TangoSpam:La Vida Con Deby

Medio Vaga

I feel like I waste  a lot of time since I started living here.  I spend too much time on Facebook, emails, and hanging out with friends, when I should be working or looking for work.  Before I moved to Buenos Aires I was a classic type A personality.  I worked all the time.  I made every minute count.  I was always looking to be more efficient. Now I don't care.

My Argentine friends think that I am "muy trabajadora."  A hard worker.  I rent the rooms in my apartment, I teach English, I translate, and I write.  I took two contract jobs in IT, which was the career I had before I moved here.   It made me realize why I moved here.  They were too stressful and I had less free time.  I was always working.

When I started my search for an apartment to buy I devised a spreadsheet and a system to look at as many apartments as possible.  Real estate agents here are worthless.  They don't really do much to help you.   I was on a mission.  I had a spreadsheet of all the places I visited.  I could sort it in a any number of ways.

Every weekend I would get the paper and reference all the apartments that had open houses on a copy of a street map.    I would arrange things so I could see 10 - 15 apartments in a day.  I had a separate sheet for comments.  Everything would be transferred to the spreadsheet.  My Argentine friends were in awe.  "You act like this is work!" they would say to me.

When I started to look for things to buy I did the same thing.  I made lists.  I used to be a great one for lists. I would go from store to store comparing prices.  Then I discovered that prices are basically the same everywhere in Buenos Aires. In the US fair competition is the ability to sell things at competitive prices.  Here that does not exist.  Stores sell things at more or less the same price regardless if it is Wal-Mart or a mom and pop.

Since I moved here in 2004 I have stopped making lists and I no longer wear a watch.   When I lived in the US I had a clock in every room.  Even the bathroom.  Now, somehow, I get where I need to go without the time obsession.  I remember what I need to do or buy without lists or spreadsheets.  I still have an agenda but only to keep the appointments I make, not to plan my life months in advance, like before.

I gave up much materially to move to Buenos Aires.  My friends still talk about the "things" that I had. I know that while I gave up many things, I gained a lot more by moving here.  I never saw myself as a laid back person, but compared to how I was, I certainly am now.  I have lost the need to plan every minute of my life.  I take things as they come.  If they don't get done today, no big deal.  I can always do it tomorrow.  Or next week.

This post was originally written for Affordable Calling Cards

A Good Relationship, Gone Bad

“I am leaving,”  my friend says to me.  “I can’t take it anymore.  Buenos Aires is like a relationship that has started to go bad.”  My friend has lived here almost as long as I have.  She came for the tango.  In the years that she has lived her she never developed a life outside of tango.  It was her whole life.

I don’t want to think about her leaving.  I like her.  She is an enormously intelligent woman with a quirky sense of humor.  We didn’t have much contact over the last few years.  We moved in different crowds.  Catching up on our lives, the commonality is tango.  I tell her about all my other projects and the things I am doing.  Most important the wonderful group of friends I have.  I mention to her “I could never make my life all tango.  I need to be around people that have more in their lives.”  By more I mean, an education, literally.  I did not want to be around the all the drugs, drinking, and the “sacando de la plata de los extranjeros.”  I love my tango, but it is an environment that eats you alive, amargo.  Dark. Depressing.  Tourists only see one side.  They almost never see the other.

I understand how she feels.  That is why at times, me dejo el tango.  I leave for a bit and I do other things.  My vacation. When I come back, I am happy to see my friends.  I am happy to be in the milonga.  “The tango has changed so much.”  she says to me.  “People no longer come with the idea of learning to dance Argentine tango or to be a part of the culture.”  I know exactly how she feels.

The Campeonato is not for us.  It is for tourists.  It is for tourism, it is for people who do not dance tango.   How well someone dances is not always the criteria for winning.  The whole idea of the Campeonato is to bring tourists to Buenos Aires to dance tango.  This year tourism is down.  The government says by at least 39%.  If INDEC is managing these numbers then it is probably more.  INDEC lies.

In the past, the city was flooded during the Campeonato with tourists.  Hotels, apartments, and guest houses were full before and after.  The shoe stores did a landslide business.  Everyone who wanted to, profited from the Campeonato.  This year was different.  Most of the guesthouses and apartments were empty or partially empty.  Milongas that would have been overflowing were not.

How were the winners chosen this year?  Tourism is down.  People are not coming from the US or Europe like they used to.  When the winners danced in a local milonga here, the Americans seated at my table looked at me with confused faces.  “Huh?  I don’t get it.”  said one.  “What don’t you get?”  I asked him.  They expect the Japanese to come to Buenos Aires to dance tango.  To spend money.  Selecting an Argentine couple doesn’t make the competition worth it. Argentine winners don’t bring tourism.  People who will come and spend months here practicing and taking lessons, to become “World Champions of Tango.” There is a dream.  To win in Buenos Aires.  I am not sure what it proves.

One of my Argentine friends remarked “I went to bed as an Argentine dancing tango, but when I woke up it was Japanese tango.  It seems these days, being an Argentine doesn’t really even matter.”  On the surface a somewhat racist comment.  I asked him why he felt that way.  “Everyone wants to tell the Argentines how to dance tango.  Tango is our heritage.  We are losing it. Why?  For money.”   An American friend of mine who has been coming here for years says “It is the Argentines’ fault.  If they don’t like it they should do something about it.”

It’s more than the Campeonato.  I see how people react in the milonga.  It is not customary for women to dance with women in the traditional milongas.  When I came in 2000 it would never happen.  Later when it did happen, the women were told politely to leave the floor.  I watched in July when a couple of women from Europe decided to dance milonga together in Gricel.  I looked around the room.  There were some unhappy faces.  Several men made some rude comments. The organizer doesn’t care.  He wants people to come to his milonga.

A man at my table remarked to me “We are losing our codigos. What next?”  The woman at my table visiting from the US said to me, “Don’t the Argentines understand, that tango needs to change.  If they want to make money, they can’t have it their way. I should be able to dance with whoever I want.”  I don’t think there was anyone in that milonga that cared about making money from tango.  As for having it “their” way.  A little arrogant.

I try to remove myself from discussions where foreigners try to convince me that “Nuevo” is the way.  I don’t want to analyze and over analyze technique.  I don’t care.  I don’t want to dance tango to cha cha cha.  I don’t want to hear the endless debate on the evolution of tango.  That the tango needs to change to survive.  For who?  Someone here from the US drones on and on to me about foot position, axis, and ability to move at a certain degree at a certain point.  Nothing is said about the music. 

“Argentines need to understand…..”  “Exactly what?”  I think.  “What is it that Argentines need to understand?  Do they need to understand why when UNESCO proclaimed tango a cultural heritage, to protect it, why the city of Buenos Aires when celebrating with a free milonga in the streets, invites the Japanese couple to perform rather than one of the many accomplished dancers here in Buenos Aires.  Is this how you celebrate your heritage or is it how you use someone to hopefully bring more tourists? 

Someone on a tango list wanted to know, would the cultural heritage extend to tango nuevo.  You have got to be kidding.  People used to come to Buenos Aires to experience the “real tango.”  Tango danced in an embrace.  You almost have to wonder what they are coming here for now when they insist that you can make tango anything you want it to be.  Why bother?  Except that Buenos Aires is a hell of a party town and cheap…if you have dollars or euros.

The milongas are quiet now.  There are few tourists here.  World crisis.  Someone posts on Facebook how 18 pesos for a milonga is cheap.  It is.  For a foreigner.  For an Argentine, by the time you add the transportation and something to drink it is not 18 pesos.  How many times a week can you afford to go dance? My friends who used to go all the time are down to 3 times a week.  Some friends are not going at all.

“I am leaving,”  my friend says to me.  “I can’t take it anymore.  Buenos Aires is like a relationship that has started to go bad.”  I think about what she says.  Sometimes I feel the same. The crazy political climate.  The dirty city.  Inflation that keeps driving prices higher and higher.  But then I walk down my street.  The people in the pasta shop wave to me when I pass by, the butcher calls out to me.  I cross the street and head towards Santa Fe.  In each block someone I know stops me to say hello and ask me how I am.  Like all relationships, you have to take the good with the bad. 

Fiesta De Las Empanadas

This weekend is the beginning of spring.  Argentines never need an excuse to celebrate.  Spring is as good as an excuse as any.  This year we have had an unbearable winter.  It was terribly cold (for us) and the Swine Flu epidemic made it a winter you wanted to stay in more than normal.

My friend Aidana and her husband Steve have invited me to their empanada party on Saturday night.  Empanadas are an Argentine turnover.  They can be fried or baked.  I love them fried, but considering the health aspects, I mostly eat them baked.  The pastry is called a tapa and depending on how it is folded, will give you a clue as to what the filling inside is.  Traditional empanadas are filled with chicken, ham and cheese, beef, and spicy beef.  Spicy for the Argentines, but not for anyone else.  Argentines do not like spicy food.  Usually you can also find corn, swiss chard, Roqueforte, Roqueforte and ham, and cheese and onion.  Many places are now experimenting with eggplant, mozzarella, tomato sauce, tuna, and even dessert empanadas with apples and strawberries.

Empanadas are an Argentine fast food.  Mostly they are made in pizzarias or at home.  There are specialty stores that sell only empanadas.  I don't understand why any Argentine would want to eat McDonalds when they could have an empanada.

I am running late and have decided to buy the empanadas from next door at the pasta shop.  The husband and wife who run the store make home made pasta and empanadas.  They usually only have two kinds; meat and/or ham and cheese.  These are the fillings in their pastas. The empanadas are a little more money but they are larger and excellent.

After waiting for the bus longer than I wanted to, I opt for the subte.  Me, the empanadas, and a bottle of wine.  The subte is actually better because it will leave me a block from their house.  I just didn't feel like changing lines.  The key is to get there.

Aidana is an artist who makes jewelry and handbags from trash.  Her stuff is great.  Very creative.  She makes things from old tires, milk cartons, you name it. Trash-Fashions is the name of her site. You should check it out. It is really cool.  Steve is a writer.

When I get to their place there are lots of people and empanadas already there.  Steve takes me up to the terrace.   They have a parrilla going to heat the empanadas.  I don't know anyone here, or so I thought.  I introduce myself to a group of women seated in front of me.  They ask me where I am from.  The eternal question.  They are not sure whether to try and speak in English with me or not.  I start in Spanish.  They are delighted.

Within seconds someone puts a glass of wine in my hand.  I had confided in Steve that I bought the wine I did because it was A) cheap, and B) had a really great label.  He told me that they buy it all the time and that it is excellent. I taste it.  I am not sure I would call it excellent, but it is a good value at 6.50 pesos.

I go over to the empanadas.  What a selection!  It is dark so trying to figure out what something is, will be impossible.  I take one and bite into it.  Eggplant and mozzarella.  Que rico!  As I turn, a German couple introduce themselves to me.  We chat for a bit when I hear my name.  I turn to see a woman I had met at another party.  I thought that she had gone back to the U.S.  She tells me she did, but collected her dog and came back.

Aidana has salsa music blaring.  A man is teasing the young woman sitting next to me.  She just started dancing salsa and he is quizzing her.  She is frustrated because she does not know the answers.  I do.   He asks her where to dance salsa on Corrientes.  I whisper "Azucar and maybe better is La Salsera on Yatay."  She tells him.  He is dumbfounded.  Each time he asks a question, I give her the answer until he gets bored and walks away.  She introduces herself to me.  She is a teaching assistant at the University.  She gets my number and email "Now we have to go dance salsa." she tells me.

I decide to try another empanada.  Yum.  This one is chicken and cheese.  It is delicious.  Most likely because it had been fried.  They really are good that way, but so bad for you.  I try another wine.  I don't drink much so I have to be careful.  I don't want to be drunk on the bus going home.

I run into Beatrice.  This was a complete surprise.  Her husband is a pyromaniac with the fire.  He tells me how he likes to kill mosquitoes.  I tell Beatrice I hope she has lots of insurance. We catch up on our lives.  As I turn around I see an old friend I have not seen for awhile, my friend Victoria.  She looks wonderful. It is amazing what a small city Buenos Aires can be.

After consuming too many empanadas, wine, and even a chocolate chip cookie, I decide it is time to leave.  I say good bye to my old friends and the new friends I have made.  Now it is officially spring.

This post was originally written and posted on Affordable Calling Cards September 20, 2009

Roxie..At Peace, Here Comes La Demonia.

Today, one year ago, on September 16, my Roxie died.  When people ask me about her, or when I think about her, I still choke back the tears.  She was my Roxie.  The bravest, sweetest, most loving pit bull doggie.  I still cannot believe she left me.  I could write a whole blog, or two, or three about Roxie.  But I don’t want to write about her death.  I want to write about life.

I believe that when Roxie died, somewhere in Moron a litter of puppies was born.  Or maybe it was before she died.  The sad thing was, who ever owned the mama dog, abandoned the litter of pups.  That is not uncommon here.  As much as Argentines love animals, there are many people here who do not care for their pets.  They abandon them when they go on vacation.  They abandon them when they don’t want them anymore.  Spaying pets is not common here, so you can only imagine the quantity of unwanted puppies and kittens.  There are no subsidized shelters here.  There are kind individuals who have started their own shelters, but there is nothing well organized.

I have this fantasy that Roxie who always looked after me, sent me Maxi.  (Oh and did she ever) I made Roxie promise to never leave me.  She had to.  Her cancer finally got the better of her.  So in her place, she sent me Maximiliana.  I do not know if Maxi is the reincarnation of Roxie or if Roxie sent her to me, but I don’t believe it was an accident that we found each other.

Juan was Roxie’s paseador – dog walker.  In a way he is family.  He was with me when I had to put Roxie to sleep.  In January last year, he and his brother were walking in Moron when heard squeaks.  They were walking under bridge.  At first they they thought it was a rat when it moved.  But when it squeaked again, Juan was sure it was a puppy hidden in the filth and trash.  When he got closer it ran away.  He and his brother chased it until they finally caught it.  She was filthy, undernourished, but adorable. At least she appeared to be adorable.

His brother took the puppy and named her Brenda.  (A totally stupid name) They figured she was about 4 – 5 months old. When Juan came back to the capital he found me walking in the barrio.  “Encontre una perrita re-dulce” he told me.  I wanted nothing to do with it.  I told him so.  I never wanted another dog.  I could not imagine having another dog after the Roxinator.  He kept insisting that when he looked into the face of this puppy he knew this puppy was for me. Every time he told me this I told him “NO”. Famous last words.

Two days later he rang my doorbell and asked me to come downstairs.  Like a fool I did.  He opened his car door and there she was, sitting on the seat.  When I went to look at her she barked at me.  I mean really barked.  When I told her to shut up, she jumped into my arms.  That was it.  She was to become “Maximiliana, the most spoiled dog in Palermo.”

In the beginning I wanted to kill her.  La Demonia.  “Me traijiste una demonia”  I would tell Juan.  I forgot what it was like to have a puppy, let alone one that had been running wild for who knows how long.   It didn’t matter she had a face only Disney could perfect.  Those huge big brown eyes and that wrinkled brow, along with the mouse squeaks.  She was a dog with “issues.”  A polite way to say she was the puppy from hell.

She is a total street dog.  A fighter.  She shunned affection. A leash was not for her.  Sit maybe.  The rest of the commands forget it.  Jumping on the table to eat with me, sure why not?  Try to housebreak a puppy when you live on the 17th floor.  I wanted to drop kick her.  Thank God I still had the shipping crate I brought Roxie in. 

If she didn’t like what I wanted her to do she would sit there and defiantly bark at me.  Once in a party I had, she jumped on the table and began to help herself to the food.  Another day the woman who cleaned my apartment started screaming.  Maximiliana had jumped on the dining room table and started gnawing at one of the chairs.  I mean why use one of the many kongs or bones you have when you can have a dining room chair?

Sometimes walking her was impossible.  She was so afraid of not having anything to eat she would try to eat the gum off the sidewalk.  She was like a vacuum cleaner.  Anything that resembled food went down before I could stop her.  Juan told me he never saw a dog inhale garbage as fast she did.

Obviously she wasn’t all bad.  She was learning to accept affection.  The defiant barking was down to a minimum.  My guests loved her.  Even the ones who didn’t really like dogs.  One look into that little face was all it took.  I would remember the 22 pair of shoes that Roxie ate along with the wood window sills and the remodeling of my kitchen floor.  No one would believe me that Roxie had been worse than Maximiliana.  But she was.

Unfortunately Wendell the dog trainer lives in Emeryville.  I seriously contemplated paying him to fly here to whip this dog into shape.  He did the best job with Roxie.  I needed to find someone like him for La Demonia. I found Mariela the dog trainer.  Twice a week.  Now Maximiliana walks on a leash, she sits, stays, and goes down.  She will come in the dog park, but only with a cookie in the house.  Mariela says she is “vivo”.  She is a pretty smart little dog, after all she survived the streets.

 

When I fall asleep on the couch, more often than not I wake up to a puppy who has wrapped herself around me.  In the mornings when I let her out of her crate, she licks my face.  When I look into those big brown eyes I wonder, “Will I ever have the connection with her I did with Roxie.”  But then, I remember looking at Roxie and wondering the same about her with Sophie. I like to think that Roxie’s spirit is here with us.  I know that she sent me this Demonia, and although I complain, I adore her.

Living In Buenos Aires: The Identity Crisis That Isn’t

This was first published on Blogcritics.org 8/31/09

I am not Argentine. I am an American. I live in Argentina. I have lived here for almost 5 years. I feel disconnected from American life, and in many ways from Americans. I feel much closer to Argentines, but I am not Argentine, and culturally we are very different. In most ways I have adapted. There are some things I cannot change about me. Those things can make it a challenge to live here at times.

Yesterday I had lunch with an Argentine male friend. He recently came back to Buenos Aires to live after being gone 40 years. During the course of our lunch he said to me “I am Argentine, but I haven´t lived here for 40 years. I don’t feel like I really fit in here. Yet I am from here. I lived in the US 30 years, but I never felt like I fit in there either. I guess I am just weird.” I looked at him and said, “Entiendo, yo también.” (I understand, me too)

It’s not easy to change your country. With all the times I had come here, it still was not the same as living here. I was a business analyst. I was used to planning everything down to the last detail. There are just some things that don’t go on a spreadsheet. Adapting to a new culture is one of them.

I was lucky, when I came here; I had a foundation in Spanish. However, not Porteño (Porteño is what the people of Buenos Aires are called) Spanish, which is a completely different language. The Spanish language is difficult enough with its 14 tenses and irregular verbs, not to mention nouns that have to be masculine and feminine. Now all of a sudden the tu form goes out the window and I am saying vos. Mujer is no longer woman, that is the wife, and women are minas. Chicos are pibes. The future tense is not used, most likely because Argentines figure they have no future.

Don’t even start on the accent. In the entire Spanish speaking world the LL and the Y are pronounced the same. Not here in the Capital Federal. While every country has a unique accent, none comes close to the Porteño accent. As soon as a Porteño speaks, every Spanish speaker in the world knows exactly where they are from. What I soon found out is that if you don’t sound like them, they don’t listen. Patience is not high on the list of Porteño priorities.

I was naïve. I never thought to think about prejudice. I am embarrassed to admit this. Me, who lived in Oakland, California, next to the People’s Republic of Berkley. I am blond with green eyes. Silly me. Prejudice runs in many shades. I was “una norteamericana” and for some that was more than enough reason for people to hate me. I came from that imperialistic country up north. The one where Bush was president. There was usually a whole list of grievances thrown at me. It was like I was personally responsible for the screwed up foreign and domestic policies of the USA.

I am not talking about the overcharging that sometimes happens to foreigners. I am talking about prejudice, plain and simple. Discrimination. Once in a taxi with a friend on the way to dance tango, we picked up another of her friends. Introductions were made. The friend started to make comments about Americans. I kept my mouth closed. I wanted to hear what she had to say. My friend stopped her and told her that I understood Spanish. Her friend responded with “But not our Spanish.” To which my friend responded back “Oh yes she does, because I taught her, and I am a very good teacher.” This did not daunt the woman. She continued embarrassing herself and my friend. She asked my friend if I had to sit with them. She didn’t want me at the table. She was very surprised when my friend told her yes, because the table in the milonga (what we call where we go to dance tango) is mine. (Having your own reserved table in the milonga is an honor. This is unheard of for foreigners. I have my own table in several milongas.) She was shocked and had no choice but to sit with this “Yanqui”.

Americans are positive. Argentines are amargo – dark, negative, some say. Americans work in teams, they look for solutions. Argentines fly solo. It is always about them. When I think about the U.S., I think about this old Mickey Rooney movie where he gets the kids together and he says “Come on kids, let’s put on a show.” Next thing you know they have a huge musical production that is flawless. That usually doesn’t happen here. Everyone would have to present their opinion and demand to do it their way. They would just do it their way anyway, and in the end there would be no solution, no play, and lots of expenses. Or there would be a play but it would be difficult to follow. The big difference is that the Americans would work 24/7 and be stressed out to get it right. The Argentines would work in between arguing and enjoy themselves. Getting it right might not always be the main goal.

Americans are goal oriented and Argentines live for the moment. Americans until recently have always gone forward. Argentines live from crisis to crisis. They don’t think of the future or the past, they think of now, because that is what they have. Americans always look to make things better, faster, and easier. Argentines use what they have and just keep piecing it together to keep it running. They have procedures that used to frustrate me no end. Now I just accept that making things complicated and difficult is just the way it is. So much, that many times when you ask an Argentine a question he will begin with “Es muy complicado” before giving you the answer.

To an American, there has to be a system. The system has to be followed, or you are punished. Here, well, mas o menos. Usually menos. I love crossing the street on a red light in the middle of the street. I still feel like a kid getting away with something. In California that was a nice big fat ticket for jay walking and walking against the light. Here the cops just stare at you. The cars ignore the lights half the time anyway, so do the cops, remember this is Buenos Aires.

People here always adapt. Maybe that is the problem. In many ways I admire my Argentine friends. High inflation is killing us. The government’s numbers are a joke. Instead of loud protests, people make do. They eat less meat, they buy fewer clothes, they go out less, but they still make time to enjoy life and their friends in any way that they can. Friendships and family are very important. I love that I am never alone. I always have somewhere to go on holidays, and my birthday is a three day celebration.  Whenever I need something or someone there is always somebody I can call to help me out.  People make time for each other.  They don’t make appointments 2 months in advance.

In the beginning it was fun for me to meet other people coming here from the U.S. Now I am a little wary. You try to explain life here and they always have the answer, even though they do not live here, or they are only here for a short time. They don’t believe me or they think I am lying to them when I tell them how it really is. After all, they are armed with the Internet and Lonely Planet and 5 friends who were here before. It doesn’t matter that I live here.

When I first came to live here, not meaning to, I would insult Argentines. I didn’t understand the cultural differences as well as I thought I did. Now after living here almost 5 years, I am starting to insult Americans. This is mostly because my “Argentine side” feels insulted by them. These are supposedly well traveled, educated people. In the end, they don’t understand why the “Paris of South America” is more like South America than Paris, and of course, it must change.

The changes of course need to be for the Americans, and the American way of life. I get so tired of hearing what “Argentines need to do” and how “Argentines need to change”. It can be something as ridiculous as not understanding why people still do something “stupid” like clean their sidewalks with a bucket and a mop when they should be buying steamer machines or insulting on how tango should be danced here to accommodate the foreigners. After all if the Argentines want to make more money….as if earning more money should be the end result to anything one does.

My dance partner once said about me “Este gringa esta muy brava.” More or less that I have balls. This is not something all that complimentary to say about a woman. Here women are supposed to be more deferent. It is how I am. I stand up for myself. That is not going to change. I am not Argentine. I am an American. I love my adopted country with all its quirks, things that don’t work, and the machista men. I feel the need to defend it like I defend myself, even when things drive me crazy.

Corruption at its finest...in the good old USA...

It inevitably comes up when people ask me what it is like to live here, about the corruption, the paying of bribes. I can honestly say in the almost 5 years I have lived here, no one has ever asked me to pay a bribe.  Corruption?  There is corruption everywhere.  I actually find it laughable that Americans ask these questions considering the shape of their own country. 

In the last couple of weeks I had the dubious honor of experiencing American corruption, greed, and demands for a kick back at its finest.  I am amazed and angry at this situation.  In the more than 20 years I have had in the computer industry, I have never had a situation like this.

I work in a small Argentine IT business.  My partner has over 18 years in CRM. (Customer Relationship Management) He has done everything from sell the software, to install, implement, and customize. He is an excellent consultant.  He has implemented systems in some of Argentina's largest companies.

I met him when I was teaching English.  He repeatedly asked me to work with him.  I left the computer industry when I left California. That was my old life.  Too much stress.  I didn't want to go there again. In the end he managed to convince me that we could work together in a way that would still leave me time to dance and do the things I wanted to do.

My experience was as an integrator and business analyst.  The software I worked with was accounting software and manufacturing and distribution.  I knew about CRM from some of my larger IT projects. We were going to incorporate my experience into the business.  I was going to develop our offshore division.

My partner worked primarily with one CRM software program.  It is part of a large international company.  The main company is huge, I have worked with their accounting software.  One would assume that a global company their size (14,500 employees) would be professionally run. I was in for a large surprise.

I couldn't understand why my partner was buying software from a guy in the U.S. rather from the company directly.  He told me it was as a Master VAR arrangement.  Only when he explained it to me, it was like no Master Var relationship I had ever heard of before.  He had to buy the software from this guy, he got no credit for the sale, and all the license commissions went to this guy.  The guy didn't even support them.

 I told him this was ridiculous, that we should just go direct to the software company and forget this douche bag.  ."My partner warned me "He has powerful friends in the software company."  I just rolled my eyes.  What did I know?  I always dealt with software companies who played a straight game. 

I contacted the software company and introduced myself.  My first point of contact was happy to hear from me. I explained we were in Argentina and what we wanted to do.  He was excited.  He told me he needed to do some research and would contact me again.  Several days later he sent me an application to become a business partner.

These applications are no big deal.  They are a formality.  You fill them out and send them in.  We used to joke about them.  Everyone gets approved as long as they can pay the dealer fee.  Software companies will basically sign anyone up.  Especially these days.  They charge big bucks to become a dealer. Even if you only make 1 sale, they still make money off of you.

Our initial contact in the software company knew all about our having to buy software from the Douche Bag. Even he could not understand it.  He wrongly figured that with our application we would be able to go out on our own.  Two months later he was still unable to get his bosses; Scum Bag 1 the regional sales manager and Scum Bag 2 the VP of Sales to approve the application.

The problem?  Douche Bag.  First they told him Douche Bag had the rights to sell all of the software in Latin America in Spanish and Portuguese.  I asked if we could sell it in English.  I was told yes we could.  We have our own language pack and we would just give it to our customers.  Two more weeks went by.  There was always an objection to our becoming a partner, and the objection had nothing to do with us or our qualifications.  It had everything to do with Douche Bag not getting our sales.

In the end they were worried that my partner would ask his customers to change their reseller to our company once we became authorized.  Scum Bag 1 and 2 were pressuring the legal department to find a way to keep that from happening.  Legal of course said "No way.  Customers have the right to work with whoever they want."  What was at stake?  License renewals of $40,000.00 a year. 

I emailed Scum Bag 1.  I tagged it.  It was deleted unread.  I emailed Scum Bag 2.  He passed it off to Scum Bag 1.  Scum Bag 1 called me.  He sang the praises of my partner.  Told me he was a wonderful guy.  That if we were in the U.S. we would have been made partners.  Ahhh but we are not.  What was the problem?  Douche Bag's customers....

"Douche Bag does not have any customers here in South America."  I said to Scum Bag1.  I was coldly told "In the eyes of our software company all the customers in South America are his."  Is it any wonder all the resellers in South America hate this guy?  "What are you so worried about"  I asked him. "We don't want you contacting Douche Bag's customers if you are made a partner."  Somebody please tell me I am in a bad made for TV movie. 

I tell him that it was my partner who made all these sales,and my partner who continues to service and support these installations.  Why is it that Douche Bag can call these customers and tell them that we are not authorized and threaten the customer if they continue to work with us?  He tries to scare them by telling them stupid things like their software is unsupported. He might as well tell them that bats are going to come flying out of their computers and witches will render them impotent.  Jeesh!  "This" I say to Scum Bag 1 "is good business?  You don't want our customers to work with us.  But it is OK for this Douche Bag to behave like this."  Silence.  Then, "Well they are his customers to us."  I repeat "Customers have the right to work with who they want."

I decide to try another tact "You know, why is everyone looking backwards?  There is enough business out there for all of us.  Douche Bag can have the whole U.S.  We just want to go forward and sell down here.  These kinds of things happen.  I know when I had my business, sometimes customers wanted to change resellers, they were tired of me.  There was nothing I could do.  Sometimes, other reseller's customers came to me.  That is just the way it is."

Scum Bag 1 is silent.  Then he says.  "I have to talk to our legal department.  I will call you on Tuesday."  Not this again.  I ask him what he is going to talk them about, but he refuses to tell me.  He hangs up.

Tuesday comes around and guess what.  Scum Bag 1 calls to tell me they are rejecting our application.  I ask why.  He refuses to tell me.  He says he heard some 3rd hand remarks and now they don't want to make us partners.  He of course won't tell me what the remarks are.  How professional.  I wonder what the CEO of the company would think of this behavior?  He tells me he doesn't have to tell me because they don't get involved in 3rd party information.  What?  Then he tells me that my partner needs to call Douche Bag.  Once he does that, then probably we can be made a partner.  Excuse me?  What does Douche Bag have to do with being made a partner?

Today my partner calls me.  He spoke to Douche Bag last week.  Today Douche Bag made him an offer. They will make us a development partner of the software company if we agree to the following:  Douche Bag gets 100% of all the license agreements from all the past customers, he gets 70% of the new customers.  Oh and do not tell any of the other resellers in South America you are a partner. Development partner that is.  They still are not going to make us a full sales partner.

"Are you out of your mind?"  I say to him.  "Are they going to put this in writing?"  I ask.  He admits no they are not, it is their word.  "This is extortion and it is illegal.  Do you understand this?  What they are doing is illegal.  I will not go along with this." My partner is silent.  "We need to be partners."  "Not like this."  I tell him.  "I am sure that the software company has no idea what Scum Bag 1 and Scum Bag 2 are up to.  They are getting a piece of the pie.  That is the only reason they are doing this.  Douche Bag is cutting them in." 

My partner insists it is the only way to be made a partner in the company.  I tell him that I have never seen a company act like this.  I will not work with a bunch of dishonest bottom feeders like this. "You don't get it."  I say to him, "You have nothing in writing.  They can do whatever they want to you.  They have no reason not to make us a partner in the first place.  What they are doing is reprehensible, it is extortion."

And Americans still ask me "What about the corruption." 

The Milonga Chronicles: Connect the dots

Today is a holiday.  It seems like Argentina has a holiday every 15 days.  I am not even sure what the holiday is today.  I even had to tell my dentist today was a holiday.  He was going to schedule an appointment with me.  I spent the weekend with my dog.  I have so much going on during the week I need my weekends to chill.  I need to dance.

I go to Gricel on Mondays.  I can take the subte which is a good thing.  It keeps my costs down.  I don't have to argue with my clothes tonight.  I have a new dress.  So there, you nasty dresses that are too big.  I am glad.  It gets exhausting trying on 5 different outfits.  Tonight just one.

I walk into Gricel.  I greet Patricio's brother at the door, and then Patricio and Adriana.  It will only be me tonight.  I have only reserved a chair for me at my table.  I suppose I could have reserved for two as there is always someone who wants to sit with me.  I didn't think about it.

When I get to my table I notice that there will be a group of 5 and a woman whose name I do not recognize.  I should have reserved for 2 not just me.  For some reason I have a premonition of problems.  I hope not.  I don't want any drama.  I just want to dance and have a good time.

I greet my friends.  As I sit two women come to sit at the table. They sit down.  I get a curious stare.  I smile at them and say "Hola". One looks at me and says "Sos extranjera?"  OK, so this is how it is going to be.  No hello, just are "you a foreigner".  Nice.  I turn away.  They look familiar.  I think they are from Zona Sur. Quilmes, or near.

I see a man at the next table looking at me.  He looks somewhat familiar.  I am not sure how he dances, but it is better than sitting with these two.  I accept his invitation.  After the first song he looks at me. Actually he is staring at me.  It is a little unnerving.  I smile at him. "Como estas?"  I ask him.  "You are the blog girl Deby?" he asks me in accented English.  "Yes, that is me."  I say to him.  He is thrilled.  He is from Germany.  He tells me how he reads my blog all the time.  Between every song he tells me how he splits his vacation up so he can come to Buenos Aires more.  He tells me my blog is how he keeps in touch with Buenos Aires.  I tease him "You better be careful, you might end up moving here."  He thanks me for dancing with him as he walks me back to my table.

The two women are deep in conversation.  They are criticizing everyone's dancing.  I can't wait to watch them dance.  They want the waitress.  They are calling the wrong one.  I tell them so.  Their heads snap around.  "I always have this table."  I tell them.  Once again like a Greek chorus I get "Sos extranjera."  I answer "Si, soy extranjera, pero vivo aca."  "Pero hace poco." one of them returns.  "No,"  I tell her, "I have been living here almost 5 years, and I have been in the country since 2000. You must be new to this milonga."  "Oh no," she tells me.  "We come to this milonga all the time." I stare at her. "Interesting.  I have never seen you here before." 

I am always amazed at the Argentines who spend little time in the milongas who want to use the fact that they are Argentines to hold over the foreigners. They are so insecure they think it makes them better in some way.  Big deal.  There was a time when this tactic worked with me, maybe 9 years ago.  Not anymore. Not for a long time. How insignificant is your life, when you do this sort of stupid stuff.

I am sure now they are from the Zona Sur.  I wonder if they are part of Brande's band of Vieja Verdes as I call them.  Brujas. The group of nasty, desperate, divorced women who see him as the eligible widower.  To them I am public enemy #1.  When I teach with him in his Academia they are miserable.  They always see me as moving in on their territory.  What a joke! They can have him.  He is my compañero del baile and my friend, nothing more. The outright jealousy that women have towards each other here took me awhile to adjust to.  Now I just blow it off.

I watch as the women go to dance.  No surprises there.  They both dance as I suspected.  When they come back to the table they gush over what great dances they had.  One turns to me and tells me "You should dance with that man."  I ask her why.  She proceeds to tell me what a great dancer he is.  I shrug my shoulders.  That man would never invite me to dance because he knows I would never accept.

I look up and see a friend from LA.  I am so surprised.  I jump up to hug him.  He is an Argentine that lives in LA.  "Cuando volviste?"  I ask him.  "Quieres sentar conmigo?"  (When did you return, do you want to sit with me)  He sits down.  One of the women starts to wimper about the table being reserved.  I say to her "They only hold the tables until 10, it is now almost 11."  They know I am correct.  If they were nice to me, I would be nice to them.  My friend asks if it is OK to sit with me in English, I tell him not to worry, this is my table. 

We chat awhile about what is going on in LA, how long he will be here.  We go to dance.  He is a nice dancer.  I know the old brujas are watching.  When we get back to the table he orders a bottle of champagne.  The brujas are mystified.  They cannot figure out who my friend is.  I tell my friend what has been going on with them.

He says to me "You know Argentines, they always have to make drama.  It´s good though.  You let them know you can play the game. Don't let them mess with you." "Obvio."  I say to him.  "But the drama.  Sometimes it is too much. I never had so much drama in my life.  I don't look for it."  "You don't have to," he says to me, "It is always there."

My friend disappears.  He is off to dance with other women.  I dance with other men.  Then I come back to the table.  That is when I find out who the other women are that have reserved the table.  I look up and see the viejo I used to go out with and the woman he is trying to scam. "Oh no." I say, "They cannot sit at this table."  What happens next is actually pretty funny.  He almost jumps up and runs.  The woman grabs him and wants him to sit down. I on the other hand thanks to Sandra, have learned to perfect my role as a guacha down to the correct tone of voice  "No"  I insist.  "Este chanta no pueda sentar a mi mesa."  I knew those hags were from Zona Sur.  One of them protests "But we reserved this table."  I look at her with one of my best guacha looks "No importa, este mesa es mi mesa y ellos no pueden sentar aca."  I turn on my heel and leave.  ¡Que quilombo!

He knows this is my table.  He doesn't have to be convinced. He knows I won't back down even though there are 5 of them and 1 of me.  He drags the badly dyed blond, stuffed into her long red dress to another table. She is not happy. How does he explain me to her?  The rest of them I am sure are in a twitter over blondie the extranjera.  Talk about drama...I just wanted a nice calm evening.

I go to greet my friends.  I sit down at the table of a friend who is a singer.  He is a little surprised. He is eating dinner.  "Hola Mariposa" he says to me.  Funny how many men call me that.  The first one was Brande and I wanted to kill him.  Mariposa in lunfardo is a loose woman.  He told me he calls me that because the butterfly is beautiful and free.  My friend Tito asks me how I am.  I tell him I am fine. He wants to know what I am up to.  I tell him making the men of Buenos Aires crazy.  He laughs.

Another friend stops me and wants to know who the galan is that has bought me champagne.  I tell him an old friend from California.  Several women ask me the same question.  A new face in the milonga is always the source of conversation.  Everyone is always watching.  I head back to my table to see what is going on.

When I return the stupid one sitting next to me is glaring at me.  I glare back and say to her "Te molesto?"(Do I bother you?)  She tells me "We reserved this table."  I tell her "That man is not going to sit at my table, do you understand?"  She tells me again "We reserved this table."  I tell her again "This is my table.  I have it any night I want. Tonight I am alone.  That is the only reason why you are here. He knows this is my table."  "Don't look at me that way!" she demands.  Who does she think she is? My mother? I stare her right in the face and say to her "What is your problem?" She finally backs down and turns away.

Then in a few minutes my friend returns with a woman who looks vaguely familiar.  He introduces her to me and asks if she can sit with me.  I don't believe this.  I don't know her, I know her brothers.  I know that Brande once worked with her and she is one of the few people he does not like.  She has a space for shows, milongas, and classes.  We talk about it.  I wonder if I should mention his name.  I decide not to.  I have had enough excitement for tonight.

The German guy is smiling at me.  I go to dance with him again.  He asks if I am teaching.  I tell him yes and give him the information.  He only has a few days left.  I know how he feels.  I remember when I used to come back and forth.  It was always so difficult to leave.  Now thanks to the government, I can't leave. 

Back to the table.  We are sharing another bottle of champagne.  The woman is talking about her space and inviting me to come see it.  I know it is a lovely place.  I text Brande to tell him who I am sitting with.  He probably is having a fit.  I am sure at 8:30 in the morning he will call me.

A couple of women who are staying close to me ask me if I want to share a taxi back to Palermo.  I tell them yes, to let me know when they want to leave.  I look around.  Many of my regulars are not here. Another funny thing about holidays is that you find out who is married.  Men that usually come alone have to come with their wife on a holiday.  It is funny to watch them slink in.  They can't say hello because the wife would have a minor heart failure.  Street theater at its best.

I look up and see my "brother" Gustavo.  Finally someone to dance with.  He never comes to Gricel.  I go to greet him.  He tells me enjoys bantering with me on Facebook.  I tell him my cousin enjoys reading our bantering.  He tells me to go sit down so he can invite me to dance.  Funny how this sounds logical.

I take my seat.  I look up and Gustavo invites me to dance.  I meet him at the floor.  I love to dance with him.  He remembers me when I first came to Buenos Aires.  I guess lots of men remember me when I first came to Buenos Aires.  I tell him what has been going on tonight.  He finds it humorous. After the tanda I take him over to my table to introduce him.

Of course trying to explain how he is my brother in either Spanish or English ... I guess you need a sense of humor which none of these people have.  After awhile we give up.  They are never going to understand.  They can't understand why Gustavo speaks English.

The two women tell me they are ready to leave when I am.  I go to change my shoes.  I have to get up early.  When I come back, one of the women is dancing.  I look over and this very good looking man is inviting me to dance.  I know he can't dance, but he is so cute.  I accept his invitation for the last two valses.  I am wearing flat shoes, but it doesn't matter.  When the tanda is over I thank him.

The ladies and I collect our things and head for the door.  This was a complicated night.  I feel like I am in one of those drawings where you connect the dots.  Sooner or later every one is connected in some way or another.  The milonga is a family. Dysfunctional, but a family.

The Milonga Chronicles: Viernes, puedes bailar

It´s cold.  It has not been a good day.  I am being stalked. My back hurts.  I have too much work. Last week when I was at Gricel he showed up in the milonga.  It was a surprise.  He should have been at his friend's milonga.  He gets in free.  He was bien pintada.  It was obvious he came to see me.  I ignored him.

My life has been bien tranquila.  Less drama.  Lots of good friends.  Working with my Argentine partners is fun, although I think for them a North American woman at times is a little much.  But they are learning. I am learning.  I have my residency.  And of course "La Demonia" as she is affectionately called, my puppy Maximiliana, or Maxi for short.

El Attorante, the other Roberto, told me to keep my eyes open. So they are.  I just do not want more drama.  I do not understand why he cannot leave me alone.  Proclamations of love while still wearing the ring of this poor girl somewhere in the US who thinks she has a prize of man.  He wants to work with me again, he misses me. He wants to take me to Brasil to some beach.  These are all the same lines he used 5 years ago to snag me then. He needs some new material.

It is all so boring.  Even dancing with him is boring.  I have to hold back the urge to correct him. I may not approve of El Attorante's life style but he is an excellent teacher and a wonderful dancer. I have learned a lot from him.  I want to tell this chanta to open his shoulders and straighten up.  Did he always dance like this?  Or did I just get better?  Does it matter?  Not really.

His reasons for stalking me in milongas the last two weeks comes out in little drips and drabs. He never got paid for his car in the accident. Oh gee.  You know you run a red light and cause an accident you usually don't get paid.  He is complaining about 5,000 pesos to the person who spent 3 months in a wheel chair and still suffers chronic pain.  Am I missing something here?

I want him to just go away.  Today 17 text messages asking to see me and in the end asking for sex. What the hell is he thinking? It is amazing to me that he would even think that I would want to have a relationship with him again. The guy is crazy.  "I am only wearing this ring as a symbol of the love I once had for this girl, but it's over.  If you come back to me, I will take it off forever..."  He should write romance novels. 

Sandra calls "NoBEETZ".  She makes me laugh.  She has me on the speaker phone.  She is at work.  I am the entertainment for her office.  I tell her what is going on. She tells me to be careful.  She thinks he is crazy too. He is planing something.  I am doing imitations of him and have her office in stitches.  She tells me she will come by at 10:15 to get me.  Marta will meet us at Celia's.

I really want to go to Luis and Franca's milonga, but they won't go. I am also wondering if the guy I danced with last week is going to show up this week.  You never know with these men.  I liked dancing with him.

It's cold again. What to wear.  The nightly fight with my clothes.  I don't know why they do this to me. They won.  They look terrible.  They are baggy and shapeless.  I give up.  Can't they be the least bit sympathetic?  Nooooo.  Finally I find something that I can wear that I don't absolutely hate.

Sandra comes for me. We get to Celia's.  Dario asks us if we want to sit in the front row. We look around and decide not to.  We like our second row table.  It is at the end.  The men are happy to see us.  Most likely because we are the youngest women there.  We order cafes.  It is cold.

I don't want to dance.  My back hurts.  A friend comes to the table to make small talk.  I know he wants to dance with me.  I count the songs.  I agree to a dance on the third song.  He is killing me.  How do you tell someone who is nice they are killing you?  I move his arm and reposition it.  His eyes fly open?  I smile and tell him he is so tall it is more comfortable for me that way. Liar, liar, liar. When the tanda ends I am happy to go back to my seat.

Marta is here.  She is always fun.  She goes off to dance.  We all do.  We come back to the table.  When I look up, I see the man who danced with me last week.  He has just arrived.  When he sees me he has a big smile on his face.  He invites me to dance.

"You are here." he says to me with a big smile on his face.  "Yes, well, the amigas won't go anywhere else."  I say to him.  He is such a nice dancer.  My back does not bother me when I dance with him.  His lead is nice and smooth. "Did you have a nice week?" he asks.  "Yes, busy.  I danced alot.  I worked. How about you?"  He tells me he worked a lot too. I ask him what he does and he tells me. When the tanda is over he walks me back to the table. 

I say to Sandra "Well, he has a job."  She laughs. "Menos mal." she says.  "If he is telling the truth he is the owner.  If he is lying, he just works there."  We both laugh.  You can be whatever you want in the milonga...a doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.

Two women are seated in front of us.  We know them. How do you describe them? Good dancers. Maybe a little shopworn?  Definitely in love with themselves. Two men come in.  One younger than the other.  Definitely American. They seat them on the men's side of the room.

They play a set of cumbia that usually ends with a paso doble.  The older of the two Americans comes over.  "Baile?"  He looks at me.  I smile at him, "Do you speak English?"  He looks relieved, "Yes."  "This is paso doble, do you know how to dance it?'  I ask him.  "I can fake it."  he insists.  He is charming in that American way.  I figure why not. We go out to the floor.  In 4 steps it is obvious he cannot dance paso doble.  "This is not tango?" he asks.  "No,"  I smile at him. "It's not tango."  "Would you dance the next tango with me?'  "Sure."  I tell him.

As we walk off the floor, one of the women sitting in front literally grabs him.  She tells him that she can dance with him, inferring that I cannot.  I tell her he doesn't speak Spanish.  She starts to grab his hand and lead him to the floor.  He pulls away from her.  I tell her "He doesn't dance paso doble.  We are waiting for a tango." She snaps at me "He doesn't dance badly."  He guides me past her.

I apologize to him for her behavior.  "If I wanted to dance with her, I would have asked her."  He says to me.  "I know what she was doing. We can wait for a tango."  I introduce him to Marta and Sandra. He is thrilled to hear English.  He is here on vacation with his son and today is his birthday.

We go to dance the tanda of tango.  He really doesn't dance tango either.  I back lead.  He is from a very small town in Montana.  He reminds me why I like American men. I am getting curious looks as I dance this tanda.  I am sure the men cannot figure out why I am dancing with this man who cannot dance.  I am glad I am.  It is his birthday and here he is in Buenos Aires, dancing the tango.  His son is taking pictures.  When the tanda ends he thanks me.  I tell him to have a great birthday and to have fun on his vacation.

I go back to the table.  I look up.  Oscar is inviting me to dance. It is a tanda of milonga.  Oh what to do.  I do not like to dance milonga with anyone but El Attorante. Most men do not know how to dance it and with my back...I go and hope for the best. He wants to dance traspie. I prefer lisle. I can dance traspie. We take off. I am relieved. 

"Where did you learn to dance?"  I ask him."In the street."  He tells me.  This is not true. Not at all.  He is a very nice dancer.  "Oh your learned from your family?"  I ask him.  "I will tell you later."  He says.  we dance the next song.  I ask again, "Where did you learn?"  "In Vicente Lopez."  he tells  me. I don't understand why he is so secretive.  It isn't such a big deal. "Thank you for the milongas." he says to me walking me back to the table.

I tell Sandra what he told me.  "Baila lindo el." she agrees.  "I don't know why he doesn't just say where he learned.  It isn't such a big deal.  He dances better than most people who teach."  She laughs.  She knows exactly what I am thinking. Then a tanda of valses comes next.  I look up. Oscar is looking at me.

"You are going to make the men very jealous."  I tell him.  He laughs, "Yes I think so." I love dancing vals with him.  He can giro in both directions, not very many men can do that. El Attorante would not like to see this. "What do you do on Saturdays and Sundays?" he asks me.  He is trying to find out if I am attached. "Not much."  I spend them with my dog and my computer. He looks shocked.  "I go out a lot during the week.  It isn't important to me to go out on weekends.  Sometimes I do."  He is trying to determine if I am being honest.  I don't think an Argentine woman would ever admit to spending her weekends with her dog.  But I love my puppy.  Even if she is a demonia.

He walks me back to my table and thanks me.  The next tanda starts and before I can look at him another man comes to the table. "Amiga" he says. "Do not forget your amigos."  I laugh and go to dance with him.  Last week this poor guy gave me the cabaceo 3 times and 3 other women jumped up to dance with him.  He had to come to the table and apologize.  Tonight he came in what he called "auto-defensa de los amigos."  How funny. 

The next tanda is Di Sarli. I look at Oscar and he smiles at me.  I see Juan Carlos' mouth drop. I meet Oscar on the corner of the floor. After the first song he says to me "What are you doing for Dia del Niño?"  I tell him "I don't have any kids unless you count my dog, so I will take her to the dog park."  He laughs.  "But you are a kid."  I smile "Thanks."  I will celebrate with Maxi, la demonia. We continue to dance.  "What about you?"  I ask.  "I will be with my grandkids"  he tells me.  This is a surprise as he looks so young. "Grandkids?" I say. He laughs. "Yes,  two." He thanks me for the dance and walks me to my table.

Sandra tells me she is tired and wants to leave soon.  "All those times you made me stay while you made eyes at Capo?"  I say to her.  She laughs. "I only want to dance."  She rolls her eyes.  "Really." Sandra looks at me.  "If he invites you, you should go."  I don't say anything.  I have been happy with my calm life.

They are playing chacarrera.  He is dancing with someone else. I am folkloric disaster.  One day I will learn to dance it.  I like Zamba and many of the dances, I just cannot do them. Marta is leaving. She tells me to behave.  Like I have any other option.

At the next tanda Oscar invites me again.  Sandra reminds me she is tired. I tell Oscar this will be my last dance because my friend is tired. On the 2nd song he asks me "Would you like to have a coffee with me on Sunday afternoon?"  I give him my death stare.  Not the grandma Brown Def CON 1, more like Def Con 4.  "Un cafe normal, no cafe milongero."  I say to him.  He stares at me in disbelief, and then smiles. "Of course."  I am still looking at him. "Estas soltero?"  I say to him.  "I told you last week, my wife divorced me over tango in 2003."  I am still starring.  "I have learned a lot since I came to this country."  I tell him. "What about you?" he says.  "A beautiful woman."  I laugh.  "Ask any man here. They all know I am single."

He walks me to the table and sits with me and Sandra. I am a little embarrassed.  He has to write his phone number to give it to me, and me to him.  I do not like to make a show of things.  I should have gone to the bathroom and done this. "I will call you Sunday."  He says to me.  I of course am the skeptic.  Sandra and I prepare to leave.

As we walk out the door, one of my viejos says to me "buenos noches linda, I think that there is going to be a romance with the morocho."  I shake my head no.  He smiles.  I shake my head again, "No." He smiles and says "Creo que si."

The Milonga Chronicles: Girls Night Out

My phone rings. I answer it, the voice on the end says "Noobeetz", it's Sandra. I answer her back "Oleeartay."  She says my name in Argentine, I say her name in American.  "Que hace?"  She asks me.  "Nada, trabajando." I say to her. "Yo tambien."  She says to me. 

"What are you going to do tonight?"  She asks me.  This is a loaded question.  Sandra doesn't go out much with me anymore.  She has Capo, she is always tired, she has her clothing business. I have my routine.  But when she asks me, I never know if she is really asking me because she wants to do something.  Argentines are not direct.  My American friends would just say "Wanna do something tonight?"  An Argentine would never do that.  You have to go to the moon and back before you get to the point.  I like to keep the journey shorter.  So we just go to California.

I tell her "No estoy segura, porque? Quieres salir"  (I am not sure, why, do you want to go out?)  She tells me "Well it is so cold out.  I have been in all week.  I sort of feel like going out."  Now I know she wants to go out.  It is just a matter of where I am going.  "Well I am going out."  I say her. I really want to go to Luis, and then down to Celia, but I know that she won't go to Luis, only to Celia. why is life always so complicated?  "Voy a Celia."  "Buenissimo." she says to me.  She says she will call our friend Marta to see if she wants to go.  I tell her that maybe Laura staying with me will go too.

Ten minutes later Sandra calls back and says Marta will meet us there.  Girl's night out.  Marta is lots of fun.  I tell Laura that she will finally meet Sandra.  "My feet cannot take another night of heels" she tells me. I think I just want to wear jeans, no makeup, and practice my lead at Villa Malcom." she says to me.  I know this is a foreigner's concept. It is just so bizarre to me.  It is so contrary to me of what tango is.   

Sandra calls me again "Reina, Marta has another friend coming. She says not to be mad."  I tell her no problem. I always arrange for the table. Even my Porteňo friends have me arrange for the table.  I spend more time in the milongas and know the organizers.  They have learned that I get a better table. It amuses them. Sandra tells me she will come for me in the taxi at 10:30.

We enter Celia's.  We are probably the youngest there.  Dario gives me a big hug - "Rey de la Puerta" I greet him.  I greet the people I know as I enter.  All the people who work there as well as the people in the milonga. I have always done this.  It is something that Amanda told me to do, and before her other women.  Many foreigners see the interaction of Argentines as being at first very warm and friendly, then later as being false. I once questioned an Argentine woman about her warm greeting to a woman she didn't like.  Her response was "Why not?  I don't have to see her outside the milonga, have coffee with her, go to dinner with her.  Inside the milonga we are a family.  We need to get along.  So why not be pleasant?  Why not greet her?"  I thought to myself that day, sure why not?  Much better that in California when you enter a milonga and people you know pretend not to see you or ignore you. What effort does it take to say hello and be nice?

Ana and Pia are already there.  We have almost the whole row.  We will be 6 chicas.  We greet them both before sitting at our table.  They are happy to see Sandra.  I always see them during the week, they almost never see Sandra so they are happy to see her.

Dario seats us at my usual table on the end of the second row.  The table next to us is for Marta and Norma.  I get up to go dance with Oscar.  I adore him.  I don't know how many years he has but several past 70.  After the first song he says to me "Muy bien nena."  I smile "Gracias joven."  "I love when you say that to me." he smiles.  When the tanda ends he guides me back to my table and gives me a big kiss.

I say to Sandra, "Pobre viejito, he is so alone.  He always tells me that if he doesn't go to the milonga he would be home alone.  He starts every afternoon at a milonga and ends every night at one as well."  Sandra agrees.  How many of these guys spend their lives this way?  Either they spent their whole life in the milonga or their families have died, and now they have no one. They only have the milonga.

Marta comes.  She greets Pia and Ana, then Sandra.  She sticks her tongue out at me.  I shake my head and make a face at her.  We both laugh.  She sits next to Sandra.  Everyone is talking about how cold it is.  I am glad that I am not the only one complaining.  Even Sandra wore pants tonight.  Dress over pants is a big look these days in the milonga.

Everyone is up to dance except me and Pia.  I slide over to talk to her.  "Como estas"  I ask her.  "Bien." She answers me. "Estas con novio?"  she asks me.  I laugh at her.  Pia can never figure out why I don't have a boyfriend.  I always tell her the same reasons she doesn't.  I don't know why she can't believe the men treat me the same as they treat her.  I ask her about work, her daughters.  When the tanda ends I go back to sit next to Sandra.

We roll our eyes at some of the outfits the women are wearing. It is too amazing.  One woman we call the Cartonera Morocha (Cartoneros are the people that pick through the trash looking for paper and plastic) is wearing a mini skirt on her overweight body.  It is not a pretty site.  The thin woman in front of us gets up to dance.  Sandra shakes her head "Que disastre la mina."  She is wearing pants and a camisole.  Her belly hangs over the pants and we won't talk about what a bra might do for the camisole.  "La mina no tiene espejo."  I say to her. "Oh she has one," says Sandra, "She just doesn't use it."

Marta leans over, "That guy wants to dance with you." I take a quick look. A man has walked across the room to stand near where we are seated.  He is nicely dressed in a suit.  "I say back "So. Can he dance?"  Marta, Pia, and Ana say yes. Hmmm.  I ask Sandra.  She tells me she thinks so.  He is not going to go away.  I smile at him and hope for the best.  I get up to meet him. 

He takes me to the floor.  We dance the first song of the tanda.  I know why they think he is a good dancer.  He is not a bad dancer.  He is nice.  In between the tandas he makes small talk with me.  "So when are you going home?  He asks me.  I know what he means, but I choose to ignore it. "I am not sure, maybe at 3:30 when the milonga ends."  He smiles, "No home to your country." Every time it is the same thing.  Being an immigrant means always explaining yourself. "I live here."  I say to him. And because of all the foreign women who come here and lie about living here because for whatever reason he smiles and says "for how long?'  He is very polite.  I know he just wants to make small talk.  But I have this conversation 20 times a day.  I am happy the music starts again.

When I go back to the table Sandra asks me how the dance was. "Mas o menos."  I tell her.  She laughs.  "He turns with his body.  I am used to el Attorante."  She laughs.  She goes to dance the next tanda, as do Marta and Ana.  I slide over to talk to Pia.  She asks me if I thought the man I danced the last tanda was a good dancer.  I told her he was OK.  I see the look cross her face.  Other than Sandra, my friends do not understand why I do not enjoy dancing with most of the men. 

"Do you want to know why?"  I ask her.  She nods her head.  "When he turns he uses his body.  He doesn't open up his shoulders.  He doesn't pivot.  Because of that I cannot use the momentum of my body to turn.  It doesn't feel elegant.  I feel pushed through the giro.  I do not glide through it."  Her eyes open wide.  "His posture is straight up.  He needs to open up more.  I have to work too hard.  If I have to work too hard, how can I enjoy my dance?" 

"I dance everyday with students"  I tell her.  When I come to dance in the milongas I want to enjoy myself.  I prefer to wait for the music I love and a man I enjoy dancing with.  I know that I am spoiled. But that is how it is."  She laughs at me.  I know one time I arranged for her to dance with one of my friends, she saw the difference.  Everyone has their favorites to dance with. 

The tanda ends and I go back to sit next to Sandra.  We order a bottle of champagne to split between us.  Marta looks across the room.  "What is wrong with that woman's hair?" she asks.  "Hair?"  I don't understand what she is wearing. And so it goes.  I realize how much I love to sit with my friends.  I also know these kinds of conversations are going on at every table.  When Americans sit with me, they call this my commentary.  I guess I have gotten so used to doing it with my Argentine friends, I forget that Americans are not used to it.  I know even the men do it.  It doesn't mean anything.

The next tanda starts.  I look over and I see a new face.  I do not know why, but I accept a dance with him.  He comes to meet me on the floor.  What a nice embrace.  He has a good sense of the music.  A pleasant surprise.  He is thrilled.  He tells me that he rushed home from work to come to dance.  It has been awhile since he has been here.  I tell him that I do not remember seeing him here.  He is a nice dancer.  Of course he asks where am I from.  I tell him I live here. The same 20 questions and answers. The tanda ends.  He walks me back to my table and tells me that it was a pleasure to dance with me.  I thank him.

Then I do something very unusual for me.  I dance the next tanda with him.  I cannot help myself.  It is a nice tanda of music and to be honest there is no one else for me to dance with.  He tries some little steps of which I follow.  "Que lindo." he says to me.  His lead is very good so it is easy to follow him. "Where did you learn to dance?" he asks me.  "Actually here, at Lo de Celia."  I tell him.  "Are you married?" he asks. "NO!"  I say to him.  "Good." he says to me.  (as if it would make a difference) "and you?"  I ask.  (Not that I care.) "My wife divorced me in 2003 because of tango." he tells me.

I go back to the table. Four faces are staring at me. "He dances nicely."  I say to them. They lift their champagne glasses to me. "Ching ching"  I make a face at them.  I know better than to dance the next dance with him.  He is dancing with another woman.  Sandra says to me, "Look at his face." We laugh. The woman is very pretty but not that good of a dancer and she is hanging on him.  He looks like he is in pain.

They play a milonga.  I do not dance much milonga in the milongas.  I prefer not to.  Instead I talk with my friends.  There are not that many people tonight.  It is cold out and the end of the month.  I remember when this place was packed on a Friday night.  You could not move.  The best dancers in Buenos Aires would be here.  Now most of them have either died, or are sick, or many of them do not go out any more.  From time to time I see them.  I still love to watch them dance.  They still have a graceful elegance to their dancing.

The next tanda is a tanda of vals.  I look to my left.  He is looking for me.  I get up to meet him. Now we will find out if he can turn.  We start to dance.  He tells me vals his is favorite ritmo.  I tell him mine too.  When we turn I see that yes he can turn and I have the space and the momentum to do my own giros. He adds his own steps.  I am very happy.  So happy that I add a back boleo.  Very bad, but I do it.  When the tanda ends I thank him.  He tells me it was a real pleasure to dance with me.  I think now I have danced 5 or 6 tandas with him.  All very good ones. I realize this is not normally acceptable, but sometimes, you have to break the rules.

It is now 3:00 am.  Marta is leaving.  She has a ride back to Liniers with a friend. We say good bye to her and tell her we will see her next week.  I go off to dance with my new friend.  When I look up, Ana, Pia, and Sandra are waving at me.  They are crazy.  I wave back.  Every time I turn and I face them, they wave.  I stick my tongue out at them.  They go crazy with laughter.

Ana and Pia leave.  That leaves me and Sandra.  I dance the last tanda with my friend.  He asks me to come next Friday.  I tell him I will probably be here, but I cannot promise.  "I usually go out Friday."  I tell him. "And my friends only want to come here."  He tells me he really enjoyed dancing with me and he hopes to see me next week.  I just smile.

Sandra and I leave.  "Divirtimos muchos."  she says to me.  I hug her.  "Siempre con las chicas."

The Milonga Chronicles: Feliz Dia del Amigo

"Que gobierno de la mierda!" I say to my friend Sergio. He laughs at me. "Cuantos años estas aca?" he asks me.  I tell him "Casi cinco."  "Que porteña sos."  My friends always laugh when I use the phrases from here.  Sandra especially.  She takes the credit for being my teacher.  "Que paso?"  He asks me.

I tell him how last week I got my visa.  My permanent visa.  I was so happy.  I went to Migraciones.  I waited with the sea of different faces - Bolivians, Paraguayans, Peruvians, Chinese, Koreans.  I really stuck out, white, with blond hair and green eyes.  All of us foreigners hoping for our final papers.  Those from Mercosur countries knowing it would be easy, those of us who were not from Mercosur countries were still a little tense.  The door on permanent visas had been shut. 

When they called my name I went up to the window.  I was asked to sign a document.  I read through it and signed it.  I then gave them a digital thumbprint.  I felt my eyes misting.  It was a very emotional moment for me.  I thanked the girl.  Never throughout this process did I ever feel that I had the right to a visa.  I know that many Americans and even some Europeans do have this attitude.  I never did. I feel honored that Argentina, especially now, that the door has been shut on legal immigration, granted me permanent residency.  With this visa I needed to go to change my DNI (our National Identity Card) from temporary to permanent.

I got up early to go to the branch of the Registro Nacional for Foreigners.  I expected a huge line as always.  I was told I needed to make an appointment to change my DNI.  I was told this would probably take a month.  I need to travel to the US in September for work.  So I figured this would give me plenty of time.  Except, I forgot, I live in Argentina.  Where nothing goes as you expect it to.

When I get to the Registro Nacional, it is kind of strange.  There is no line.  Only 3 guys blocking the door.  It is closed.  Until August 15. What the F___?  Because of the flu, they tell us.  There is no discussion.  They give us a little slip of paper and tell us to call this number to make an appointment for the 15th.  What is most frustrating is the other branches for Nacionales are not closed. Bueno.

I go home and call and call and call.  For two days I call and get a busy signal.  Probably there is one number and they have taken the phone off the hook.  This is Argentina.  Finally on Monday I reach a person at 3:45 in the afternoon.  She snarls at me "We are closed."  I ask her "OK, when are you open?" She snarls again "August 15."  I explain to her that I was given this number to call and make an appointment for August 15th for when they open again.  She hangs up on me.  This is Argentina. Hijo de puta.

Today is Dia del Amigo.  I will ignore that this woman has hung up on me.  Not very friendly.  I will remember that I have received 86 text messages from friends wishing me a Happy Dia del Amigo, 25 emails, and many phone calls.  Dia del Amigos is much bigger here than Valentines Day.  Valentines Day is really a Hallmark Holiday.  It excludes people.  Dia del Amigos is for everyone.  It is a day for you to share with all of your friends.

Tonight Laura, Marvin, and I are going to go to Gricel.  It has been ages since I have been to Gricel on a Monday. Laura has only been here since Friday.  This will be her first traditional milonga.  She has been to Catedral and La Viruta.  Both without me.  I don't go to those milongas.

We enter Gricel and are greeted by Patricio and Adriana.  Both are happy to see me.  Adriana tells me that Marvin is here already.  She tells me that she has my regular table reserved.  I am surprised as I have not been here in a long time.  She leads us to the back by the bar.  On the way I see many of my friends.  They stop me "Feliz Dia, Deby" I stop to greet them "Feliz Dia, Amiga."

I see Marvin but he is at another table.  I ask Adriana if he can sit with us.  She tells me "Si, hay no problema."  We have 3 seats and there are 2 old crones -viejas already sitting there.  I always have the front tables closest to the floor.  I direct Laura to sit at one of the chairs closer to the floor, I take the other. I tell Marvin to sit next to me.

I look at one of the viejas. They are obviously not happy. "Hola, Feliz Dia." I say to them smiling. They look back with caras de culos. Bueno.  One says to me "How come you get to sit there.  You are foreigners."  OK so this is how it is going to be.  I explain to them very patiently that this is my table. That I live here, and yes obviously I am foreign and that I have been dancing here for more than 9 years. (And obviously they have not.) As I am talking a friend comes by and hugs me "Feliz Dia Amiga." I hug him back "Vos tambien amor."  I go to change my shoes in the bathroom.

I explain the cabeceo to Laura. Before I see who she accepts a dance with she is off and running. I wince.  It is with an old guy who is not the best of dancers.  Oh well.  More of my friends are walking by the table.  This is like old home week. "Hola Deby, Feliz Dia."  "Feliz Dia Amiga."  The viejas look like they are going to start spurting pea soup.  Marvin goes to dance.  Personally I am content to sit.

Laura comes back to the table.  I ask her how her dance was. "Horrible" she tells me.  I smile.  I ask her why.  She rattles off a bunch of reasons.  She decides to order dinner.  I raise my hand for the waitress to come over.  She sees me, but it is very busy tonight.  Laura asks again.  I explain to her that the organizers have the same number of waitresses regardless.  It is just how it is.  "You are lucky.  We will get better service because the waitresses know me, and I always tip."  I am not sure she believes me that waiting as long as we have is better service.  It is.  By Argentine standards.

My friend Mecha sees me and comes running over.  We give each other big hugs.  I have not seen her for ages.  "I am so happy to see you."  She says to me.  "Feliz Dia."  She sits down at my table.  "How are you?"  I ask her.  She tells me she is really good.  "You are so skinny." She says to me.  I laugh.  "Not really."  She tells me that she wanted to tell me that she is going to have her birthday party at the milonga on Wednesday at Leonesa.  Patricio and Adriana are now going to be with Franca and Luis starting in August. "Can I bring something?"  I ask her. "No." she tells me.  "Just come, and tell Sandra."  We talk a little more and then she leaves.

Laura goes off to dance with a friend of mine. I see he moves her arm.  I am thrilled.  I have been trying to get her to move that arm of hers.  She comes back all aglow.  "He was so wonderful to dance with." she says to me.  I tell her he is an old friend of mine and a great guy.  Since moving her arm, the men are now starting to ask her to dance.  She is having a great time.

The viejas are still frowning. They have moved their table apart and forward.  One of them glares at me.  "Yo no soy muy comoda" she says to me. (I am not very comfortable.) "Que lastima." I say to her. (What a pity.) She starts to complain again..she doesn´t like her table, the column, the fact that we are foreigners and are better positioned.  I am sick of her whining.  What does she think? That I am going to say, here take our seats?  Instead I say "I told you that I live here, that I have been dancing in the milongas for almost 9 years.  Haven't you noticed all the people who have come by to greet me?"  She gives me an evil look. "It doesn't matter." she says to me. "Yo soy de Argentina." "Really?"  I say to her, "I haven't noticed anyone coming by to greet you or even to ask you to dance.  If you were nicer, this gentleman sitting with us would ask you to dance."  She responds by moving her table even further forward.  But when she does this, the waitress comes by and asks her what is she doing. Within 5 minutes they leave.  Viejas de mierda.  Why can't they just be pleasant?

At 12:30 Marvin decides he is a pumpkin and is going to leave us girls to our own devices.  Laura and I order champagne.  The floor is crowded.  I accept a dance here and there.  I do not like dancing when the floor is crowded.  I go to greet friends.

They play a tanda of rock and roll.  The song "Hit the Road Jack" comes on and Laura and I sing our hearts out.  The men around us start to laugh.  I guess it is pretty funny. Two American women singing at the top of their lungs.  I ask a couple of guys if they know what the words mean.  They say no.  When I tell them, they are really surprised.  For years they have been listening to the song and never knew what the words meant.  I tell them it is my key sentence for my Argentine boyfriends.  The guy is shocked. "Chiste." I tell him...sort of..maybe..not really.

Back to tango.  Soon the floor is cleared enough.  I dance a few tandas.  Franca comes to the table with Luis to greet me.  I give them both huge hugs.  I tell them I am happy they will be doing the milonga on Wednesday with Patricio and Adriana.  "Come until then" Franca tells me.  "I will try."  I tell her.  "I have to work."  

Laura plops down at the table.  "Anytime you want to leave." she says to me.  I am sort of amused.  It is 1:30.  The fact is, for me, this is early.  I probably would stay until much later.  I tell her I want to dance a couple of tandas and then we can leave.

We collect our things and start for the door.  As we go down the aisle my friends hug me and I them.  "Feliz Dia Amiga." they say to me.  At the door I hug Patricio and then Adriana.  They tell me they expect me next Monday.  "OK,"  I say to them. It has been a long time since I came on Monday, and this was really fun.  The milonga is a family of friends.  Feliz Dia del Amigos.