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.

The maestro and Marilyn

Through his interpreter, he tells our class that the secret to good leading is to embrace the follower as though she is the most beautiful woman in the world--someone like Marilyn Monroe, perhaps.

Now he holds out his hand to his wife, and she steps forward to take the embrace. As he holds her, he sighs theatrically and says in his own, heavily accented English, "Ah, Marilyn! At last I have found you!"

We all laugh, and he kisses her cheek as the music starts.

Classical and baroque

What I'm about to write is probably heresy to some and tremendously obvious to others,* but still...

(The British Museum; image from the University of Texas at Austin, Department of English)

(Image from hossocan.seesaa.net: French baroque architecture)

I don't really like Geraldine Rojas's dancing--and not entirely on the grounds of "That's not something you should do at a milonga," because let's face it, everybody showboats to some degree in an exhibition dance. That's part of what exhibitions are for: demonstrating skill beyond what you might be able to do within the constraints of the milonga floor.

At best, I guess you could say I have conflicting feelings about her dancing: I think she's extraordinarily graceful and skilled. It's all the kicks and firuletes that make up so much of her distinctive style that I don't care for--not because she doesn't execute them beautifully, but simply because they're often so superfluous. Too often, they have nothing to do with the music. They don't seem to reflect it, or add to it... They just seem to be this thing she does maybe almost automatically.

And it's the more troubling to me because her fundamental technique can be so lovely, and Javier's leading, at their best as a couple, could be beautifully musical. All her adornments obscure that, when they aren't connected to the music, like the overly decorated facade of an otherwise elegant building.** She can hardly seem to take a step without kicking all around it. I wish she'd let the underlying lyricism shine through more on its own.

These videos sort of break my heart because of this--because I actually like so much what is going on underneath all those embellishments:





I would just about kill to be able to simply take a step as gracefully as she can. But she can't seem to just let that be enough. (Especially later in each video, when she really starts to slice 'n' dice.) I guess she performs this style of tango better than many, but the style itself still seems marred by too much ornament.

So here is what I take from this for my own dancing:

Not to try to be [what can only be] a pale imitation of Geraldine or anyone else, but always to try to be the best possible version of myself.

Always to stay connected to the music. Not to make adornments out of habit, as I have sometimes found myself doing, but only to use them to help me reflect and interpret the music.

To strive for classical grace in my dancing and let that speak for itself, rather than falling prey to the temptations of the baroque--and [a serious struggle lately] to stop trying to show off. It might be a question of what I really want in a dance: do I have exhibition goals in mind on the social floor? But excellent technique and musicality will speak loudly enough to the people whose opinion matters most to me; they've always done so in the past.


* I had a very dysfunctional computer for a long time, so I'm pretty sure this is old news to the rest of the world. I hear Geraldine hasn't even danced with Javier in years, so, I mean, there you go. But I'm only now getting to watch more of their videos and form my opinions about what I see.


** Not to say that baroque art forms can't be quite lovely in their way. Here is where my analogy breaks down, I guess, because I like a lot of what I've seen and read of various baroque art forms--but it can get to be too much. I guess the most I can say is that I don't care for a baroque tango style.

A memory to cheer me up

In Argentina one evening, I was nearly on my way out of Los Consagrados with a friend, B, when a group just coming in stopped to say hi to B. She introduced me to the oldest man in the group, who promptly asked me to finish the tanda with him.

(This seems to be a point of etiquette at many milongas I've been to, both in BA and closer to home; if someone introduces you to a dancer of the opposite gender, you're supposed to dance with that person. This theory could be wrong, but it's based on observation... And I'm happy to benefit from it when it means I get to dance with wonderful leaders I might not otherwise be able to aspire to! But most of all I think it speaks to the consummate courtesy of the traditional milonga culture.)

I wasn't expecting to enjoy the dance, mainly because I had mistaken the man for someone else. As a matter of fact, he was wonderful--and so cheerful and friendly! He told me his nickname among his friends--a boyish diminutive, in teasing contrast to his seventy-some years--and when he learned my name, merrily put it into its diminutive form to match. He was a delight, all around.

This spring, when the organizers began sending information to advertise the festival in Nearby City, my heart leaped when I saw this man's photograph among the teachers; even though I had realized immediately upon dancing with him the previous summer that he was not who I thought he was, I had not realized who he actually was.

Reading about his accomplishments--and even more, having already gotten to dance with him--I was excited about getting to learn from him. My dances with him were among the best of my many wonderful memories from Buenos Aires, but I wondered whether he would remember me. Surely not, I told myself. Why would he? For him, it was just one dance with some American tourist--not even a whole tanda.

 My teachers, here in my hometown, were working to arrange for him and his wife to teach a couple of classes in our city while he was in the area, and while they were talking to him, they introduced me again. I told him how I had enjoyed his classes, and to my surprise, he told me, through my teachers, translating, that he remembered me from Argentina.

Later I would get to dance with him again, and it would be every bit as wonderful as I remembered. Before we said goodbye the final time, back in my hometown, I tried, in my poor Spanish, to tell him and his wife what a pleasure it had been. Ever the gentleman, he pressed my hand and looked intently into my face as he complimented my dancing. (But after all, the best leaders make it so easy!)

But you can see his beautiful leading for yourself:



(With thanks to the authors of Movement Invites Movement, where I first ran across this particular, beautiful video the other day.)