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.
Subscribe To Stephen Tango
Posts
All Comments
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.
A year on
Pale sunshine through the open window of my tiny Smart car and the music of Astor Piazzolla's Cararra sends me drifting back to Buenos Aires. It is now a year since I started my first blog. On 19th March 2007 I prepared for departure and the prospect of breaking away from all that I had done and known. As you will have seen from the thirty odd posts from Buenos Aires, I certainly achieved that goal. But what about my other aspiration of changing my outlook, horizons and myself? How do things stand a year on?
Well I am dancing Argentine tango. This skill has so enriched my life, I would recommend it to everyone of any age, background or outlook whether you have danced or not. The important aspect of tango is 'the connection'. It is as a metaphor for life: connecting with those friends, connecting you with yourself and connecting to life itself. Tango involves opportunities, surprises, challenges, disappointments, delights and hopes. Now, if this sounds 'high flown', just try it and you will realise what I mean and what you have been missing. There is also the music. Otres Aires, Hugo Diaz, Piazzolla and Canaro have kept me sustained for the last six months.
Of course I am still fortified by the sense of independence that came from travelling alone for the first time to a place that lay beyond all expectations.
Well I am dancing Argentine tango. This skill has so enriched my life, I would recommend it to everyone of any age, background or outlook whether you have danced or not. The important aspect of tango is 'the connection'. It is as a metaphor for life: connecting with those friends, connecting you with yourself and connecting to life itself. Tango involves opportunities, surprises, challenges, disappointments, delights and hopes. Now, if this sounds 'high flown', just try it and you will realise what I mean and what you have been missing. There is also the music. Otres Aires, Hugo Diaz, Piazzolla and Canaro have kept me sustained for the last six months.
Of course I am still fortified by the sense of independence that came from travelling alone for the first time to a place that lay beyond all expectations.
Never say last
02 Sep 2007
Postscript
Last blog? Due to international lament when I said that my last blog was my last blog, I have agreed never to say 'last'. Never!! Maybe, whilst your interest lasts, this series will be the first? And whilst talking of last, this is my penultimate day.
Late afternoon. The usual early spring sunshine just starting to fade. I walk familiar routes to soak up a 'final' pool of city atmosphere. My mission is to buy a flight bag to contain dance shoes, CDs and other absolute essentials which I will preserve from baggage handlers. This leads me to Ave Santa Fe´at its meeting with Rodriguez Pena, the kingdom of bags. Of all of my visits here, this is the first time I have come on a Saturday afternoon. The shopkeepers on Santa Fe´ are looking hopeful or bored as I pass, the Portenios are flooding home in preparation for their late nights of revelry. But what is this? Set back at Av Santa Fe´ 1060 is a busy staircase. It appears to lead into a labyrinth of corridors. Two trails of people enter and leave, like lines of black ants, ritually stopping as ants do to check and greet each other, then passing on. Wearing my black jacket, I pull closed my collar to conceal my cream shirt and follow the line. A sign says casually "Galleria Bond Street". My companions on the stairs match each other perfectly. The youth is tall and thin, his frock coat touching the ground and his piercing prominent on his forehead. She wears a short tartan skirt over fishnet tights and long, buckled boots. Her hair is black as ink, and her lips red as blood.
At the top of the stairs the gallery splits onto three levels, each now visible from the entrance way. Ahead lie dozens of kiosks and shops. They stretch a full block through to Rodriguez Pena. Each one is Gothic. I am now surrounded by a thousand Goths. This is Whitby but on a massive and exotic scale. Here tartan, there black check, everywhere black with flashes of colour from green and red tinted hair. Chains clink. The coffee bars are full of Goths and at least a dozen tattoo studios process queues awaiting piercing. This is done in open kiosks where three or four customers lie on couches or crouch forward as their backs are decorated. The air hums with the sound of needles. Pipi is a Master Tattoo www.mastertattoo.com/ar . His long, jet black, South American Indian ringlets spill down his back as he raises his ink gun to a girls shoulder. Los Tattoo Compadres is full, catalogues of designs being passed between the waiting customers. As I enter one customer passes his design to me just out of interest. In Dr Ivo McPyo http://www.mcpyo.com/ , two semi naked women lie face down on couches as their backs are decorated. A bald head in American Classic receives a condor and piercings.
After 30 minutes of fascination, I pass across the third level and down the stairs, this time to Rodrigues Pena. Here again there are trails of people seemingly draining to the street. Bags rustle, as do the black net skirts of young girls. Metal heels and chains clack on the steps. Rodriguez Pena, normally a busy working street in the week is now transformed as far as the eye can see, past Palacio Pizzurno and the plaza. Here are hundreds of Goths in groups, resting on the grass outside the palacio or standing chatting together. Drums beat from the palace gardens and I push my way through one group of Mahicans wearing black gathered kilts, and another whose faces are white as moonshine but for heavy black mascara and the glint of piercings, their look both androgynous and sexual.
What is so thrilling about this scene? It is the youth, energy and total disregard for convention. I resist the moment and do not retrace my steps to Pipi. As I cross Av Paraguay the Goths recede and the usual weekenders return. An old woman walks by with her dog as if this is the most usual scene in the world. Taxis drift past plying for hire. And this describes Buenos Aires. A city which busily accommodates all; young, old, rich, poor, able, disabled, tango barrister and Goth.
Buenos Aires: reflection postscript
31 Aug 2007
In my last blog I promised you all, my fellow travellers, my reflections on my adventure and the way it has changed my thinking and my life. Maybe it is too soon for this, as I am still in my final few days here in Buenos Aires....too soon to understand let alone to know. But first reflections sometimes reveal as much as final results.
When departing for Buenos Aires and asked about my trip, after the usual glib re post "to dance tango" I ended up confessing that this was my first proper trip outside Europe, my first transatlantic flight, my first encounter with Latin America, and more importantly, the first time I have ever travelled alone! Add to that the fact that I spoke only four words of Spanish, hardly even danced tango as a novice, and the real picture emerged. Here in Buenos Aires as an inexperienced traveller without language and without that all-important umbilical cord of friendships and emotional support, how ever could I survive?
There were moments when survival was the name of the game. In practical terms not having Spanish, let alone Castellano, was a barrier, especially at the time Stephanie and I were attacked and robbed in the street. But as an emotionally dependant man I found the isolation a significant issue. I had taken two important decisions. One was to travel without a computer. My contact with the outside world was to be through the locutorio (Internet cafe). For about 1 peso an hour it was possible to grind the faltering Internet connections via fuzzy screens and dilapidated keyboards, surrounded by vocal youths or ardent Internet communicators. New messages only ever arrived after one left (especially with the 4 hour time difference), so communicating was like sending and reading yesterdays newspapers. The second decision was to rent an apartment rather than to stay in a tango house. I will probably never know the merits of this decision. It afforded privacy, peace, a home, an environment one controlled; but closing the apartment door sealed out the outside world and contact with people. However, it did mean that I was able to dance at 2am and play tango all night! The combination of travelling alone, without easy communication and without peer support was at time tough. Especially on those days when I chose not to dance - where I could find the day closing without human contact, but for walking in the bustling city. However, the experience enabled me to mature in self-sufficiency both in a practical and emotional way.
My life as an English barrister was one underwritten by control....working in the most regulated environment in the world where laws and rules are the tools of the trade and our functions are largely defined by them. When not controlled by judges, courts, clerks and clients, we exercise control through procedures and persuasion. The lack of Spanish, in one fell-swoop, deprived me of my principal skill set. At times I passed through Argentine society like a shadow in late afternoon sunshine. My reflection was all that really existed to those around, otherwise I had little reality or relevance. Just as Portenios observe everyone: the pretty woman, the disadvantaged cripple, each small child, so the tall foreigner is noticed, but not understood and not in reality relevant. And so I slipped seamlessly from being defined by my profession to being indefinable, save by the dollar or euro.
As blind people quickly develop heightened senses of hearing, smell and spacial awareness, this controlling, controlled, articulate, emotionally dependant, inexperienced traveller soon learned the importance of new skills and the need to develop neglected ones. An important example was in relation to non-verbal communication. Expressions, and surprisingly, touch formed an important link with the warm and responsive Portenios. My friendship with Portenios (who spoke and enjoyed practicing their British English) was important, especially Oscar and Mary, Cecilia, Cristina, Julia, Georgie. Other ex pats, Norm, Lee, Elena, Ian, and Dana provided important anchors, and visitors, particularly Carla, Anna and Judi added delight and interest.
My main regret in the early days was my challenging progress with tango. After all, this had been my declared purpose for the visit and I had imagined that I would be dancing confidently at milongas within a month of arriving. This was not to be. One friend said that for each lesson you need 5 hours of practice. When I heard this I was incredulous, but it is absolutely correct. And for me, the absence of a regular dance partner was a real disadvantage and challenge. Stephanie's visit in August rescued me from a sense of failure in this respect. She tenderly and empathetically re-introduced my to the basics of tango and terribly importantly, gave me a sense of the connection which is critical to this dance. On reflection, her originally unplanned visit would have been more timely earlier in the trip, but then as we observed, the 'drip effect' of the teaching I had would have been less effective at an earlier stage. And importantly, Stephanie was here for the World Championships, a highlight in dance terms.
Another question remains over my decision not to travel further afield in Argentina. This is the most wonderful and varied country for visitors. So many areas areas are spectacular and worthy of time. I had to decide priorities for my stay, and the long journeys pose a distraction from the main purpose of enjoying Buenos Aires as a Portenio and learning tango. I felt that, this time, tourism was not for me. In consequence I have little knowledge of the rest of the country, but a detailed familiarity with the city in which I need no map.
On early reflection my visit has given me most of what I could ever have wanted. The moments of loneliness have been character developing and more than compensated for by the moments of friendship and connection. My understanding of this fascinating capital and its people is as great as anyone could have without full command of Castellano, and possibly greater than some who do! Through the friendships I have made and experienced, my eyes ave been opened to another way of life where the priorities of work and money are put in another perspective. It is doubtful that I can ever go back to my former way of life centered round work and home. Six months have given me the knowledge I do have wings, and I have learned to fly. I will continue to travel, and shall return on a regular basis to Argentina. On my next visit I will have sufficient command of Castellano and maybe a tango house in San Telmo? Want to come?
Postscript
I am in the process of preparing a 'Survival Guide' for those who plan to visit Buenos Aires. I will publish this on my blog for those who are interested in following my footsteps, or know someone who does.
In my last blog I promised you all, my fellow travellers, my reflections on my adventure and the way it has changed my thinking and my life. Maybe it is too soon for this, as I am still in my final few days here in Buenos Aires....too soon to understand let alone to know. But first reflections sometimes reveal as much as final results.
When departing for Buenos Aires and asked about my trip, after the usual glib re post "to dance tango" I ended up confessing that this was my first proper trip outside Europe, my first transatlantic flight, my first encounter with Latin America, and more importantly, the first time I have ever travelled alone! Add to that the fact that I spoke only four words of Spanish, hardly even danced tango as a novice, and the real picture emerged. Here in Buenos Aires as an inexperienced traveller without language and without that all-important umbilical cord of friendships and emotional support, how ever could I survive?
There were moments when survival was the name of the game. In practical terms not having Spanish, let alone Castellano, was a barrier, especially at the time Stephanie and I were attacked and robbed in the street. But as an emotionally dependant man I found the isolation a significant issue. I had taken two important decisions. One was to travel without a computer. My contact with the outside world was to be through the locutorio (Internet cafe). For about 1 peso an hour it was possible to grind the faltering Internet connections via fuzzy screens and dilapidated keyboards, surrounded by vocal youths or ardent Internet communicators. New messages only ever arrived after one left (especially with the 4 hour time difference), so communicating was like sending and reading yesterdays newspapers. The second decision was to rent an apartment rather than to stay in a tango house. I will probably never know the merits of this decision. It afforded privacy, peace, a home, an environment one controlled; but closing the apartment door sealed out the outside world and contact with people. However, it did mean that I was able to dance at 2am and play tango all night! The combination of travelling alone, without easy communication and without peer support was at time tough. Especially on those days when I chose not to dance - where I could find the day closing without human contact, but for walking in the bustling city. However, the experience enabled me to mature in self-sufficiency both in a practical and emotional way.
My life as an English barrister was one underwritten by control....working in the most regulated environment in the world where laws and rules are the tools of the trade and our functions are largely defined by them. When not controlled by judges, courts, clerks and clients, we exercise control through procedures and persuasion. The lack of Spanish, in one fell-swoop, deprived me of my principal skill set. At times I passed through Argentine society like a shadow in late afternoon sunshine. My reflection was all that really existed to those around, otherwise I had little reality or relevance. Just as Portenios observe everyone: the pretty woman, the disadvantaged cripple, each small child, so the tall foreigner is noticed, but not understood and not in reality relevant. And so I slipped seamlessly from being defined by my profession to being indefinable, save by the dollar or euro.
As blind people quickly develop heightened senses of hearing, smell and spacial awareness, this controlling, controlled, articulate, emotionally dependant, inexperienced traveller soon learned the importance of new skills and the need to develop neglected ones. An important example was in relation to non-verbal communication. Expressions, and surprisingly, touch formed an important link with the warm and responsive Portenios. My friendship with Portenios (who spoke and enjoyed practicing their British English) was important, especially Oscar and Mary, Cecilia, Cristina, Julia, Georgie. Other ex pats, Norm, Lee, Elena, Ian, and Dana provided important anchors, and visitors, particularly Carla, Anna and Judi added delight and interest.
My main regret in the early days was my challenging progress with tango. After all, this had been my declared purpose for the visit and I had imagined that I would be dancing confidently at milongas within a month of arriving. This was not to be. One friend said that for each lesson you need 5 hours of practice. When I heard this I was incredulous, but it is absolutely correct. And for me, the absence of a regular dance partner was a real disadvantage and challenge. Stephanie's visit in August rescued me from a sense of failure in this respect. She tenderly and empathetically re-introduced my to the basics of tango and terribly importantly, gave me a sense of the connection which is critical to this dance. On reflection, her originally unplanned visit would have been more timely earlier in the trip, but then as we observed, the 'drip effect' of the teaching I had would have been less effective at an earlier stage. And importantly, Stephanie was here for the World Championships, a highlight in dance terms.
Another question remains over my decision not to travel further afield in Argentina. This is the most wonderful and varied country for visitors. So many areas areas are spectacular and worthy of time. I had to decide priorities for my stay, and the long journeys pose a distraction from the main purpose of enjoying Buenos Aires as a Portenio and learning tango. I felt that, this time, tourism was not for me. In consequence I have little knowledge of the rest of the country, but a detailed familiarity with the city in which I need no map.
On early reflection my visit has given me most of what I could ever have wanted. The moments of loneliness have been character developing and more than compensated for by the moments of friendship and connection. My understanding of this fascinating capital and its people is as great as anyone could have without full command of Castellano, and possibly greater than some who do! Through the friendships I have made and experienced, my eyes ave been opened to another way of life where the priorities of work and money are put in another perspective. It is doubtful that I can ever go back to my former way of life centered round work and home. Six months have given me the knowledge I do have wings, and I have learned to fly. I will continue to travel, and shall return on a regular basis to Argentina. On my next visit I will have sufficient command of Castellano and maybe a tango house in San Telmo? Want to come?
Postscript
I am in the process of preparing a 'Survival Guide' for those who plan to visit Buenos Aires. I will publish this on my blog for those who are interested in following my footsteps, or know someone who does.
La Rural, tango and leaving Buenos Aires
29 Aug 2007
The morning light is thin through the rain. A queue snakes from Plaza Italia out along Avendia Santa Fe towards Palermo. Men and women huddle under umbrellas giving the appearance of a long string of coloured beads. Closer, you see a combination of anticipation and resignation on the wet faces that wait whilst drops of water drip from the hoardings alongside 'La Rural'. We are standing for tickets. The mate´ seller has just wheeled his cart festooned with silver thermos flasks, each with a painted top to indicate its contents. For 2 pesos (17pence) I have bought a cup of sweet white coffee to stave off early morning hunger and cold. A small man in a thin, wet jacket, holding a fist full of pieces of paper, painstakingly hands a sheet to each person who will accept. It bears a poem about tango and love and loss in rain smudged typing that reminds of a tear stained love letter. The old man in front of me hands him a peso and pushes the sheet deep into his coat pocket. The queue starts to move, hesitatingly at first, then more quickly as I measure our progress against the second hand book kiosks that are opening on the centre island of Santa Fe. After 30 minutes a man dwarfed in an official jacket bearing the word 'Seguridad' directs me to an adjacent booth, and I now have my two tickets for the competition final in Salon Tango of the 5th World Championships. Stamping my cold wet feet I head off with other successful travellers for the subte and back to the city centre.
It is now 6.30pm. Stephanie, who has come to rescue my tango and sanity and I are the 39th and 40th in a queue which will reach 1000 or more. The atmosphere is so different tonight with thrill and excitement on the waiting faces, the grey morning figures replaced by couples and families who laugh and chat together. With a further flurry of rain, the first 150 people are admitted to wait in La Rural, a huge complex of inter-connecting halls and exhibition spaces. By 7.30 pm we secure our un-numbered seat on the massive tower of steps overlooking the stage. Here 1500 of us huddle together, our feet almost touching the bottoms of people in front. Those around us are drinking mate´and eating empanadas and cakes, laughing and pressing together like a single organic pulsating being. A slow hand clap from the good humoured sections way above us forces the show into action. The presenter announces the start of the final competition. Ripples of applause cascade out along the the stands. The first ten of forty competitors walk from the wings towards the stage. These are dance finalists that you would never have expected. There, tall amongst the first group, are Daria and Nikolaeva (www.da-tango.ru ), the Russian pair we ate pizza with after the show tango semi-finals. They look sophisticated and elegant. Behind are a couple from Colombia, both under 5' tall and dark, her skirt slit to the thigh, and in front two ordinary Portenios from the barrios of Buenos Aires who look as if they have just stopped off for a break on their journey home from work. Her plain skirt is fawn and his suit is baggy round the knees. But on stage, each of ten couples at a time dance themselves and the audience into small dreams.
The judging criteria for Salon Tango is strict. No showy steps, ganchos, lifts; no separation from the embrace; lots of contact with the floor; moves you would commonly find in the milonga, with the emphasis on walking, the hold, respecting space and re-creating the romantic contact of two dancers moving as one. Our Russian friends and the Australian couple from Sydney stand out as elegant and stylish against the preferred earthy style of the barrios. Back to the drawing board next year for them. We look with awe as a couple in their sixties slowly circle the floor. They have been dancing for over forty years together and relax, waving to friends in the audience between dance pieces. As the rounds unfurl, interlaced with tango bands, an exhibition from last years winners and a short film about tango, an unprepossessing youth in a grey work suit catches our attention as he dances with a girl in a simple black dress. His dance style is forward, his knees slightly bent. Their heads touch as they dance. Their turns slowly evoke an age of romance. I push a handkerchief manfully across my eyes to hide from Stephanie my tears of emotion as I watch transfixed by a sudden feeling of intimacy and heart-rending loss. Two hours later they will be the 5th Champions of the World, having lifted into ordinary life a simple dance of perfection, joy, movement and connection.
We are leaving La Rural for the last time. I still feel emotional as I take Stephanie's hand in the crowd. People around us are chatting and laughing, criticising and praising performances in rapid Castellano. I realise that it is not just the end of the competition, but the closing stage of my visit to Buenos Aires. Stephanie will leave within 48 hours and I will follow in 6 days. Leaving La Rural is like the end of a dream. The colours, smells, sounds, faces, friendships, touches, caresses of a city are melting like the crowds fanning out onto Avendia Santa Fe. From the warmth and noise of the throng we are stepping out alone, each with thoughts of our impending return. For me, a sense of loss, almost bereavement. Europe, for 6 months a distant thought, is now intruding into my mind. Family, home, work, colleagues, news, routine seem to be pressing to take their place in my thoughts, just as the Portenios drift away towards their homes and their lives. This will be my last blog entry to detail my time here in Buenos Aires. But for those of you who have followed my adventures I will try later to capture how my time here has changed my life. And who knows, may have changed yours?
Park Lezama
30 Jul 2007
Eight green parrots in distinct pairs fly from palm to palm, screeching as they go. Below, Charron arrives, late.
Its Sunday again. I have walked, as you would expect the full length of Defensa San Telmo, through Plaza Dorego complete with crowds, stalls, music, the smell of incense, and tango dancers. A ten metre line of drummers, men women and children, has passed bringing trading to a halt. They wear matching blue and white tee shirts (the colours of the Argentine flag) and pause at the head of the square to buy Mate´ in small polystyrene cups. Today I am not remaining in San Telmo. I quickly pass the contortion performance where a man with curly black hair wearing a cat suit twists his torso 180 degrees, grasps his legs, folds them over his back and places them under his arms. Impossible you say?...step forward and look!
I am now crossing Avendia Juan de Garray. Beyond this is not San Telmo, nor yet La Boca. The feared Constitution, allegedly the most dangerous barrio of Buenos Aires lies to my right. To my left, the entrance to dock 1 at Puerto Madero across the distant rail lines. Here in front is Parque Lezama, positioned neutrally between the barrios. It is distinctive, as it cascades over a hill and under a canopy of tall plane trees which form the winter skeleton to the flesh of the palms and fern trees. Beneath, the paths tumble steeply to Avendia Martin Garcia, and each path appears to be lined with canvas and plastic roofed tents, curling like ribbons from the mount. To my left, youths play football, one exhibiting his skills by keeping the ball from the ground for over 20 seconds before projecting it to his friends. Over in the children's play area mothers and grandparents sit in the sun and knit, drinking Mate´ together and eat empanadas, whilst dozens of highly coloured children play noisily. The tents I have described turn out to be stalls, trading mostly second hand clothes, shoes and bric-a-brac. Here they are not a quirky fashion option but a necessity, for many families would remain unclothed but for the market stalls. As I pass, a deal with size 8 shoes is struck. A small wiry man with straight black hair pulled into a pony tail has tried them on, as his wife held the baby and his sneakers. Yes they fit. 15 pesos and a recycled plastic bag. I pause at the display of tools, sickles, spanners and hammers which have survived scores of years of use and now await new hands to polish them.
Having re-ascended the hill, passing the smallest man I have seen here in Buenos Aires, distinguished only from a dwarf by his perfect symmetry, I take the first available bench to sit to eat my empanada carne. Seven men in their early 20's have already arrived at the bench opposite and pull large shells from their bags. These they attach with nylon wire to long bent willow and bamboo poles, now transformed into bows. Tension is gained by pulling the pole across the knee and fastening the wire with a platted rope. One man sits on a folding stool at a bongo drum, others on plastic stools and 3 on the bench side by side. Eventually they start to play, slow percussive rhythms, changing the tones by lifting the shells and inserting small oval stones against the wires. A mother of two has joined me at my bench and she sings whilst mirroring the rhythms with her hands. Across the way a mature man, of uncertain age and sexuality, dressed by the market, mouths words to the beat. And the three of us sit as odd witnesses to the developing scene.
It is at this point that Charron arrives. I know not his name, but that word is written on the back of his red and white leather jacket which he unfastens with theatricality. He is slim and strong and a man with considerable power. He moves like a cat. His control is palpable. He places his bag on a pile with the others behind the players and returns to an area of tarmac in front of the players which earlier was swept for him by hand brushes. He squats. And then he starts to sing. Even the noisy return of a squadron of parrots goes unnoticed. His voice, an electric wire of sound connects with the trunks of the plane trees and stops families in their tracks. From his squat he rises slowly and strongly to face a junior member of the band. A slim youth releases his percussive bow and creeps forward for the confrontation. And they dance. Slow movements, with martial art precision hand lifts, their legs curving and circling over and below each other's torsos. A group of twenty now threatens to obscure my view so I move under the planes. The scene is frozen in time by the hypnotic pulse of the instruments and the dance, reflected in the ent-like sway of the crowd. Eventually Charron rises, his opponent is vanquished.
My return is back through Defensa, passing Cafe del Mercado, still filled with diners, and into San Telmo which, with the exception of La Vieja Rotiseria by the covered market, appears tame, having relinquished its danger to Lezama and La Boca. My pace can slow. The last of the day's sunshine flickers across pavements at the grid junctions as I make my way over Avendia Belgrano and on to the city.
Cafe Hermann Santa Fe´ 3092
28 Jul 2007
Those of you who read my blog on Mar del Plata will recall my observations about the German and Austrian influence here in Argentina. At Mar del Plata the architecture, with long tile-hung roofs and elaborate balconies. Here at Cafe Hermann, fittingly, I am meeting Elena for dinner. From the outside the cafe looks a little dull. Brightened only by the red neon sign spelling out its name, the cafe occupies a corner position between Santa Fe and Ármenia. Two engraved glass doors separated at angles to each other give immediate access to the dining room. Ahead a huge mirror engraved with stags is the centre piece in an ornate mahogany bar. The qualification age for a waiter here is clearly 60. They wear short white coats with black ties and gather together around the bar. One takes an early supper of plain steamed chicken served entirely on its own, with only white string holding its feet for garnish. Elena and I meet outside at 2045 hrs and we are obviously early. Two other couples take an early supper before rushing off to the theatre or home to their families. We are led to a set table reserved earlier today.
The seats are tall benches with high backs that create a private dining cocoon. Our waiter lifts the flap at the end of the bench to take our bottle of Lopez. Elena scrutinises the menu with
fascination. "Sausages Vienna", she says in her crisp Viennese accent. "No, I think we shall try the Lomo Hermann". Under the supervision of an Austrian gastronome it sounds like a good choice. "How is Lomo Hermann?", she asks our waiter returning with sparking water. "With bananas", he replies smiling. I had noticed alarming rows of bananas festooned above the bar. Now, as the restaurant fills exclusively with Portenios, the rows of bananas become jagged with gaps. "I think not", says Elena, "maybe another time" and we safely order Lomo with peppercorn sauce, vegetables, salad, potatoes and papas fritas, which our waiter in the tradition of Cafe Hermann immediately memorises. During the short wait for our food, Cafe Hermann fills. Couples, families, work associates and lovers. The latter are easily recognisable by the openness of affection that is entirely acceptable and expected here in Buenos Aires. Lovers will kiss longingly in the Subte or on Colectivos (bus). People of all ages stop in the street to cuddle or hold each other in a passionate embrace. Whilst my fingers touch Elena's to make a conversational point, we resist further temptation of familiarity, preferring to deal with the task in hand: our meal. Lomo is a rump steak, often large or huge. Ours come drenched with a peppercorn liquor, nutty and fiery. Elena's vegetables (it is after nightfall so she does not eat salad) comprise cabbage, beans and large oval slices of pumpkin. "Unlike love, Argentines are not comfortable with vegetables", she observes. My salad has been tossed in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, the patatas fritas are cooked in dripping, to a golden brown. The Lopez, first recommended by Maria (see Mar del Plata), slips comfortably down, complementing the richness of the meat. Around us, a hubble of voices, clattering of plates and chinking of glasses. In the air, the faint aroma of bananas.
We are stirred from our intense conversation by flames, which spill onto the floor as they pass by our table. Our waiter carries a large metal dish which he agitates with a spoon. The flames are a mix of gold, copper and blue, like a fresh lit primus stove. The aroma is no longer that of bananas but of exotic liqueur which has been lit with a taper. "We will have one of those", Elena clips to the waiter, "and two spoons; one cafe con laiche and one cup", she adds. When our postre arrives it is already afire. More vigorous spooning and the surface caramelises. This is not just a pancake, but an incandescent experience of sight and taste. With the two spoons, we share, cutting off slices and tasting the crispness and softness. Elena's eyes have been softened by firelight and spirit from the pancake. We call for the bill and exit into the cold night air lifting from Jardins Botanico. Elena's taxi screeches to a halt almost bumping the kerb and she dives in, to be swept away towards Palermo. For me, my favourite 39 colectivo rattles into view along Av Santa Fe´. "Ochenta", I say to the driver as I get my ticket and seat towards the rear of the bus, and I speed off towards Talchuano, Tucuman and the city.
Those of you who read my blog on Mar del Plata will recall my observations about the German and Austrian influence here in Argentina. At Mar del Plata the architecture, with long tile-hung roofs and elaborate balconies. Here at Cafe Hermann, fittingly, I am meeting Elena for dinner. From the outside the cafe looks a little dull. Brightened only by the red neon sign spelling out its name, the cafe occupies a corner position between Santa Fe and Ármenia. Two engraved glass doors separated at angles to each other give immediate access to the dining room. Ahead a huge mirror engraved with stags is the centre piece in an ornate mahogany bar. The qualification age for a waiter here is clearly 60. They wear short white coats with black ties and gather together around the bar. One takes an early supper of plain steamed chicken served entirely on its own, with only white string holding its feet for garnish. Elena and I meet outside at 2045 hrs and we are obviously early. Two other couples take an early supper before rushing off to the theatre or home to their families. We are led to a set table reserved earlier today.
The seats are tall benches with high backs that create a private dining cocoon. Our waiter lifts the flap at the end of the bench to take our bottle of Lopez. Elena scrutinises the menu with
fascination. "Sausages Vienna", she says in her crisp Viennese accent. "No, I think we shall try the Lomo Hermann". Under the supervision of an Austrian gastronome it sounds like a good choice. "How is Lomo Hermann?", she asks our waiter returning with sparking water. "With bananas", he replies smiling. I had noticed alarming rows of bananas festooned above the bar. Now, as the restaurant fills exclusively with Portenios, the rows of bananas become jagged with gaps. "I think not", says Elena, "maybe another time" and we safely order Lomo with peppercorn sauce, vegetables, salad, potatoes and papas fritas, which our waiter in the tradition of Cafe Hermann immediately memorises. During the short wait for our food, Cafe Hermann fills. Couples, families, work associates and lovers. The latter are easily recognisable by the openness of affection that is entirely acceptable and expected here in Buenos Aires. Lovers will kiss longingly in the Subte or on Colectivos (bus). People of all ages stop in the street to cuddle or hold each other in a passionate embrace. Whilst my fingers touch Elena's to make a conversational point, we resist further temptation of familiarity, preferring to deal with the task in hand: our meal. Lomo is a rump steak, often large or huge. Ours come drenched with a peppercorn liquor, nutty and fiery. Elena's vegetables (it is after nightfall so she does not eat salad) comprise cabbage, beans and large oval slices of pumpkin. "Unlike love, Argentines are not comfortable with vegetables", she observes. My salad has been tossed in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, the patatas fritas are cooked in dripping, to a golden brown. The Lopez, first recommended by Maria (see Mar del Plata), slips comfortably down, complementing the richness of the meat. Around us, a hubble of voices, clattering of plates and chinking of glasses. In the air, the faint aroma of bananas.We are stirred from our intense conversation by flames, which spill onto the floor as they pass by our table. Our waiter carries a large metal dish which he agitates with a spoon. The flames are a mix of gold, copper and blue, like a fresh lit primus stove. The aroma is no longer that of bananas but of exotic liqueur which has been lit with a taper. "We will have one of those", Elena clips to the waiter, "and two spoons; one cafe con laiche and one cup", she adds. When our postre arrives it is already afire. More vigorous spooning and the surface caramelises. This is not just a pancake, but an incandescent experience of sight and taste. With the two spoons, we share, cutting off slices and tasting the crispness and softness. Elena's eyes have been softened by firelight and spirit from the pancake. We call for the bill and exit into the cold night air lifting from Jardins Botanico. Elena's taxi screeches to a halt almost bumping the kerb and she dives in, to be swept away towards Palermo. For me, my favourite 39 colectivo rattles into view along Av Santa Fe´. "Ochenta", I say to the driver as I get my ticket and seat towards the rear of the bus, and I speed off towards Talchuano, Tucuman and the city.
Santa Fe´and Scalabrini Ortez
Now I notice another movement and glance to my left. Through the iron railings separating the gardens from the street four cats race into view, two grey, one ginger and one black. As I re-focus, maybe a dozen more become visible. And beyond, under sweeping palms and banana trees (more about which in the later blog), dotted, snoozing in the sun, maybe a hundred cats. One man sleeps on the grass on his back and on his rising chest two cats enjoy the shared warmth. Here people and cats sit and stroll together.
I must leave the garden, passing at the junction of Av Armenia a parilla of distinction to which I will sojourn for dinner with Elena tonight, then back into Santa Fe´. Now the pavements throng with women, young and old, who unlike the men of the Jardin Botanico, gather in the dozens of shoe and lingerie shops, the two contrasting passions of the Argentine women of Buenos Aires.
Salon Canning milonga
21 Jul 2007
We meet at 11.30 pm at the ice cream shop in Ave Jorges Borges, Palermo, where I am finishing my gellato. My dance partner for the evening has just taken supper with friends and carries a box of cakes bearing pictures in rice paper of her and her birthday party host. The evening is relaxed and warm and the fashionable streets of Palermo are filled with revellers as we make our way out to the milonga at Salon Canning.
The entrance of Canning is if anything unprepossessing, leading straight from Av Scalabrini Ortiz, a busy provincial road on the edge of bario Pallermo filled with shops, kiosks, offices and apartments. Ahead is a dreamy, distant sound of tango. Twenty pesos (£3.25) at the door and we enter the salon. To our left is the bar with its domed mirror and ahead a massive montage of dancers who have performed here and made up its history. The room is light, very light, and tables surround the dance floor. We are taken to one and the waitress returns with two bottles of sparking water whilst we surreptitiously change into our dance shoes. It has just gone midnight, so the place is still relatively quiet. About 50 couples dance, in the centre a tall young man with his long hair tied back into a pony tail taking one of his students for her first outing at a milonga. She clings to him with both hesitation and fear in that moment, which can only be compared with a fledgling taking its first flight from the nest. Some couples dance in open embrace, performing showy moves and embellishments with skill; others circle in close embrace, face against face, he tipped forwards towards her, her with eyes closed wrapped in his arms. Tonight the music is mournful. Those that know that the words know that they are the saddest words in the world. Loss, death, desertion, unfulfilled promises. When you combine the words and music with two and a half minutes of intimate surrender to a stranger, you know the real meaning of tango.
We dance, taking to the floor when there are sufficient dancers to draw the eye away from our inexperience. We need not worry, because tonight attention is being saved for the exhibition. An announcement is made, a flurry of excited applause and the small dark couple who we had observed dancing earlier, take to the floor. She stands at one side, he at the other. They walk purposefully towards each other, their eyes fixed on each other. He offers his embrace which she takes. It is as if she is sinking into his arms and into love. Her body softens to his, his flexes to hers. The music of tango plays. He takes her in a long, smooth step to the side and they move as one dancer in two parts connected by invisible thread. His lead is strong and her response gentle. He walks forward, she back. If she stopped he would walk through her. He pauses...for the briefest moment as she sways in his arms, like a cradled child. He leads her across and around him in a dazzling flash of footwork. At no point do they break the spell of intimacy, their dance so coinciding that it is impossible to imagine the moment when his thought and intention are translated into her movement. Two and a half minutes in this case is the briefest of delirious fragments of time. Rapturous applause. Next a valse. Now the flow is like a tide, she moves and sways like a frond of coral. This is ultimate romance and the discerning audience is spell bound with interest and passion.
When finally they walk from the floor and the music subsides, other dancers take either tentatively or vigorously to the floor, to recapture or seek to emulate that which they have seen. We look at each other for a moment. Shall we dance? I cough self-consciously and she sensitively suggests, "its been a busy day, maybe we should be making a move before long". Yes, hard act to follow. Why should tango be quite so tough? We nod to our waitress, rise with our coats and shoes, make our way to our waiting taxi and on into the night, leaving the dancers of Canning to fulfill or deny their dreams and expectations.
Street life of Calle Florida
27 Jul 2007
photo by http://www.urbanphoto.net
Calle Florida runs across the heart of the city centre. It is a pedestrian shopping street crammed with life. Everyone who lives in or visits Buenos Aires walks this street at some time. Here is all manner of life. The shops do brisk business, whether the expensive ones of Galleria Pacifico, an elegant, period covered block of shops, restaurants and the Borges Cultural Centre (housing galleries and the Argentine tango and ballet schools of Julio Bocca) or the small kiosks placed precariously in the centre of the street around which the hordes of shoppers heave, urchins beg and thieves check bags. But today I am here to see the traders and street performers.
I start my journey of nearly a mile of shops from Plaza San Martin, where a warm breeze tousles the fronds of the fern trees and a translucent outline of the moon is already visible in the afternoon sky. As I cross the square the 152 bus to Olivos and La Boca thunders into view, distinct with blue and red livery and the sign 'Emp Tandilense SA' painted exotically on the side. This is the city's most intriguing coach company, festooned with bevelled mirrors and velvet sunshields. Its suspension hisses at each bump and lurch and its horn whoops at those who dare to get in its way. I enter the smart end of Calle Florida where the better hotels are located, and the afternoon sun manages to drench the first 20 metres of the street. Here the shoe polishers gather in the afternoon, catching business men and tourists as they make their way through the city. I sit on the tall stool and offer my Argentine tan leather shoes for a polish. The price seems to depend on the cut of ones suit or the quality of the leather to be cleaned. I am getting a 'silver service' it seems for 5 pesos, whilst a simple, brass lustre could cost as little as 2.5 pesos elsewhere. At over 6 pesos to the sterling pound this is still a good deal. My polisher hands me the local paper to read, which I take. He places inserts around my ankles to protect my socks and the process begins. First, the polish, liberally spread from a jar and rubbed into the leather. Then the wax, buffed into every crevice and into a fine bloom. Then the final polish with two large brushes moved like pistons over the sides of the shoes and finished with a soft cloth. The effect is dazzling to the eye, but more important, lifts the spirit. It is a private deal between two independent men both needing each other, me for the shine, him for the income. With the exchange of notes comes the smile through broken teeth and the handshake, and I am off on my way along Florida.
Still within the sunshine is the first performer. He is in his early 30's, dressed in a dark coat with his black hair down to his collar and plays classical guitar. The sound is superb and rich, enhanced by his portable amplifier, but to a subtle degree. Yet to draw a crowd, a small group of tourists loiter both to enjoy the sun and the sound. His position is guaranteed by the better hotels, outside which he plays. There too symbiosis. He is a professional and the hotel doormen realise the added value he brings to their frontage. As I progress, the bearded balloon man passes, sporting a fur hat, his mass of balloons rising on the gentle breeze. He pauses to make a sale and waves to his guitar playing friend. I am now passing from the winter sunshine into the calle. The height of the buildings on both sides screens the street from direct light at this time of the afternoon, but this seems to affect neither traders, performers or shoppers. Next I discover a young soprano dressed in a grey body warmer and sneakers. She is giving a spirited rendition of an aria which I should recognise but have temporarily mislaid. That matters not, as she paces to and fro performing actions as well as song to the delight of a small crowd. Further is more classicality. We are now outside Harrods. Once a replica of Harrods London, it now lies empty awaiting rebirth. Through the stained windows you can still discern the walnut and mahogany fittings and heavy bevelled screens. Is this Beethoven? He stands on a box covered in red crushed velvet, dressed in a red velvet jacket, bottle blue waistcoat and fawn breeches. Atop is his white full bottomed wig framing a white painted face. A few centivos brings him to life from his statuesque form, to conduct soundless music with his little white baton. A little further and we make the transition from the classical end of the calle to the bohemian. Our next performer is a bandonneon player. He wears a thick grey coat with white neckerchief, his elegant grey hair swept back. His music is as sad as his demeanour. An old performer who has fallen on hard times. A lone woman stands before him and claps, with tears in her eyes. She turns and rummages into her capacious bag, retrieving some notes which she places into his hat, and her handkerchief with which she dabs her face. Yet further is more sound of tango. Now outside Galleria Pacifico I see a group of young tango performers, wearing black suits trimmed with white edging and black hats with white bands. These are here at their appointed time most days. The boys look like students from the National School of Dance Folklorique, but the sole female dancer is a traditional street performer. She wears a daring red velvet dress cut to the highest point, revealing her fishnet covered legs to great effect. Their act is more of pastiche than performance, but worth the two minute wait and possibly a peso. Behind them is the almost limbless violinist, his trousers tucked up into his wheel chair so that they do not tangle with the wheels. He plays tuneful laments which mingle with the tango to form a suffused mist of sound. Then the puppeteer. She is slight with razored hair. Her single puppet performs rock music either at a piano or holding a microphone. For some reason she attracts a huge crowd who seem fascinated and spell-bound by the puppet's life-like antics. I think she will eat well tonight. As will the fallen angel. I say fallen as he is the only seated mannequin I have seen. He almost leans against the booth, his silver wings folded to each side and his silver hands ready to hand a small gift to those who place money in his bowl. People queue as if waiting for a blessing (which he probably gives for a peso), and for some reason children seem to love him. When not responding to alms, he sits motionless and godlike. To the side of him, by way of contrast, is the tarot card reader with green baize table and cards already spread for the next prediction. As I reach Lavalle, I encounter the painters, one painting with his feet, one with spray cans and another sketching portraits. Across is the photographer with classical pictures and tempting tango shots. At one side a trick seller demonstrating the impossible to an animated crowd of youngsters and to the other side a small child, aged perhaps 6, playing an accordion, the tune barely discernible amongst the hubub of the street. We are now but half way. The street is thronging and more delights lie ahead, like Jose Carlos' fabulous tango dancers pictured above but they must wait for another day.
Cafe Tortoni
16 Jul 2007
Cafe Tortoni
Before parting, after an afternoon taking in the late sunshine, walking with tourists, talking in Castillano and shopping in San Telmo, on our way home my Argentine friend and I stopped by at Cafe Tortoni in Avenida de Mayo 825. She was keen to show me the cafe, one of the most famous landmarks here in Buenos Aires, and was amazed that I had survived for four months here without visiting this place.
The small queue outside is nothing remarkable. In the Capital Federal, people will form an orderly queue for any excuse...waiting for a bus, at the supermarket, waiting to go into a shop where the door has been closed due to the numbers inside, waiting outside a cinema or theatre. Within moments the doorman ushers us inside. A table for two. This is a marble table in the centre of a very large saloon. The walls are panelled with dark wood and mirrors. All around are pictures and photographs of the glitterati who had dined there, including of course Carlos Gardel and Jorges Borges. This is a place for artists, intellectuals, writers, thinkers, talkers, people with money, people with aspirations and people with dreams. We are amongst the latter category, aspiring to be all of the former. Around us are seated many others taking tea and eating delicious cakes topped high with cream and fruit. They look at us casually, but carefully. To enter this place you have to have a purpose. Is he a celebrity? A famous writer? Maybe a politician? He is wearing a suit. He is helping her with her coat. He must be English and very tall for Buenos Aires - over 6'2" and she is Argentine, elegant and at least 5'10". My friend leans towards me, teasingly whispering as if addressing the group of women at a nearby table "Stop looking, he's mine!" The waiter is splendid and arrives unnecessarily with a menu. I know my friend's choice. Obvious from the moment we met when she asked hopefully "Are either of your parents Swiss or Belgian"? We order two submarinos and chocolate mouse to share. Submarinos are exactly what they sound. A tall glass of hot milk on a decorative saucer. Alongside an oblong object wrapped in cellophane. I follow her lead and
Snowy Buenos Aires!
Was it 1918 when it last snowed in Buenos Aires? For those of you who do not live in England and doubt the effect of global warming, now look at what has happened here in South America today.
Early afternoon Av de Mayo. It is snowing. By snowing, I mean real flakes of snow which gather on the roof of the taxis as they wait for the lights to change. Faces are pressed against the cafe windows, people wearing scarves and hats have ventured outside to take photographs on their mobile phones. On man is trying to get the whole of 'Obelisco' in focus covered with snowflakes. And children are running and skipping amongst the flakes as if they have not seen them before....which they won't unless they have travelled down to the south of the country, North America or Europe. Even their grandparents do not remember this. The scene is amusing for those of us who live with snow in the winter. But here, the palms are getting a cover of snow like Christmas trees. And why? A large bus thunders by belching out diesel fumes which results in a settling of carbon on the thin covering of snow at the kerb side. An international flight leaves high above the city for Europe. The heat exchangers have ceased to drip drip their deposit of water onto the pavements as it is cold, but the cold and snow is probably their legacy.
It is another holiday Monday and the city is half asleep. The sort of feeling which you get when Argentina is playing Brazil at football. Few cars are about and even fewer pedestrians. Today San Telmo and Recoleta, Palermo and Puerto Madero are desolate. A few traders have ventured out, regretting their decision as the tourists have stayed in their hotels. A wind whips round the corner of Av 9th Julio into Rivadavia and cuts through the thin coats of the passers by. The street booksellers and magazine stores have covered their displays with plastic sheeting, and even the cartoneros are battening down the hatches with plastic and extra cardboard. The spaces in doorways where there is some warmth are prized by the street people, some of whom will die of hypothermia tonight.
Here in South America, the ozone layer is thin, almost non-existent in parts in the summer, and the winter temperatures have changed so that people comment with concern. What is to be done about it? Al Gore started as a figure of fun, but now a reality is overtaking the image. Hopefully, tomorrow may be different. The sun will be back and the street cafes full of Portenos relaxing with a Cafe con leche. But what of the future?
It was a relief to reach the apartment in Tucuman and escape the cold, the flakes and the wind. The block door clicked purposefully behind me as I entered the large tiled entrance hall and made my way to the lift. Upstairs in the apartment, I closed the shutters for the first time and made fresh coffee which accompanied the wonderful pastry I had bought in Corrientes. Later, with white wine, olives, Parma ham, cream cheese and pimentos I dimmed the lights and danced alone, leaving the city to its own devices for tonight. Hugo Diaz' harmonica provided the music and a feeling of contentment. As I dance I wonder about what lies around me. Maybe you can help me with your thoughts?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)