Valentine's Tango, a Field Study

Oh, of course.  Valentine's tango.  Combine a Hallmark holiday with the inherent cheesiness of tango, and you've got a spectator sport.  I like to think that I have come to terms with this holiday.  Rather than wearing black and heading to the nearest cave, I started the evening at Triangulo.  I wanted to see what couples do on a day like this.  Coupledom is a foreign culture to me: the expectations, the drains on one's personal time, the need to have fancy pajamas (oops, negligees), require decoding.  Hence, my field study about the customs of coupledom during times of enforced romance.

 At Triangulo, young couples converged for chocolate covered strawberries, champagne, and a first tango lesson (for most).  Participant observation requires sacrifice, and it was back to cruzadas and ochos for me.  While the couples shuffled and tried to avoid squashing each other, I found an impromptu partner.  The man had a story.  He was alone on Valentine's Day, but wore a wedding ring and looked shellshocked.  I didn't pry.  I danced, and found myself preaching with the zeal of the newly converted:  the key is facing each other, chest to chest, heart to heart, it's how we connect in tango, how I know where you're going (how I avoid getting my toes trampled, I thought).  I encouraged:  you've got it, I wouldn't be able to dance if you were doing it wrong.  It was noblesse oblige from an aspiring tanguera to a novice, but we all need support on Valentine's Day.  Is that one of the rituals?  Is weathering Valentine's Day together (this being the key) necessary for creating the codependene that makes or breaks couples?  I had more work to do.

Next stop:  Highline Ballroom.  There was a live tango band, followed by a live tango show, followed by a live milonga.  In short, the place was hoppin'.  It was dark and filled with couples sitting at tables and eating overpriced Valentine's prix fixe dinners.  Waiters carrying plates filled with red meat pushed through the crowds.  I stood by the bar, observing.  It's what I do.  I was born observing, ask my mother.  She'll say, she [that's me, change of speaker] was only a few days old, just lying there in her crib, not crying, just looking around, observing, and I [that's my Mom] wondered, who is this little person?  I [that's me, another change of speaker] am the last of five kids, and spent my childhood observing the older ones.  It was easier than talking over them (darn near impossible).

At Highline, there were men in red shirts, men in ties, men dressed to impress.  Their women wore tight, tight dresses, teetered on high, high heels, and draped arms around their men, claiming their territory.  There were old couples, talking comfortably without the pressure to fill in silences.  There were new couples, twittering and nervous.  There was an arguing couple, who left early, to my relief, and vacated a table where I could sit and rest my feet.  There was a self absorbed couple, each member preening and staring in the opposite direction, checking out the crowd checking out them.  There were well-matched couples, you could see it in their relaxed smiles.  And there was Media Noche, the Gibson Girl burlesque dancer who undressed sinuously on stage.  She had a petit hourglass frame.  When she reached the tiny glittery bits pasted to her tiny special bits, the men's eyes popped.  The women looked the other way.  I made note:  another Valentine's ritual.  Adversity again, either it makes you or breaks you.

After the stage show the place cleared out fast.  It was Monday night, and most of the crowd was eager to get home to complete the Valentine's ritual, for which the earlier evening had been a mere precursor.  That's when the milonga started.  The tangueros came out of the woodwork, and I danced.  I did boleos, ganchos, embellishments, and even one dip.  At some point during a Piazzolla piece, I forgot about participant observation and became part of Valentine's Day.  And perhaps that's the Valentine's message, that the rituals aren't just for couples.  That, taken less seriously, the day is about partipating in love and all its different forms.  Pink really is a pretty color, and hearts are kind of cool shapes.

As I left the milonga, a man handed me a long stemmed red rose.  I held it in my lap during the hour long subway ride home.  I was alone, but I wasn't the only one.

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.