TangoSpam:La Vida Con Deby

Aqui Se Baila Tango..Puede Ser..Here We Dance Tango..Maybe..

On Saturday night my friend invites me to go dance tango with her.  I had asked her about several places I saw on the Internet.  She insists that there is only one place to go.  I am doubtful, but I do not want to argue.  I would rather see my friend.

She is over exuberant about tango like most people who live in the exterior are. Non stop talking, analyzing. Those days have long passed for me.  Tango is a part of my life and soul.  I do not need to talk about 24/7.  It just is.  A few weeks ago some of my Argentine friends and I had dinner with some tango tourists.  One of my Argentine friends leaned over and said to me "I wish she would shut up.  All she wants to talk about is tango."  I explained to him that she thinks because he is Argentine that is his whole life and she thinks that she is flattering him.

After the dinner was over around 1:00 am, the Argentines and I prepared to leave.  The tourists wanted to know what milonga we were going to.  None of us were going out.  We had just spent 80 pesos on a dinner and the idea of spending another 50 pesos on a milonga was not going to work.  Not only that, most of us had to work the next day.  The tango tourists were surprised.  I, the designated translator for both language and culture had to explain.

I am on the bus headed towards this milonga in the Providencia.  When I get to the place I realize it was where I went in 2005.  It was a terrible place.  No one knew how to dance.  I wonder if it has improved in the 7 years since I was there.  I was unsure of what to wear..so I have on my basic black.

The place looks like a Miami Chilean version of what a place in La Boca looks like.  The host welcomes me and takes me to the table where my friends are seated.  People are smoking.  I want to gag. Iam happy to see my friend.  She is with a handsome Chilean man.  The people are well dressed in this place.  Better dressed than how we dress in our milongas in Buenos Aires.  For Chile they are good, for Buenos Aires, not so great.  I try not to be hypercritical.

When the quartet leaves the stage a few people get up to dance.  Que horror!  Just as bad as I remember.  I ask my friend if more people will come to dance.  She tells me maybe not.  I ask her if there are many singles here.  She tells me no.  Why am I here?  Oh yes, to see my friend.

My friend gets up to dance with her partner.  They dance pasos. There are a couple of clowns on the floor who have no idea how to dance.  They are banging into people.  After each song people clap.  This is really bizarre.  I decide that I am not going to dance.

The quartet plays again and the owners come on and dance. You know there is an old saying that if you can't don't.  They should not try to do flashy show moves they cannot execute.  People clap because the do not know better.

My friend's partner invites me to dance.  I tell him a tango.  I cannot imagine dancing a milonga with him.  I would rather die and never dance again.  I ask my friends about the other tango places.  He tells me old people from Argentina go there. "It must be good."  I say to him.  "No they dance traditional tango, milonguero style." (I wonder what he thinks most of them are dancing - with their close embrace.) "They dance slow." Yeah they dance to the music pelotudo, I think to myself. Not like you, racing around the floor.  Instead I say "Older dancers can be the best dancers, and what is wrong with milonguero style?" He starts to explain to me why people need to dance faster.  I interrupt him.  "You feel the music, and dance to the music.  You should not just dance faster."

Mr. Big Stuff takes me to dance.  We go out to the floor.  I know he has no posture.  I position myself in embrace. He takes a step forward with no lead and steps on my foot.  As we dance he continues to step on my feet.  I have to constantly watch his feet to see what he is doing because he has absolutely no lead. He then starts to push me with both hands in this maniacle move.  I taught tango for 7 years.  I have no idea what he is doing.  Finally it dawns on me.

"Do you want me to turn?" He tells me yes. "Using your hands?"  I am astounded. Especially in the way he is doing it. It just falls out my mouth; "Who taught you this?"  He looks at me and says "I will teach you to turn since you do not know how."  I catch myself before I start laughing. "No amor,"  I say to him.  "I will teach you.  The giro comes from the chest, not from pushing with the hands.  NEVER push a woman so hard through any step.  This is not tango."  Let's just walk.  Which he also is miserable at.  I am grateful when the song ends.

We go back to the table.  My friend is talking to the Spainard at the table behind us.  She invites him to join us.  He sits next to me.  He is in Santiago to work.  He smokes like a chimney.  He smells like a brewery.  I am doomed.

The Spaniard tells me friends how much he loves watching the tango.  He says he never really saw it before.  I tell him that there is lots of tango in Barcelona, and in Spain.  Mr. Big Stuff looks at me.  I mention that I have danced there and in Madrid as well.  The Spaniard says that he dances salsa and is a good salsa dancer.  I tell him that we will dance salsa when they play the salsa music.

Iwatch the dancers.  The singer is dancing.  He better than the rest.  At least he dances with the music. I look at him so he knows I want to dance with him.  Mr. Big Stuff starts spouting more B.S.  He has never been to Buenos Aires.  He then makes a comment that he can dance with any woman, except one who has bad habits and has not been taught properly.  He looks at me.  The Spaniard asks him how long he has been dancing.  He says  4 years and an Argentine woman who lives in Chile taught him.

They play a salsa break.  I take the Spaniard onto the floor.  He is protesting.  Once we get out there it is evident why.  After an hour of hearing what a great salsa dancer he is, he admits he cannot dance salsa.  He can't dance anything.  I tell him not to worry.  Just have fun.  So there I am with a drunk Spaniard trying to dance salsa.

When the song ends we go back to the table.  The Spaniard says to my friend and Mr. Big Stuff.  I can't dance.  I can't dance anything. I am a really bad dancer.  I smile at him and say "But that is OK. A bad dancer who knows he is a bad dancer is better than a bad dancer who thinks he is a good dancer." and I look directly at Mr. Big Stuff.

The singer comes to get me to dance. Compared to Mr. Big Stuff he is heaven. In Buenos AIres I would probably not dance with him.  He starts the whole rap.  You dance very well.  Where are you from.  How long are you here for.  Then I look at him.."Flaco, tienes un anillo, OK?"  After that he shuts up. He dances a couple of songs with me.

I sit at the table and have to listen to Mr. Big Stuff talk about what a great dancer he is. Or I have to listen to the drunk Spaniard..and I am getting smoked out.  I dance one more song with the singer and I decide I must leave.  I cannot take it anymore. I say goodbye to my friends.  The host gives me a chocolate candy on my way out and wishes me a Happy Mother's day.

The taxi back I have to argue a bit with the driver. My karma. He passes my hostel which is next door to the Argentine Embassy. (Can you believe?) So he starts to drive backwards down the street.  The carbinero stops him.  He tells the carbinero that I am Argentine and  must go to the embassy.  I pay him and jump out of the taxi.

The carbinero (policeman in Chile) looks at me and says "You must be a very important person to have to go to the embassy this late at night.  I tell him the taxi driver was an idiot that he passed my hostel and that was why he was driving backwards.

They open the door for me to my hostel and I go to my room.  I sit on the bed and unwrap the candy they gave me.  It looks like a luscious dark chocolate.  I take a bite. YEECH!  It is horrible.  It tastes like soap.  I go to take a drink of water to rinse my mouth.  I look at the label. I shake my head.  It is soap.  Chocolate almond soap.  What a way to end my evening.

 

Corriendo Santiago with the Russians

I had to get out of Buenos Aires..como un veneno me mata. Things are too crazy.  Santiago is so close I love to come here.  Santiago is everything that Buenos Aires is not. Clean, organized, and very polite people.  I am amazed at the difference in me.

I have become too portena as an American friend pointed out to me.  I complain like a portena all the time. I am negative.  I no longer see a future.  I have lost my American self.  It is not how I am.  I have always been a positive person.  I have always seen a future.  But now with how things are in Argentina, I too feel the desperation of my friends and neighbors.  I live the same life.

Coming to Chile is always good for me.  My whole body feels good.  People always talk about the pollution in Santiago, but for me it is far worse in Buenos Aires.  Here I can breathe.  There is no humidity like in Buenos Aires.  It is more like the Bay Area where I was from  My body feels better.  I don't suffer my migraines here. 

I am walking the barrios here to better know the city.  I have a few friends here so I am not alone.  They are happy that I finally bought a chip for my cell phone.  I can now communicate beyond email.  On Saturday I went to a Russian festival with my friends.  They are Russians who now live in Chile.  They used to live in Argentina.

I am descended from Russians.  My family never talked about our roots.  I knew that they were Russian, Prussian, and a little bit of Scottish thrown in for good measure.  My sister, brother, and I were to be 100% American, and that we were.  I have no idea what part of Russia my family was from.  I have vague ideas from conversations, nothing more than that.

In Buenos Aires, people always ask if I am German, French, English, Dutch, or Scandanavian.  There is always the surprise that I am American. Russians always ask if I am Russian.  They never mistake me.  I always find this interesting.

We get to the festival at 2:00.  There are few people at first.  They have Russian food.  Everything is written in Russian.  I recognize nothing.  I cannot read Russian.  My friends translate for me.  I recognize a few plates.  Russian and Jewish food are very similar.  One plate is like kreplach.  Everything has meat. I don't eat meat. There are blintzes, but they have jam inside and Idon't want anything sweet. The only thing for me is an eggplant dish which is delicious.

All of a sudden appear bagels.  I am euphoric.  My Russian friends think I am crazy.  I run to buy two.  I talk with the owner of the bagel company.  A Canadian guy married to a Russian Chilean.  They are good. Not exactly NY bagels but good.  I bring back the ad for the bagels.  My friends read the Russian and say they have another name in Russian.

All around me are people who look like me.  Well not exactly.  People who have my nose, the same shape of eyes, cheekbones, lips.  I now understand why Russians think I am Russian. When I wait in line for the bathroom the women talk to me in Russian.  I have to tell them in Spanish I do not speak Russian. They ask me if I am not Russian.  I explain my heritage.

When I come back to the table I tell my friends how the women wanted to talk to me in Russian and I could not communicate.  I figure it was only natural because this is a Russian event.  They say no.  There are many Chileans here, but I look Russian.  Interesting.

I listen to Russian music.  I love it.  It sounds like tango.  Could this had been my connection to the tango?  Larisa tells me that she will send me a link to listen to Russian music on the Internet.  I am estatic.  The music is beautiful.  I imagine tango being danced to it, but this is stupid.  This is Russian music.

Throughout the festivals they show videos.  They are commemorating the victory of the 2nd world war. I find it very intersting, the Russian version as an American.  The Russian version is that they won the war. In their version the Americans did not exist.  All the videos there is never a mention of the allies.  Very different from our version where at least we talk about the Russians.

We watch wonderful shows of singing, dancing, and more videos.  We eat, and share stories.  It is interesting to share with Russians of my age how their life was at the same time in Russia as mine in the US.  The age of the cold war.

It was a beautiful day.  They urge me to learn Russian.  Who knew that I would discover my Russian roots in Chile.

 

 

El Dia del Tango - The Day of Tango - 11 de Diciembre Tourists and All

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.