Buenos Aires: My First Tango in Paris

The night before last, I survived my first tango lesson.

Apparently, I have potential. For what, exactly, I’m not sure. But, seemingly, my feet go mostly where they’re supposed to. Except, of course, when they don’t. And I have a problem remembering to breathe. But I didn’t dislocate a hip, or dislocate my instructor, so I consider this a triumph.

There’s something exhilarating about dancing (and I use the term very loosely) on a rooftop in sultry, steamy Buenos Aires, this Paris of the South, with the music floating out into the night and your tattooed, mohawk-sporting tango teacher yelling, “feeeeeeeeel it, feeeeeeeeel it!” I mean, under such circumstances, how could you not?

A tango shared is trouble doubled

I had happily linked up with fellow guest, Janella from California, for a class organised by our lovely hosts. We figured that the whole experience would be less painful if we both made complete and utter fools of ourselves at the same time. We also share a penchant for Dutch courage, which came on this occasion in the form of a bottle of ice-cold Tomero sauvignon blanc and couldn’t go down quick enough.

Gustavo and Jorgelina, our incredibly patient and good-humoured instructors, started off by showing us what an Argentine tango was supposed to look like. After we’d scraped our jaws off the floor, the panic set in. I’d looked up the Argentine tango (not to be confused with the stuffy and stiff ballroom one) on Wikipedia earlier in the day and had been informed that it was “essentially walking with a partner and the music”. If this was walking, I clearly needed a Zimmerframe. Or euthanasia.

Gustavo was 5’6” of solid muscle, with rippling pecs and buns like two plums in a hankie. He went to great lengths to try to put us at ease in a mixture of Spanish, Italian and English, even though he must have been a very nervous man indeed. In his dancing shoes, I would have been terrified.

Jorgelina, meanwhile, looked like she had wafted in off a movie set, with a cascade of long, black curly hair, calf muscles that could stop a truck, a clingy red dress and heels that would make you dizzy if you even saw them in a shop window. She was a doll. I, as usual, was underdressed. Right down to the fact that I wasn’t wearing any shoes. But she waved off my concerns in surprisingly good French, which meant we could all communicate, a bit like a United Nations cocktail party, without the politics and the cheese on a stick.

Don't look back

They started by making us walk backwards. Hah, I hear you say. Easy. Oh, do you think?

Well, you’re not allowed look where you’re going. You look at your partner. Or, if you’re me, you squeeze your eyes tightly shut and try to count without moving your lips. Now, those of you who know me are fully aware that I’m not very good at looking where I’m going at the best of times. I can’t even walk in a straight line. I fall over stuff, up stuff, down stuff, through stuff, into stuff. I trip over tramlines, fall down stairs, disappear into holes. At any given time, about 15% of me is bruised. So, just imagine me being as much of a clutz in reverse and you’ll get the idea. Sexy, huh?

Anyway, you’re supposed to glide-slide-walk backwards (if you’re a woman), on the ball of the foot, legs stretched, bringing your feet together, brushing your knees and ankles, but never actually pausing. Depending on the step, you dance at arm’s length to your partner, or chest to chest (or everything to everything, if you’ve drunk quite a bit and let the mood grab you). And you’re not allowed to bob up and down or sway from side to side. And it’s not salsa, so you can’t move your hips. You’re supposed to relax. But don’t lean back. And don’t fall over. And avoid the aloe vera plant. Ouch.

At this point, we were only three minutes in. Even still, our hoots of laughter had managed to draw an audience from the guest house, which thought it might be fun to stay and watch the show while getting hammered on the local brew. At least we were being entertaining – Janella in an impressive way; me more in a monster-trucks-on-ice kind of way. But I was having a ball and didn’t give a rat’s patooty. What’s more, I was starting to get the general gist of it.

[I break off briefly here, friends, just to mention that as I sit and type this missive, there is a man on the street corner opposite, breaking what looks to be like a bidet into small pieces with a mallet, while his friend tries to fit the resulting shards of porcelain into a plastic suitcase. Intriguing.]

The last dance

Back to the matter in hand. Or, rather, afoot. Next, we were taught how to do a twisty, pivoty thingy, whereby you swish around on one foot, while looking like you’re swishing around on two, cross your legs and do it all again on the other foot (or was it the same foot?), without moving your upper body and without taking out your partner. After that, we were taught how to do it backwards. Well, we were shown how to do it backwards. The doing escaped us somewhat, but was highly amusing.

Then, Jorgelina (with, I guess, great relief) took to the sidelines while Gustavo cajoled, then coerced us in turn into dancing an entire tune with him. How anyone left with all toes intact is beyond me. But Jorgelina, bless her, kept making whooping sounds of encouragement, which made me think I might actually get through it and keep Gustavo out of the ER.

And so it came to pass. I felt like I’d finally finished my doctoral thesis and run a marathon. It was freaking brilliant. I had danced my first Argentine tango and I’d loved every minute. The hard-core tango clubs of the barrios don’t know what’s about to hit them. But that’s probably just as well.


© Poilin Breathnach 2009