the concerto and cadenza. He - the soloist - she the priceless instrument. Other dancers, like the orchestra, fade from view.  Here a sacada, now a colgada - virtuosity in dance.

Approaching midnight, we leave De Querusa. Outside the rain falls in torrents, the gutters filled like streams, lights reflecting from huge raindrops as cars splash along the street. Tonight it is 'no' to the colectivo and 'yes' to the taxi. We clamber aboard and tear through a drenching city back to the safety and protection of Casa Luna.

Casa Luna and Los Consagrados

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Argentine tango....where?

photo courtesy of  john hennessy

If you think slipping from the Pennine clouds into Cumbria does not seem the proper prelude for a milonga... wrong!

Leaving my home in Darlington for the Pennines meant exchanging light rain for heavy mist which encircles my little Smart car and gives the feeling of being raised on a vortex of cloud. From the Stainmore gap and Brough, the high A66 road drops gently into Westmorland - despite its' geographic assimilation into Cumbria I still see this lush and gentle landscape thus. The Gypsy and Romany travellers heading for the hills with their horse pulled caravans are now behind us, and ahead is their destination - the town of Appleby, where a famous horse market is held each year in the late Spring bank holiday. Down below, curls of woodsmoke rise from the red sandstone chimneys of the tiniest cottages, and the rich, sumptuous fields of the North West open towards spring-green woodland and raindrops on tousled cobwebs.

My ultimate destination is Dalston in Cumberland, a small village tossed around a green, bearing that well-washed Cumbria feel. Down on the right is the Victory Hall. After the First World War, the worthy and wealthy Cumbrians of Dalston subscribed to the project, and by 1921 Victory Hall opened its doors for the first time. Then, and for the next ninety years, the mainstay of social life in this remote backwater was to be the village dance. This was where young men met the lasses they would marry, and where after the wedding they would celebrate by dancing.

Today, the dance is not the Cumberland Square Eight (do look it up if you are not familiar with it) but more remote - from 7,000 Atlantic miles away - tango from Buenos Aires, Argentina. As the Smart car nestles into the smallest of spaces to the right of the hall's canopy, the sound of 'Vida Mía played by Osvaldo Fresedo's orchestra slips beneath the double doors that give onto the main hall. Inside, already dancers walk easily and gently on the polished wooden blocks, and the smell of old curtains is replaced by the scent of fresh baked cakes and tea. Yes, this is Tango in Cumbria's tea dance.

The tea dance is one of the most special events you could conceive. Imagine a table laden with fresh sandwiches, home made cakes and scones. Add to the mix an aromatic Darjeeling tea and the clink of tea cups on saucers. Now finish the picture with the sounds of tango, a late afternoon blackbird singing, and the swish and swirl of dancers. And there you have it....the tea dance.

Francesca has entreated those attending to come as 'Monarchists or Republicans', but being England's most remote county, there is not a Republican to be seen. Queen Victoria is here, as is Prince Albert, the current Queen's grandparents. In their shadow, we are but footman and lady-in-waiting - but it is Francesca that attracts the attention. She is the 'Pippa Middleton of Dalston', her delicious curves shown to great effect beneath her micro skirt: "I shall have to wear fewer clothes next time"...yes, Francesca, yes.

Today, Philip, event organiser (no relation to the Duke), has skillfully created a piece of Buenos Aires in Cumbria. We change into dancing shoes, mine the Darcos and Stephanie the Comme il Fauts. Then to the floor, to be wrapped in Cumbrian romance and later satiated with carrot cake, strawberry flan and Earl Grey. 

As the last of the late Spring showers taps the windows, giving way to shards of sunshine through the clouds, the music ends, tea cups are carried tinkling away, and the tango embrace ends. Who said that you need to be Argentine to host a milonga? Well, Dalston proves you wrong!