Follow-up: The anti-grouch

I ended up going dancing last night. It wasn't a completely flawless evening (if there is any such thing in tango--and maybe that is an important thing for me to learn), but it had some excellent moments, and that was enough.

Maybe more than the dancing itself, it was good for me to get out of the house and see some tango-pals. It is impossible not to cheer up when you walk into the place and the first thing anyone says to you is, "Wow, you look great!"

Spent the evening mainly in cheerful girl-talk with friendly tango-ladies, when not dancing. And before I left, the DJ kissed my cheek and called me "sweetie," sending me out with a smile on my face.

Much better.

On the bright side...

...I did finally arrange a waltzing lesson with my fellow student, a few weeks ago. (In exchange for cookies--Vienna fingers, of course!) Now I can waltz! And it turns out it's pretty easy and fun! Why was I so scared of it before?

Other times, it's ... still the little things.

I need to stop being so susceptible to the charms of handsome young men who dance well. My tango-crushes lead to nothing but heartache. Granted, the disappointment is usually very minor--I might be unhappy for a day or so at most, once I realize that there is nothing there that's going to carry off the dance floor; I know that--but I'd really rather not go through it at all, if I could manage to avoid it.

Le sigh...

Because I am a grouch today, I shall gripe about a minor incident at the last milonga I went to, here in town. I was dancing with a guy--not my best, but not my worst either; he danced open embrace--when suddenly he let go of me entirely and spun away from me across the floor, utterly disregarding the line of dance. I just stood there, dumbfounded. I've (occasionally, when there was enough space) been spun by partners before and been able to follow, but I've never had one just leave me behind like that.

He quickly realized that whatever he was doing, I had not followed, and returned to where I was trying not to obstruct the line of dance.

"Sorry," he said, offering the embrace again, "I was trying a little salsa."

"I only dance tango," I replied, trying to speak politely.

"I guess it was a gamble," he shrugged.

And I did not say, At a tango dance evening, during a tango song? I'm not sure that was a gamble I would have made. (But what else is new around here?)


It's been kind of a rough few weeks, in my non-tango life. Today, I'm having a hard time deciding whether I'm too grouchy to try to go dancing tonight and face the likely madness of the Tango Bar, or too grouchy not to try to go dancing.

Of course, it all may change by the time I'd have to get ready to go; I guess I'll have to see what I think then.

Sometimes it's the little things

So I was dancing "La Cumparsita" at the Tango Bar, for the first time in ages...

(Incidentally, it felt nice to be able to dance it; I like the arrangement the DJ there plays, so I like to stay and listen, but I always feel a little sad if I can't dance to it.)

...with a partner that I've been dancing really well with lately, which was an extra pleasure. Of the many lovely moments in my dances that night, this one especially stands out:

He led a boleo, which I executed low but quick and sharp, and something about the music and the momentum led me to carry my leg around to a quick cuatro--a fast scissory movement around my standing leg.

And it's not a very big deal, maybe, objectively--but I'd never done that before, and it was so nicely with the music, and it just felt so good...

For me, that was the best possible finale.

Stranger in a strange land

Even though I have danced in Nearby City before, with considerable success (at least, to my own standards), Saturday night I knew almost no one at the milonga. Two leaders and one woman; that was it. Several of the men that I know, who might otherwise have been there, and at least one other lady were in Buenos Aires for the festival there, I knew.

I bided my time and finagled dances as best I could. When the table in front of my seat was vacated, I snapped up the chance to move up to the front. Had a little giggle with the lady next to me when a noisy cell phone interrupted the guest musician's solo; he handled it with great charm.

As the floor thinned out, the die-hard leaders who were left began to approach me on their own--faute de mieux on their part, perhaps, but I prefer to think that they were better able to observe my dancing by then and know that I can handle myself all right. ;)

Then I had very good dances with several new partners--as well as those I'd had with the two leaders I already knew--and the long wait became worthwhile.

So, boy, I tell you what, it took me a while to get going, but by 1 AM you just couldn't keep me off the floor!

...I am still not sure exactly to what degree I am saying that sarcastically. I truly did have a number of really lovely dances before the evening was out; I was just sorry it took til nearly 3 to get them all--I was absolutely beat.

Anyway, so now I know even more people there, and maybe next time it won't take until 3 to get to dance with them. :)

A good night

I love being surprised by new good partners.

In other news, I am the queen, but not many people know it. :)

Which is to say, my dances were not as many last night as I might have liked, but they were very good. On to the rest of the weekend!

Gift from a partner, 2008

After dinner (my first empanadas!) I tell him about how I'm starting to plan a vacation to Buenos Aires, where he studied for a year and learned to dance, and he becomes almost as enthusiastic as I feel. "Wait a minute," he says after a bit, and hurries out of the room.

He comes back with something in his hand. "Here," he says, holding it out to me. "You can have this."

It's a pocket-sized map of the city, the size of a playing card (though thicker) when it's all folded. The scuffed cover tells me that he must have used it during his own time there.

"Thank you," I say, surprised, and I unfold it and begin studying the layout of the city. There is information about bank hours and other useful things in small print on the back.

"If you ever go down there long-term, you'll want to get an apartment here or here." He points to two districts marked on the map.

"I thought you said there were transvestite prostitutes in Palermo," I tease.

He shrugs. "It's Buenos Aires; there are prostitutes everywhere. But it's still a decent neighborhood to live in."

We continue talking about the city, and my plans, and the tango. Before I leave, I fold up the map and slip it into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

I am tired when I get home--I think the wine was strong; he was sleepy too when I left--and I forget all about the map until the next morning, when I dress for work, pulling on the same sweatshirt. One pocket feels slightly heavy. I reach inside, and my fingers encounter the glossy cardstock of the map's cover.

I leave the map in my pocket as I go out the door. I am smiling.

Well, dog my cats! (In which I am surprised and humbled.)

It is early in the evening, and I'm dancing with a fellow I sometimes have trouble with. For one, I don't always feel like I can follow his steps smoothly, but as though I'm almost falling, or coming down too hard on forward and side steps with him. And let's not get into my opinion of his wild dancefloor experimentation with other partners.

(I must say this for him: he's always been polite and apparently friendly toward me, even when I'm feeling less than warm and fuzzy toward him.)

And it has been a few weeks since I've danced; things are slow around town for the summer. And this is my first dance of the evening... All in all, I'm just not sure I'm going to be dancing my best right now.

When I stumble, I explain, with a laugh, "It's been a while since I've danced... I'm not sure I can still do it!" He assures me I'm dancing as light as a feather, and soon I fall into the familiar movements with more ease; evidently I haven't entirely lost it.

At the end of the tanda, he tells me, "You know, you have such a wonderful embrace. I always enjoy our dances together."

I'm so surprised, you could knock me right over with one finger. I never really thought this guy especially enjoyed dancing with me. He asks me only sporadically, never regularly (although more often lately than in earlier years), and I don't dance the way his other partners do. I don't break the embrace, I keep my movements small most of the time, and I'm not comfortable trying more freestyle things on the tango floor--all of these things are hallmarks of his dance, with other partners. And like I said, I don't feel like I dance my best with him. I ... just ... would never have guessed he enjoyed it that much.

It's the nicest surprise I've had in quite a while. And it makes me think about how I think about him.

ETA: I also had a partner say with a happy sigh, between songs in a lovely vals tanda,"It's so nice to have a dance with a social partner..." Hm!

They say you never forget...

Last July, after many adventures, I finally found myself sitting at Los Consagrados, my very first milonga in Buenos Aires. It was early in the evening, I think, and not very crowded. I was there with my teachers, sharing their table. Sr. had a plan, to dance with me early on to show that I could handle myself on the floor, but just then he was dancing with Sra. I had not yet set foot onto the floor.

I was watching the dancers and trying to control the butterflies in my stomach--not sure whether I was more scared or excited to be there. A man across the way was whistling along with the music. He was older but didn't look ancient; maybe in his sixties. Grizzled hair and beard, strong-looking build. He looked taller than a lot of the other men.

I wasn't sure what I thought of his whistling. It tends to annoy me in American milongas, but I don't think it was carrying across the room there, and as I thought about it more, I realized it did mean he knew the music.

He caught my eye and raised his eyebrows. Was ... was he cabeceoing me?

What might annoy me in an American partner, his whistling, encouraged me to accept his cabeceo. I held his gaze and gave a slight nod and a smile, and in a moment, he was at my table, holding out a hand to escort me onto the floor.

My gamble on his whistling paid off; it was a beautiful dance. His lead was strong and clear but gentle and subtle--and above all, beautifully musical. Everything that I could have hoped for and more. When the song ended, he stepped back and smiled and remarked "Brava, mujer." I am sure I blushed.

Between songs, I stretched my feeble Spanish to make small talk. He told me that he was a taxi driver, that (in answer to my question) yes, he was a porteño. I tried to tell him about where I was from, and I think he told me that when he was younger, a boxer, he had once traveled in America to the big city nearest where I live.

I could not have asked for a lovelier first dance in Buenos Aires. I'm sure I had that tango glow as he escorted me back to my seat, nearly light-headed with pleasure. He gallantly bowed and pressed my hand. I introduced him to my teachers, who were beaming.

At every milonga I went to after that, I watched for him--and he seemed to remember me; he would smile when he spotted me, and before too long, we'd have a tanda together. He was unfailingly polite, and several more times I blushed with pleasure when he told me "Brava, mujer!" I hope he knew how grateful I was. Indeed, I still am.

They say (usually about other things) that you never forget your first time--and I will never forget him. And now I've made doubly sure of that.

Apologizing, admiring, aspiring

I've been trying to break myself of the habit of apologizing as I dance. (And I'm not the only one...) No one wants a tango overriden by an ostenato of "Whoops! Oops! Sorry..." I reckon it becomes more disruptive than polite, eventually--maybe immediately.

(Besides, I need to save that refrain for my non-tango waltzes, at the local country dances. That reminds me, I need to ask a fellow student whether she can teach me how to waltz; I still want to do that.)

Even if a mistake is well and truly solely my own fault, I figure it's better not to call my partner's attention to it, if he might not have noticed, and better still just to stay in the moment rather than dwelling on something that, by the time I can even say "Sorry," is already past. Just move on, trying to do better for the rest of the dance. Such is the Zen of tango.

So! Anyway! This is something I've been working on for a long time, and I'm much better about it than I used to be. But sometimes, especially if I'm nervous, it's easy to slip back into that old habit of perpetual apology.

This spring, a guest teacher whom I like very much visited a couple of nearby cities. Although I couldn't attend his classes the first time around, I went over for their milonga that Saturday night. It was great to see so many wonderful partners that I don't get to dance with nearly often enough--and to meet some new wonderful partners, from even further afield! But certainly the highlight was getting to dance with the teacher again. He is so good that just walking in the embrace with him literally makes me dizzy.

But I always feel nervous with him as well, as with almost any guest teacher I might dance with, precisely because he is so good. Oh, God, please don't let me trip up with him of all people!

And so, in our second tanda, almost at closing time, when we were both getting tired, I misstepped a bit and anxiously apologized.

With no perceptible effort, he adjusted to my unexpected foot position and danced on as though this was exactly what he'd intended all the time. He squeezed my shoulders and remarked, with a smile in his voice, "Nice improvisation!"

And this is part of what I love in the best leaders I've danced with, in the States or in Argentina: Their attentiveness, sensitivity, and adaptability in the face of challenging and changing floor conditions--even the ones I help create! Their kindness and humor just as much as their skillful dancing.

They make for some pretty great role models, this way, in my life both on and off the dance floor.