Bloody Feet

Last Saturday the Dardo Galletto milonga started on the wrong foot.  At the pre-milonga lesson, I was paired with another woman.  She was well past middle age, five inches shorter than me, and round in girth.  During the warm-up at the beginning of the lesson, our legs became immediately entangled.  Contrary to tango rules (any mishap is due to poor leading and not the follower's fault), she blamed me.  You don't know what to do, she complained, you're not following directions.  She was the type who's used to being right.  But these days I know enough about tango not to fall for that trick.  If the lead is wrong, the follower doesn't move.  I'd taken the blame too many times in the past, and I was sick of that game.  I stood still. She grew frustrated, you need to move, she commanded.  I replied, I don't feel the lead.  I don't know which foot you want me on.  Oh, she said, and looked sheepish, realizing she had bossed the wrong person.  I switched partners and avoided her for the remainder of the lesson.

Then the milonga started in earnest.  A man who had come clear from Albany just for the milonga asked me to dance.  He was a fan of the pre-milonga teachers, a Russian man and an Argentine woman.  This new partner had danced most of his life: contemporary, ballet, tango.  The man knew how to move to music, and the connection wth him came effortlessly.

But then the Tango Bruiser appeared.  He was tall and by all appearances looked like he knew how to dance.  I'm tall and often on the lookout for a tall partner.  But from the get-go this man had it wrong.  He began in close embrace before I'd given any indication that it was OK.  I pulled away, he didn't get the hint.  He pulled me closer.  His shirt was damp with sweat.  He led me in what I think were ochos, but he didn't give me space to execute them. He barreled ahead, not attempting to connect with me.  He stepped on my feet, and blamed me for not following him.  I said I don't feel your lead.  His command, you need to follow me, there's nothing wrong with my lead.  It was a one way conversation, and the only way was his.  I danced three tangos with him, and parted with a barely audible thank you (in polite tango-speak this means, I don't want to dance with you anymore, which implies, you dance like shit).

I danced two more tangos before my feet gave out.  Then I sat down, leaned over, pulled up my pant leg to unstrap my shoes, and revealed the damage: a deep gash on the inner side of my left foot.  Blood oozed along my instep.  While dancing with The Bruiser, he had not left enough room for me to swivel in my ochos. I had hooked my left foot with the heel of my opposite shoe.  I looked at my right foot and the second toe was swollen and bleeding from where he had stepped on it.  The next morning, bruises appeared on the top of that same foot.  Had I danced with a man who'd politely apologized for massacring my feet, I might have felt differently.  But this man had blamed me, had made me feel incompetent at the same time that he inflicted pain.  In another context, it's the same controlling behavior that abusers show toward significant others.  In future milongas, I am steering clear of that type.

Tango reveals different aspects of human nature.  Some people always want to be the boss.  So convinced of their infallibility, they don't admit to mistakes.  When things go wrong, they blame others.  It can make a person feel rotten.  Bruised and bloody feet taught me this on the dance floor, but least a tango set is only nine minutes, which minimize the damage.

Personally, I prefer a partner with a mea culpa complex.  But that's another tango lesson, and another story...

Tango Confessional

Oh mea culpa, I have sinned!  Three Hail Mary's and four Our Fathers and still my conscience plagues me. I didn't mean to do it.  Things got out of hand, my curiosity got the better of me, and before I knew it I had strayed away from Tango.  Cha-Cha was tempting.  But it wasn't just Cha-Cha.  It was also Hustle, Fox Trot, Salsa, and Viennese Waltz.  All in one night!  I know what you're thinking, can hear the sharp intake of breath, the eyes wide open with judgment (you ought to be ashamed of yourself!)  But the weather has turned cold, the days are shortening (which means the nights are lengthening), and a girl needs variety from time to time.  Tango and I weren't getting along. Tango had bristled under The Rules, felt put upon, hemmed in, confined.  We were on a break (not a break-up mind you, just a break).  We each needed some space.  

It all started with a Groupon (those mouth watering deals sent over the internet with discounts to spas, restaurants, wine tasting events, scuba diving lessons, and, yes, even dance classes held all over NYC-- I'm not a spokesperson for Groupon, I just like a deal).  Tango is an expensive habit, and supporting it can turn a person into a junkie (how do I get my next fix?!) So, a few weeks ago, I received a message about a Groupon discount to "Dance With Me Studios" in Tribeca.  I carefully checked the website before purchasing (I am an informed shopper).  The schedule listed "Intermediate Tango".  That's for me, I said, After two full months of Tango training, I can confidently say that I am Intermediate Level (no one can ever accuse me of not being ambitious). 

Last Thursday I walked through dark streets and drizzling rain, past the art galleries and designer chic stores of Tribeca, took the stairs down to the basement studio at 466 Broome St., and stepped into a plaster wedding cake.  The place looked like it had been plucked from a Beauty and the Beast sound stage.  There was fake gold gilding on the walls, and dozens of petite crystal chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling, while sconces crawled up the walls.  I felt a pang of longing for dear old Sandra Cameron Studios, where I had taken my first Tango class, and which was tastefully decorated in elegant white on white.  Oh, the receptionist moaned, we don't have that class anymore (referring to Intermediate Tango), but you can take Beginning.  No. I. Can't!  I absolutely cannot take one more Beginning Tango class, I thought.  But instead, I politely inquired, what other classes are offered tonight?  Well, there's a Mixed Class.  That's a good one, she beamed.

That's when Cha-Cha walked in, with his fast-paced knee-bending, hey-dance-with-me, it's-all-about-fun adolescent attitude.  And I did, and it was fun.  But a little empty.  So Hustle barged in, looked me up and down, and grabbed me away from Cha-Cha.  Hustle swung me and swirled me so fast that my head spun. It was then that Fox Trot saw what was happening and decided to intervene.  He pranced right in, took my hand, and with that upright stance of his, marched me up and down the dance floor until my dizziness cleared.  But then Salsa swaggered in, with his swively hips and  that I-know-you-want-me look in his eyes.  I'll admit, I was distracted.  But Salsa made me feel uncomfortable.  I had started to pull away when in glided beautiful, elegant, Viennese Waltz with his pouffy hair and silk cravat.  He swept me around the dance floor to the tune of Edelweiss.  We were still gliding when Tango re-entered the scene.  I felt nervous.  It had been awhile since we'd seen each other.

What.  Do you think you're doing?  Tango asked, valiantly trying to disguise wounded pride.
I stopped dead.  Waltz slunk into the corner.  Nu...nu...nuthin'  I stammered, Just dancing.
I'll bet just dancing, Tango replied.
But we were on a break, I defended myself, and there were all these other dances, and I got curious.
Oh, Tango said.
And also, I didn't know you felt this way.  You can be a little hard to read sometimes. 
Oh.
And sometimes you can be so serious.
Oh.
And also, you're awfully complicated.
Oh.
And here I paused to consider whether or not I should continue, and (though in hind sight I realize this was indelicate), I barrelled ahead, Sometimes...well...it's just that sometimes...well, you can be a little cheesey.
Come on now, gimme a break, Tango fired back, And Cha-Cha's not cheesey? I thought we were having fun.
We were.
What about the milongas?  Those were fast-paced and up beat.  And what about Nuevo Tango: Otros Aires and Gotan Project?  I thought you liked them.
I did.  I do.  But... sometimes, I wonder.  All this fish net and glitter and skirts slit up to here (I indicated my hip) and stillettos.  Sometimes it doesn't feel like me.  Sometimes I just want to wear jeans and a tank top.
Tango looked delighted.  That's fine by me, then paused and added, But... can you sometimes still maybe wear the stillettos?
Maybe.  I'll have to think about it.  I just don't know.  I'm not sure...
When do you think you might know?

And that's when I reached out my hand, and Tango grabbed it, and there was that same undeniable connection that Cha Cha and Waltz can't hold a candle to (and Salsa isn't even in the same league), and Tango sighed and said, Dios mio, what shall we do...

Halloween Tango

Since August I have kept a minor secret, known to close friends, family, those able to read between the lines on my facebook profile, people on the subway platform, and the occasional passerby (OK, so maybe it's not that much of a secret, but I haven't yet mentioned it on this blog).  I have been trying to learn how to tango.  It all started in July during NYC Tango week.  After years of being a closeted tango fan, of wishing (like Dorothy's lion), if only I had the courage, and of embarking on a failed trip to the Buenos Aires tango festival, where nerves and cracked ribs failed me, I strapped on stilletos, tried to ignore my tallness (nearly six feet), and ventured into a tango studio.  The month of August passed on a wave of exhiliration.  There is a connection in tango which, when present, is almost immediate and narcotic.  The first time I experienced this connection, the room faded away-- all that existed was the music, the dance, the other person.  Not realizing how little I knew helped create an illusion.  As long as I dance with a man who knows what he's doing, I can tango, I thought.  But as in any partnership, each member must hold up the respective ends of the bargain.  In September, I changed studios and danced with new partners.  These men knew what they were doing.  But there was no connection.  I stumbled.  I stepped on toes.  I grew frustrated.  The men grew frustrated.  I could not recreate that first connection, and I felt myself retreating into a shy world which, if I'm not careful, comes easy to me.  October, spent on vacation in Egypt (more on this later), was tango-less. 

Last night, I ventured into tango again at Triangulo's 12th anniversary Halloween tango party.  I opened the door to the third floor studio on W20th and 7th to a roomful of costumed tangueros (a Russian sailor, a Thai dancer with pointey shoulder epaulets, a Mr. Money Bags, and many, many flappers) and a three piece live tango band.  A mural of a Buenos Aires milonga covered one wall, and old fashioned chandeliers decorated with spider webs hung from the ceiling.  There were empanadas, bowls of Halloween candy, and a fortune teller.  I had an instant affection for the place, and yet I held back.  I replaced my clunky sneakers with my new strappy gold glitter tango shoes.  My legs, after three hours of ballet earlier that day, were in rare form in black fishnets.  I had even broken out my "authentic" black lace tango dress, a souvenir from Buenos Aires.  But my heart was not in it.  I felt a sadnesss, an absence, and so I sat on the edges and observed.  One can sometimes learn as much through observation as through action.  I needed to ease back into tango, to feel comfortable in my skin again.  On the theory that the more I danced, the more I would learn, I had spent those earlier classes, those hurried milongas, dancing with whoever asked.  This had resulted in uncomfortable experiences, and left me with a feeling of lack of control.  Last night, sitting on the sidelines, I realized that, even though in tango as in many things in life men seemingly call the shots (e.g. the man leads, the woman follows, the man asks for the dance, the woman passively waits to be asked), the reality is more subtle.  Last night I devised a set of rules, which at the risk of giving away the game, I have decided to share:

1.  Eye Contact:  Don't make it unless you want to dance.  You can usually sense a man who's casing you out.  A casual look in the other direction can avoid an awkward three minutes of unpleasant hand crushing or being pushed around the dance floor by a man boosting his ego at the expense of his partner (such men usually choose inexperienced partners, to whom they try to impart their worldly knowledge, not always sound).  This requires familiarity with the usual tango suspects.  Once you've established which ones to avoid, an absent glance in the other direction can do wonders for your state of mind.  Which leads me to...
2.  Selectivity:  Contrary to popular opinion, it is not necessary to dance with every man who asks.  At the beginning of my tango education, I had been told that I should go to milongas, to practice, it's the only way to learn (looking back, it was men telling me this.  Was this self serving in order to insure a steady of supply of partners?)  I have since learned that dancing with the wrong partners can, in some circumstances, interfere with one's learning.  As in many things in life, a girl needs to be selective.  Knowing what kind of partners work for you, and avoiding the one's with whom three minutes can seem like an eternity, will serve you well. 
3.  The Power of No:  No means no.  If you don't want to dance with someone, you don't have to, and you don't need to furnish an explanation (though some men will ask).  Likewise, in tango culture thank you means, "I've had enough, I'm done dancing with you,"  which, reading between the lines, also means, "I don't like dancing with you, let me go."  Tango culture can seem polite, but one needs to know the rules.
4.  Smile: Tango, as in much of  dance and in life, is about enjoyment.  Once you've found those partners with whom you can skim across the dance floor, and with whom those three minutes seem like a heart beat, you're on your way to learning. Amidst the hurly burly of life in New York, there exist moments that linger in the mind and bring a smile to one's face.  The connection of tango is one of these joyful moments, and the first is especially memorable.