I enter into my favorite Sunday milonga. The staff of the organizer greets me. They wave me off to my table. As I walk there I greet the various people I know. It is a holiday weekend so there are many people who are not here. I note that there are many tourists here. You can see it in the floorcraft.
When I get to my table my chair is taken. I look at the next table. Sometimes I sit there as well. I always have a front seat. For over a year the two Barbies and I have been the "Esquina de Las Rubias." If they are there I sit one seat over. If they are not, I sit one seat the other way. Only today there is no seat. I try to say something to the two foreign women, but both of them snipe at me. I go to talk to one of the staff.
In this milonga I usually dance with the same people. Maybe it is that way in most of the milongas. Almost all of them note the amount of tourists. This was always a barrio milonga with few tourists. People do not like to see it change.
I tell the staff person I have no seat. That there are women in my seat, and where am I to sit. The issue with the tables is sensitive. Regulars have their tables. He comes to see what the problem is. Essentially he sat the two foreign women behind and they decided to move up. He asks one of the women to move back and she tells him no she will not. He leaves.
I am upset. I do not want to sit behind this woman. When you have your place the men know where to find you. The woman turns around and says to me "I am sorry you have to look at my back." I am shocked. Does she think this is the issue? I say to her, "I don't care about your back." I try to explain the reserved tables to her. She says the chairs were empty when she came so they sat there." The woman who is sitting next to me always sits in back cannot believe the attitude even if she doesn't understand the English. I translate. Probably I would not be so mad if this woman were not so unbelievably arrogant.
The Organizer now comes and explains to her the situation. The woman does not speak Spanish. I translate nicely and explain to her again that these tables are all reserved every week for regulars. That her seat is my seat. That she and her friend were seated behind because the front seats are reserved. She tells the organizer she needs to put names on the seats and in her opinon they were empty. The organizer is shocked. Not just by what was said to her, but in the obviously nasty and condescending tone. They refused to move.
When the organizer left I said the to woman, "You know, you make me embarrassed to be from the USA. You are a prime example of why the locals do not like foreigners. You come here and you have no respect. " This overweight sausage stuffed into her tango clothes looks at me and tells me that the Argentines need to learn how to do things better. They should put names on the chairs instead of on their sheets of paper. She completely misses the point. I am furious. She and her horsey looking friend have been nothing but rude. I tell her I hope she learns to dance during her stay along with learning some manners. That shuts her up and she turns around.
The organizer comes back and moves me to another table. I am in front. I say hello to the woman at the table. She is Argentine but lives in Italy. She is one of those Ex-Pat Argentines that becomes Argentine when she comes to visit, otherwise she hates Argentina. I know those types. All they do is complain about Argentina and Argentines, but when they come back to Argentina, it is a different story, especially they talk to a foreigner. Only at this juncture I am more Argentine than she is. She left 30 years ago.
She asks me if I went to the coronation of Christina. I tell her no. I did not go. I don't like crowds. She goes on and on about how great this government is. I ask her how she would know this, she doesn't live here. She doesn't experience the inflation. I tell her how the inflation is killing people. She thinks I live in dollars. I set her straight on that one. I tell her if things are so great how come we have 45% more villas (slums). I love this answer, "Oh those are people from Bolivia or Paraguay or Peru." I say to her, so they don't count as poor people?" "What about the drugs?" I ask her. "The insecurity?" She tries to change the subject and talk about the U.S. I tell her I don't care about the U.S. because I live here. "No me escuchaste? Vivo aca 8 años."
I dance. I dance with my friends. I get relief from this Italian disaster I am sitting with. Why am I having this kind of night? Couldn't it have rained? I go back to the table. The Italian disaster is not dancing but she wants to know if I learned to dance tango here. I tell her my story encapsulated. I really do not want to talk to her. She tries to tell me that since I am from the US I didn't learn to dance the real tango. OK fine me and my fake tango are dancing almost every tanda and she the Italian Disaster who is Argentine and learned to dance the real tango is sitting through every tanda. Muchas gracias. Shut up.
After dancing tango in Buenos Aires for 11 years you see things differently. Milongas are where I go to see my friends and hear the music. The people I call my friends are not people I see outside of the milonga. They are people I have known for years. I don't feel the need to dance 12 hours a day or to talk about tango incessantly. Tango still holds a very special place for me. I cannot live without it. Yet, there is more in my life now.
When I first started dancing the men would ask me where I was going to dance. Now they ask me how my clothing business is going. If I am going on vacation. Of course there are always the pirpopos, but I like them. They come in a different spirit. I don't have to wonder if I will dance. I do. I wait for the music I like and a man I want to dance with. I am not frenetic about dancing every tanda or dissecting my dances. I know my tango.
It was 11 years ago I first came to Buenos Aires to dance tango. Things were so different then. There were fewer tourists. Tango was not as popular in the world. There were maybe 4 shoe stores and 2 places to buy music. The milongas had strict codes. Men had to wear a jacket. Women dressed up.
On weekends men wore suits, women wore beautiful dresses. Everyone was elegant. If you were not dressed well, you were not allowed to enter. I look at the floor today. Jeans, shirts hanging out. Women wearing clothes meant for their pre-teen daughters. Not just the tourists but the Argentines as well. The elegance is gone.
The dancers. When I came 11 years ago, I was astounded to see everyone move in the line of dance and to the music. It was wonderful to just sit and watch the dancers in Ideal, Lo de Celia, El Arranque, Niño Bien, and other places. Elegant, smooth, and to the music. Maybe not everyone was a stellar dancer, but there were many. People learned to walk before they learned anything else. Tango was and is a caminata. I look out at the dance floor. It looks like dodge cars. I know, I got stepped on and kicked, and had an elbow in my head of all places out there.
The Italian Disaster brings me back to reality. We are watching two young couples in an exhibition. They dance nicely, but they are boring. The same step over and over. She says to me "It is nice to see young people dance." I tell her they are boring. She tells me they are young. I tell her being young has nothing to do with it. I remember the first time I saw Geraldine. She was 23. She was amazing. Being a young dancer does not mean you have to be boring.
During the cortina they play Frank Sinatra. The Italian Disaster starts to wax poetic over how this is "my" music. "Not really." I tell her. She acts shocked. "How can this not be your music?" She demands. I look her in the eye. "The same way if you ask 1000 Argentines about tango, they will tell you that was the music of their abuelos. Frank Sinatra was the music of my parents." She gets it. I like Frank Sinatra, but please, I am not going to sit and listen to him.
The nasty tourist and her horse face friend leave. They were not dancing. I guess sitting in my chair cursed them. They were not blond. Everyone who sits in those chairs on Sunday are blond. Don't they know, blonds have more fun?
I need new shoes. All of my shoes are wearing out. Leo has a new pair for me but she is perfecting them. I need, need, need. I need a new bank account full of money. I need to sell more of my clothes so I can buy more tango shoes. Unfortunately life does not always work this way.
I think back again to my first trip 11 years ago. Who would have thought a trip to experience tango in Buenos Aires would have had the profound effect on my life it did. Impresionante.
After a day of running all over the city, dealing with the tallers who make my clothes, buying fabrics, and figuring out costs, I was on my way home. I decided to stop off and by a roll of white paper and some tape so I could take pictures of my clothes. Sheets were not cutting it. The wrinkles were showing, and I just don't have the time for lots of Photoshop.
On Santa Fe in my barrio is a large office supply store. They usually have everything. I remembered when I first discovered the place, I was elated. Somewhere where I go could in and find everything I needed and just buy it without talking to anyone. That was 5 or more years ago when my Spanish was not so great. Now language is not the issue. Finding what I need is. With Argentina all but banning imports, the issues with foreign currency, and inflation, goods are disappearing from the shelves.
I make it to the store and go upstairs to where the art supplies are. I see they no longer have the rolls of paper jammed together in buckets. They are in cubbyholes neatly labeled. I decide to look at the tape first.
A young man with rolls paper under his arm approaches me and asks if I need any help. I ask his advice. I tell him I am going to be hanging paper on the wall and which tape does he recommend. He eyes me and then rather than speak clearly as he did before, he starts to run his words together. Rather than ask me what kind of paper, he asks me what I am doing. I tell him I am going to use roll paper like he has under his arm as a backdrop for photographs. He says he doesn't understand me. So I repeat myself. Then he asks me why. Again he says he doesn't understand me. This is annoying. All I want to do is buy some tape. He insists on knowing what I am doing. I don't understand why this is so important.
I decide to ignore him and ask him again to please recommend a tape for me. "You don't live here." he says to me. "So why are you doing this? I wonder if I have to show my DNI (Documento Nacional) to buy tape. "First of all I do live here," I tell him. "I design clothing. Now can you please tell me which tape to buy?" He tells me he doesn't understand me. I shoot him a look.
He then tells me the paper tape is the best. "Which?" I ask him. There are 2 with brands and a non-branded. I already know the non-branded is worthless. I tried it last time. He mumbles. We both know what he is doing. He is trying to make this difficult for me.
Finally he recommends one of the brands. As an afterthought he asks me if I need the tape hidden. I tell him no, it is not important. I figure he wants to recommend the double stick but the one he has is too narrow. He then starts to lecture me that if I am taking pictures, it is important. I look at him and say one word "Photoshop." He looks at me and says he doesn't understand. "Voy usar Photoshop." He insists he still doesn't understand. "No importa." I tell him and I walk towards the paper. He follows me.
Now you would think this would be easy. Shelves all with tags describing the paper and with prices. I pick up a roll that is priced at 59 pesos. My new friend tells me that paper is not the paper that goes in that shelf. It actually belongs 1 shelf up at 249 pesos. There is another roll on the same shelf. "This one?" I ask. He shakes his head. "No, that goes here." "Do you have this paper?" I ask. He tells me no. "OK," I ask him, "What do you have that comes in a roll that does not cost a fortune?" I am forced to buy paper that is 67 pesos a roll. Not a big difference. But still..
I go to the checkout. Empty. The two cashiers, young kids are hanging out talking. Finally one comes over to check me out. First he tries to sell me everything on his checkout stand. I keep telling him I am not interested. He ignores me. Then he tells me cannot understand me.
So I ask him, "Why is it I have no problems communicating anywhere else today? I was in 2 tallers, buying materials for my business. Yet I come here and you all cannot understand me." His response "Well you are a foreigner. Maybe you had someone with you to translate and now you are alone." I want to slap him. I decide to pursue this.
"In the 7 years I have lived here," I tell him, "I have never had a translator." He doesn't believe me. "Maybe you should," he tells me. "It would be easier for you." I tell him that I don't find things all that difficult except when I meet people like him. "But really," he says to me. "You don't understand what people say to you."
I reach in my bag and pull out the book I am reading. It is Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. His eyes open wide. "Do you think a person who doesn't understand Spanish could read this book?" I ask him. He changes the subject. "What are you doing with all this paper? Drawing? You need pencils."
It will be the backdrop for the photos I am taking. I design clothing and I need to take pictures, I tell him. He thinks about this. "For there." I tell him I don't understand. "You work there." I tell him "I work here. I live here." I think I am a l ittle crazy to have this conversation, but I am. He laughs at me. "No." "Yes, more than 7 years. I pay taxes, I have a driver's license, a business, and an Argentine dog and cat." (We cannot forget them.)
And now the truth comes out. "It's not the same." "Excuse me?" I say to him. "You are not the same. You were not born here.." "I see," I say to him. "and what is the significance of this?" I ask him. "You are a foreigner. You will never be the same." I look at his face, he is proud of what he has just said.
"Tell me," I ask him, "Where were your grandparents from, Italy or Spain?" His eyes open alertly at the question. "How do you think they would feel if they heard you say what you just said to me?" I pick up my packages and walk away. As I walk down the stairs I hear him call to me "Hablas muy bien in Castellano, Señora, disculpame." (You speak very well in Spanish, I am sorry.)
The milongas are empty. Most of them. The tourist milongas or the commercial milongas have no tourists. Since they mostly rely on the foreigners who come to Buenos Aires to dance, their floors are empty. The milongas for the locals are mostly empty too. Regardless of what the government says, no one has any money.
The milongas are 25 - 35 pesos to enter. Most are now insisting you order something to drink. A bottle of water is 9 pesos, 10 with a tip. If you have to take a taxi home, that is another 30 pesos, minimum. A night of tango costs around 75 - 80 pesos. Who can dance more than twice a week? I go where I am welcomed gratis. That way I can dance a few more nights a week.
I am sick of listening to the few tourists who do come about the prices here. They come on vacation. We live here. It is like they expect the Argentines to put on a show. We aren't MIckey Rooney and Judy Garland. There is this attitude that they put out all this money to come here, and there better be people to dance with. They want it to be cheap. The all inclusive vacation. Sorry but there is a world crisis folks in case you didn't know.
The other day I was at an asado with friends. Some who dance and some who don't. The topic of tango came up. The non-dancing friends were suprised to hear that those of us that dance do not go to the mundial, nor support it.
We explain how it is more like a competitve sport rather than tango. We are milongueros. We believe that tango is danced from the heart and cannot be judged. That every step is different, that tango is the only dance that is danced in an embrace and has no steps. For us it is the music. How can you judge that?
In the mundial, it is all about perfection. People take classes to be perfect. To learn to dance a style that will appeal to the judges. It has become like ballroom. People want to launch professional careers. It has nothing to do with the music, or the embrace, or how one feels. It is about winning.
We talk about the milongas. One of my friends a man makes a comment about the foreigners who come to dance. "Most of them come for an adventure." he says. I ask him what he thinks the percentage is. In his opinon he thinks 70% of the women who come to dance tango whether they are single or married come looking for "fun." My other friend agrees with him.
They talk about how the women are willing to pay for their fun. Some do it with "lessons," or "taxi dancers," (not the professional services) others are just happy to be picked up nightly. My friends say they have been offered money, clothes, dinners. They find it funny since they are both well employed and do not need any assistance, nor would they accept it.
I find this humorous to listen to. They talk about how sometimes it is "muy pesado." The women do not take no for an answer. They bug them to go to bed with them. My friends say they just want to dance. I tell them now you know how I feel!
On Sunday I am at my favorite milonga. It is a barrio milonga. Few tourists come here. It is mostly locals. I love the music and the ambience of the milonga. I have many favorite dancers here. I have my table.
A man known for bringing tourists to milongas comes with a small group. He is a friend. He comes to greet me. He tells me we will dance later. He seats his women at a table in front. They are a mix of European and a few from the provinces.
Three women are seated at my table. They are foreign. One women is in command. She is dictating to the others on how to behave in the milonga. She is insuferable. She is so wrong it is not even funny. She is telling them what they should and should not do. She tells them they should never accept dances with men who come to the table. A man comes to the table and she nearly pisses all over herself accepting the dance with him. I almost die laughing.
The other two women are surprised I speak English. I introduce myself to them. They tell me they just met this woman and she has appointed herself their expert guide to the milongas. I roll my eyes. "Everyone is an expert." I tell them. The expert has told them they will not dance. They are very nervous. I tell them to relax and have a good time.
I go to dance with a friend. I love dancing with him. He has a wonderful embrace. We hear the music the same way. I feel like I melt into his arms. He always comes for me at the table. He knows I will always dance with him. He is one of the very few men I will dance milonga with.
I met him three years ago in another milonga. This was before European women began to pay his way to Europe. Before, before, before. Now he only looks for the foreign women and for what he can get from them. He dances with me when there are no foreign women to dance with. He tells me all the time how much of a pleasure it is to dance with me. When he comes back from his little European jaunts he tells me how much he missed dancing with me.
The tanda ends and he escorts me back to my table. My friend who brings the foreigners to the milonga is waiting for me. He says to my friend, "This is mi amor impossible." I am shocked. I look at him. My friend looks at him and asks him why. He says "She is beautiful, elegant, intelligent, and I love to have her in my arms, but she is "un amor impossible." My friend begs to differ with him. I have no idea what to say and sit down.
The milonga expert is back at the table giving more advice. "Never get up," She tells the women, "until you know the man is coming for you." They play a tanda of vals. I look to my friend down the aisle. He is my partner for vals. He smiles at me and starts to come to get me. The milonga expert jumps up and starts to go to him. I smile at her. "Permiso." I say. My friend leads me to the floor. I wonder why she never follows her own advice.
On the floor my friend once again asks me to dinner. He is a lovely man. We always have this conversation. I am his amigita del vals. He wants it to be more. I tell him fine, I will dance a tango with you now and then. But this is not what he means. He smokes. Alot. I keep hoping he will find someone nice who smokes. Or who doesn't mind his smoking. He deserves it. He is a widower, young, with a business. One of the few decent men in the milonga.
In the middle of the tanda I look up. In comes a man that I used to date. One of the very few. I miss a step. My friend tells me to listen to the music. I decide I will ignore the man. He was a jerk to me. I go back to the table. The milonga expert is busy dispensing more advice ad nauseum. I decide to introduce myself to her. She sticks her nose in the air "I know who you are." OK. I didn't realize I was famous. Fine.
In this milonga I dance almost every tanda. I sit only if I want to. I notice my ex-friend watching me. He is doing everything to get my attention. I continue to ignore him. What does he think? I am going to go throw myself at him smiling? No. Sorry. Not desperate. He starts to divide his attention between two women. One is foreign and desperate for attention. She is all over him. When she is dancing with someone else, he dances with a woman no one else is dancing with. He does everything he can to move near me and catch me. I look away. I have no desire to have contact with him. He had his opportunity and he blew it. Ahh yes, the high school games we play.
I leave to go to the bathroom and see "Amor Impossible" writing what is most likely his phone number and or email on a piece of paper. I wonder who it is for. Most likely not me. I go back into the salon to dance. A few more tandas and my ex-friend manages to finally catch my eye. He gives me his million dollar seduction smile. I give him my "Rubia Mireya gaze" and look away. With that he comes to the table of the woman who has not danced and in front of me asks for her phone number. Oh like I am soooo wounded. The poor woman who is less than attractive is so excited she can barely get the numbers out. She asks him 20 times to please call her and gives him a run down of her schedule. Pathetic. What is wrong with these women?
Then if that is not enough he goes back to his table and says something to the foreign woman. She grins from ear to ear. They get up and leave together. Like I am supposed to feel dissed? It doesn't matter what the woman looked like. He makes sure to look at me as he is leaving. Dude you just moved up the level from pelotudo to forro. At least in my book.
Soon it will be time to leave. Who is the phone number for? Amor Impossible comes to get me to dance. It is almost the last tanda. He showers me with piropos. The connection we have is undeniable. Yet the phone number is not for me. I know that.
As they play the last tanda, the French woman who has come with my friend's group does her reverse strip tease. She dances bare legged. But when she prepares to leave, she seats herself where everyone can see her. She rolls her dress up to her hips, spreads her legs, and puts on thigh high stockings. The whole routine is done nightly at whatever milonga. I want to go tell her we have bathrooms to dress in, but that would ruin her show. Who said French women are elegant? Not this one. Not many of them who come to dance here.
As she is ending her routine, Amor Impossible comes to talk to her. He hands her a little piece of paper. She smiles at him. She obviously is not un amor impossible. He walks away. I am reminded by something said to me by an Argentine woman years ago when I first started to dance in the milongas here. I was complaining about the men. She told me "The problem is not our men. It is your women." Puede ser.