Today I tied a pink bow around Pooch's neck. Suddenly people in the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue were calling him a her. Boys can wear pink too, I said, just look at the man in drag over there. I pointed. That's way more than pink. The man stood six feet plus in platforms, and wore fishnet stockings, a bustier, thick fake eyelashes, and a fluorescent pink wig. Others had also gone overboard. In front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, a woman posed while balancing on her head an elaborate seven foot headress made of sprays of violets, lilacs, and blue flowers whose species has not yet evolved. There were little girls with angelic golden curls beneath bonnets decorated with green grass, pink and yellow baskets, and chocolate Easter eggs. A man wearing a top hat and tails accompanied a woman in an elegant green satin 1940s dress. She struck a pose in a broad brimmed hat covered with a froth of toile and multicolored flowers.
And of course there were the dogs. There was a pooch in a top hat with coat and tails (note: the average, every day pooch is lower case in this blog). There was a golden retriever in a pink skirt and pink bunny ears. There was one of those yippy little runts of dogs (I can't keep their names in mind, there's probably a psychological term for it), dressed in a tutu with a pink ribbon. Three little girls in Easter frocks stood round, oohing and aahing. Everyone loves a well dressed pooch.
The Upper Case Pooch and I paraded from St. Pat's to The Plaza. The day had turned warm and humid. The sky was clear blue for once, and Central Park was irresistible. Days of rain had turned the grass electric green. The trees had burst into pink blossom, and the tulips stood with perfect posture, awaiting admiration. The Easter Parade had spilled along the path leading to the zoo, where people rested on park benches and forgot to remove their bunny ears.
It seemed like all of the greater metropolitan New York area had converged on Manhattan. There were crowds at the carousel, where I stopped to buy refreshments. Most people were happy today, but there's always a few curmudgeons in a crowd. The hot dog man said, what can I get you. I tried to say, "Diii-et CCo" but was interrupted by a man with a European accent, barging in front of me and ordering water. The hot dog man, unfazed, pulled out the Diet Coke, slammed it down hard to make his point and said, Diet Coke for you, and then pulled out the water for the SOB. It was a small triumph for me, and even though the hot dog man inflated the cost ($3!), I take small triumphs when I can get them. I sauntered away, flamboyantly opening my Diet Coke while the European man argued with the hot dog man over the price of water.
Pooch and I found a bench near the road that on weekdays rings the park in a necklace of exhaust (it's closed to car traffic on Sundays; that's when it becomes a necklace of weekend warriors). As I fed him popcorn, a pedicab rolled by blasting "Empire State of Mind" by Alicia Keys: Noise is always loud, there are sirens all around, and the streets are mean... Concrete jungle where dreams are made of... There's nothing you can't do...Now you're in New York... These streets will make you feel brand new...Big lights will inspire you...Let's hear it for New York, New York, New Yooooork!
It's days like these that erase the occasional discouragement a New Yorker feels. The hot dog seller who doesn't need to, but is kind in his own manner. The drag queens in the Easter Parade, and other New Yorkers (though not all-- there is an entrenched stodgy component to this city) who have the guts to be noncomformist. And the blue sky that defines the color and occasionally makes an appearance.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Spring Eaves Dropping
"You know what I want," she said, "I want beer and dinner." She was white-haired and alone. She sat at the table directly across from me. The waiter had placed his hand on her shoulder and listened to her like he would to his grandmother. He knew her. He brought the beer in a lady-like wine glass. She took a sip, then looked at me and said, "I'm Joan. What's your name?" Veronica, I replied. "Where you from?" she asked. Los Angeles, I said. "I went to Glendale College. I wrote for the college paper. I worked at Webb department store. Do you know it? Probably before your time." I shook my head no, I didn't know it, it was indeed before my time. She continued, "I had a friend from that Norwegian town up north. What was the name?" Solvang, I said. "Yes, Solvang!" She grew excited and dropped her fork. The waiter swooped down to pick it up. Just then thunder exploded outside the restaurant. A few people got to their feet to take a look. She said, "I hope you don't have far to go. I'm just one building away." Not far, I replied, I will run if I need to.
But I needn't have run. The thunder was nature reminding us of her power. The day had been beautiful, the first real day of spring when one still needs a light coat despite the blue sky gracing us with her presence. Poochini and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, where all of Manhattan had turned out. Especially the French part (Manhattan being an outpost of Europe, as we know). The language of luuuuuv was everywhere. People were saying s'il vous plait at the Bethesda Fountain, French kissing at the Boat House Cafe (where I fed Pooch French fries), and smoking in a very Frenchie way at the new food court in Tavern on the Green's former garden, whose exclusivity has been superceded by food on wheels: Pera (a Turkish food truck), The Chinese Dumpling Truck, a soup truck, and an Italian gelato truck (the economic downturn has done wonders for democratizing food in Central Park). The wall of people had over-stimulated poor Pooch, who walked across Sheep's Meadow in paroxysms of nervous coughing. Despite the seizure-like quality of his affliction, I think the outing was good for him. His nose forgot to run. Now, after five hours of wandering, he is lying nearly comatose on his little dog bed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile of contentment.
But I needed more of an outing. Maybe it was the sun, but something in me was missing California tonight. When I miss California, I eat Mexican food. So I headed to the Mexican restaurant down the street, which is where I met Beer and Dinner Joan. There are many women like her in my area. Unlike the Central Park crowd, not many speak French. In my neighborhood, they speak Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew. The woman who runs the neighborhood drug store is from Riverside, not far from where I grew up. She came to be on Broadway, and stayed when that didn't work out. There are others. For instance, my neighbor Mrs. Katz, who has Alzheimer's and is obsessed with the layout of my apartment (yours is bigger than mine). There is the old German Jewish woman one floor down from me, who always has her hair done just so, still wears make up, and is completely (snap snap) Put-Together. When she says hi, I do a double take. Her accent reminds me of Dad. Then there was the old Russian lady who lived above me, and whose bumps in the night disappeared a few months ago. She has been replaced by a young woman whose bumps carry on throughout the day. I can't say that I like the replacement. The older neighbors have better stories. Their bumps are less vindictive. As if, after so many years of life's ups and downs, they've learned to go easy on their neighbors.
But I needn't have run. The thunder was nature reminding us of her power. The day had been beautiful, the first real day of spring when one still needs a light coat despite the blue sky gracing us with her presence. Poochini and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, where all of Manhattan had turned out. Especially the French part (Manhattan being an outpost of Europe, as we know). The language of luuuuuv was everywhere. People were saying s'il vous plait at the Bethesda Fountain, French kissing at the Boat House Cafe (where I fed Pooch French fries), and smoking in a very Frenchie way at the new food court in Tavern on the Green's former garden, whose exclusivity has been superceded by food on wheels: Pera (a Turkish food truck), The Chinese Dumpling Truck, a soup truck, and an Italian gelato truck (the economic downturn has done wonders for democratizing food in Central Park). The wall of people had over-stimulated poor Pooch, who walked across Sheep's Meadow in paroxysms of nervous coughing. Despite the seizure-like quality of his affliction, I think the outing was good for him. His nose forgot to run. Now, after five hours of wandering, he is lying nearly comatose on his little dog bed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile of contentment.
But I needed more of an outing. Maybe it was the sun, but something in me was missing California tonight. When I miss California, I eat Mexican food. So I headed to the Mexican restaurant down the street, which is where I met Beer and Dinner Joan. There are many women like her in my area. Unlike the Central Park crowd, not many speak French. In my neighborhood, they speak Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew. The woman who runs the neighborhood drug store is from Riverside, not far from where I grew up. She came to be on Broadway, and stayed when that didn't work out. There are others. For instance, my neighbor Mrs. Katz, who has Alzheimer's and is obsessed with the layout of my apartment (yours is bigger than mine). There is the old German Jewish woman one floor down from me, who always has her hair done just so, still wears make up, and is completely (snap snap) Put-Together. When she says hi, I do a double take. Her accent reminds me of Dad. Then there was the old Russian lady who lived above me, and whose bumps in the night disappeared a few months ago. She has been replaced by a young woman whose bumps carry on throughout the day. I can't say that I like the replacement. The older neighbors have better stories. Their bumps are less vindictive. As if, after so many years of life's ups and downs, they've learned to go easy on their neighbors.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Twilight Walk
This blog is staying in The Heights. For three months I've been having an affair with Brooklyn, attempting to leave The Heights for a coop on the other side of the tracks. For three months I've been trying to convince myself that it's the right thing to do. But sometimes the right thing falls through, and you pick up the pieces and move on. And sometimes the right thing turns out to be dead wrong. Suffice it to say that the deal fell through, and I'm nursing bruised feelings toward a coop board that wasted $1000 of my hard earned cash. It seemed like the place held the key to lower housing costs, more financial security, and freedom to write. Even though I met all the requirements, the coop board turned me down without explanation in a curt "sorry for the inconvenience" rejection letter.
So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden. Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive. The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light. My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight. The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey. And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight. The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did. Poochini lay in my lap like a baby. I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air. It almost worked. After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring. Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street). Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn? That's been done. And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.
So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden. Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive. The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light. My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight. The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey. And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight. The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did. Poochini lay in my lap like a baby. I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air. It almost worked. After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring. Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street). Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn? That's been done. And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Incident at 96th Street: The Third Rail
Today while I was returning from a practica at Dardo Galletto studios, the A train arrived just as I reached the platform. I thanked my lucky stars for having a short wait. Together with a herd of other New Yorkers I boarded the already full train. I was soon cursing those same lucky stars. Full trains and crowded platforms mean one thing: the train is experiencing delays. We sat on the platform for twenty minutes. The conductor remained mute. He made no announcements explaining the delay, no repeated promises offering hope that the train would soon be on its way.
Finally, the doors tentatively closed. They slapped open and closed five more times before they made a final, successful attempt. The train sputtered to life, chugging slowly beneath the Upper West Side. Around 96th street, it stalled again. Then it inched past the subway platform at 96th street. Someone muttered something about a body bag. I was wearing earplugs (the decibel level in the New York City subway system is above the level deemed safe in some factories). I pretended not to hear, imagined that the man referred to some other body bag, somewhere else, at some other time. I had my back to the subway platform. I didn't try to look. Everyone in the train remained silent. No one crooned necks, no one played a peeping tom to someone else's tragedy. There has been too much bad news lately, in the Middle East, in Japan, with the economy, hell, we might as well throw in China while we're at it. Personally, I have been dealing with a coop board whose recalcitrance has got me questioning my faith in others.
After 96th street the train made speedy progress to 168th St., where a woman boarded, sat across from me, and asked, how long have you been on this train? I replied, forever. I paused to consider whether I should fill in the gap, and then did, someone said there was a body bag. That broke the silence. The woman next to me (who had boarded at 125th St.), added, someone jumped, or was pushed, onto the tracks. I was on the C train. They made us get off and go upstairs while they turned off the electricity [the third rail carries very high, usually lethal voltage], and retrieved the body. The woman across from me, shocked and seeking communion in her distress, looked me directly in the eye. Sometimes words fail me. I stuttered. I leaned forward, distracted. As I did so, an item fell out of the plastic bag I held on my lap. A man standing near me bent over and picked it up. Without saying a word, he tapped me on the arm with it, returning it to me. I had not realized the loss.
That brought back the silence. Such is life in New York City: the tragedies and triumphs of life lived in the open, the fleeting, subterranean sense of community.
Resources for those affected by this, and similar, events:
Samaritans of New York: For those in crisis, for friends and family affected by the suicide of a loved one, and to increase awareness about this issue:
www.samaritansnyc.org
Samaritans 24-hr crisis hotline: 212-673-3000
For those in crisis, or needing more information about suicide and related issues:
LIFENET: 1-800-LIFENET
http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/cis/cis_lifenet.shtml
To find a counselor or therapist:
www.findcounseling.com
To find a suicide or crisis hotline in your state:
www.suicidehotlines.com
National Suicide Hotlines:
1-800-SUICIDE, or 1-800-273-TALK
Finally, the doors tentatively closed. They slapped open and closed five more times before they made a final, successful attempt. The train sputtered to life, chugging slowly beneath the Upper West Side. Around 96th street, it stalled again. Then it inched past the subway platform at 96th street. Someone muttered something about a body bag. I was wearing earplugs (the decibel level in the New York City subway system is above the level deemed safe in some factories). I pretended not to hear, imagined that the man referred to some other body bag, somewhere else, at some other time. I had my back to the subway platform. I didn't try to look. Everyone in the train remained silent. No one crooned necks, no one played a peeping tom to someone else's tragedy. There has been too much bad news lately, in the Middle East, in Japan, with the economy, hell, we might as well throw in China while we're at it. Personally, I have been dealing with a coop board whose recalcitrance has got me questioning my faith in others.
After 96th street the train made speedy progress to 168th St., where a woman boarded, sat across from me, and asked, how long have you been on this train? I replied, forever. I paused to consider whether I should fill in the gap, and then did, someone said there was a body bag. That broke the silence. The woman next to me (who had boarded at 125th St.), added, someone jumped, or was pushed, onto the tracks. I was on the C train. They made us get off and go upstairs while they turned off the electricity [the third rail carries very high, usually lethal voltage], and retrieved the body. The woman across from me, shocked and seeking communion in her distress, looked me directly in the eye. Sometimes words fail me. I stuttered. I leaned forward, distracted. As I did so, an item fell out of the plastic bag I held on my lap. A man standing near me bent over and picked it up. Without saying a word, he tapped me on the arm with it, returning it to me. I had not realized the loss.
That brought back the silence. Such is life in New York City: the tragedies and triumphs of life lived in the open, the fleeting, subterranean sense of community.
Resources for those affected by this, and similar, events:
Samaritans of New York: For those in crisis, for friends and family affected by the suicide of a loved one, and to increase awareness about this issue:
www.samaritansnyc.org
Samaritans 24-hr crisis hotline: 212-673-3000
For those in crisis, or needing more information about suicide and related issues:
LIFENET: 1-800-LIFENET
http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/cis/cis_lifenet.shtml
To find a counselor or therapist:
www.findcounseling.com
To find a suicide or crisis hotline in your state:
www.suicidehotlines.com
National Suicide Hotlines:
1-800-SUICIDE, or 1-800-273-TALK
Monday, March 7, 2011
Rainy Day Central Park: Best Chicken Noodle Soup in NYC
Today the sky hung low, enveloping New York in a mantle of gray. It was as if the entire city had become smaller, its sounds muted by the clouds. Winter’s bitter teeth no longer tore at the air, though the wind drove raindrops under umbrellas. I decided not to care. I had woken with a cold sore, stomach upset, and an aching head. I wanted to wander. Pooch and I climbed into the car and headed to Central Park. Except for a few hardy souls who smiled in mutual complicity, we had the place to ourselves. Most of the hot dog vendors had gone. The family gospel choir, four children and their father who set up shop inside the arches of the Bethesday arcarde, were there. But they were sheltering from the rain and not singing.
Pooch and I headed to The Boat House. Here's an insider's secret: The Boat House (not the fancy, over-priced section, but the snack bar part), has the best chicken noodle soup in the city. It's made fresh, with big chunks of moist chicken, firm noodles, and thickly cut carrots, celery, and onions. I bought a cup and sat under the small overhang of the bar in the outdoor portion of The Boat House. I delighted in breaking a small rule: in fair weather, Pooch is not allowed in this part of The Boat House. I fed him potato chips while I ate my soup. I gazed at the pond, speckled with raindrops. Live piano music escaped from inside the cafe, harmonizing with the patter of rain on the roof. Birds had spattered the area of the bar where we sat, and uncaring smokers had scattered cigarettes. I decided not to care about either. I had the place and the view to myself.
Some days call for breaking rules and not caring. Especially if a view and the best chicken noodle soup in the city are involved.
Pooch and I headed to The Boat House. Here's an insider's secret: The Boat House (not the fancy, over-priced section, but the snack bar part), has the best chicken noodle soup in the city. It's made fresh, with big chunks of moist chicken, firm noodles, and thickly cut carrots, celery, and onions. I bought a cup and sat under the small overhang of the bar in the outdoor portion of The Boat House. I delighted in breaking a small rule: in fair weather, Pooch is not allowed in this part of The Boat House. I fed him potato chips while I ate my soup. I gazed at the pond, speckled with raindrops. Live piano music escaped from inside the cafe, harmonizing with the patter of rain on the roof. Birds had spattered the area of the bar where we sat, and uncaring smokers had scattered cigarettes. I decided not to care about either. I had the place and the view to myself.
Some days call for breaking rules and not caring. Especially if a view and the best chicken noodle soup in the city are involved.
Monday, February 28, 2011
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...
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...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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.
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.
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