A Story of Soul Searching in Latin America- Maybe one day I'll finish it!
I did go to Practica X, but not with Helena. After arriving at around 10 pm, I took my seat on one of the plastic chairs that lined the long brightly lit hall. Time to dance! But with who?
The large shabbily furbished space was filled with couples in various states of motion. People chatted at the side in languages of the world, stood up, danced a bit and then continued chatting. There was no structure to this event. Unlike a milonga in which all the couples move anti-clockwise to avoid collisions, over here the direction was unpredictable. The sequence of music continued endlessly. More traditionally, it is broken down into three song chunks, a convenient morsel, after which you can say goodbye and thank you to your partner.
I kept my eye out for Helena and saw her from a distance in those new shoes.
To be honest, I was quite nervous to dance. Although I had danced with Jake for 18 months, over here, the repertoire of steps was far larger and the deftness of the limbs that flicked and flacked around me was daunting. I had the feeling of someone who had only driven an automatic about to get behind the wheel of a manual.
Eventually, a local-looking guy with a heavy fringe approached me with a nod. I stepped up towards him and began to follow his lead.
“I'm a very good dancer...” I told myself.
I was keen to please him, to follow without a glitch - which worked well for the first few bars. But when he started to speed up, a flutter of nerves led me to commit the Tango Follower's Mortal Sin: anticipation of the lead. Assuming his moves before he makes them which deserves being sent back to the beginners' class with a spanking. As our feet jammed and I overcompensated for the faux pas, the room became warmer. No doubt he was regretting his potluck offer. My back stiffened in an attempt to refocus and I zoomed in on an old mantra “Follow, Follow. Follow”.
To follow
To follow and not anticipate
To follow and not to lead.
To follow and not to oppose.
This has been the greatest mental adjustment in my tango journey so far. Which woman of the modern world is comfortable with this sort of arrangement? To be a marionette? A moppet? What type of docile bimbo is happy to relinquish her say in which direction she walks, how her body curves and what shapes her step makes? This is the docile bimbo that I have chosen to become and I'm not doing a good job of it.
I have a little apartment now where I have made a nest with my laptop, maps of the city and tango leaflets, detailing lessons, practicas and milongas. I have migrated from San Telmo, much like those fleeing the Yellow Fever epidemic of 1871, to Palermo, an upper middle class district with shady trees and cafes displaying tantilising pastries.
My little neighbourhood is known as Villa Freud, due to the large number of psychologists practising in the area, many of whom are psychoanalists. There is even a bar called “Bar Sigi” down the road. Argentina vies only with New York for density of quacks per square kilometre and the rate of male anorexia is second highest next to Japan.
I look around to find signs of a deeply troubled people. I see none. Am I not in Latin America, the fun-loving continent? What could be depressing about a place that boasts the best night life in the world? Unlike my home city of Johannesburg where lives are conducted behind high walls and electric fences, the streets here are buzzing with activity and cafes are packed with casual chattering patrons from morning to night. Rather than relying on my car capsule for contact with the outside world, I have everything I need within reach. A tiny laundrette, a fruit shop and Plaza Guemes just across the road, where children play on swings until midnight. I think I'm going to like this place.
The large shabbily furbished space was filled with couples in various states of motion. People chatted at the side in languages of the world, stood up, danced a bit and then continued chatting. There was no structure to this event. Unlike a milonga in which all the couples move anti-clockwise to avoid collisions, over here the direction was unpredictable. The sequence of music continued endlessly. More traditionally, it is broken down into three song chunks, a convenient morsel, after which you can say goodbye and thank you to your partner.
I kept my eye out for Helena and saw her from a distance in those new shoes.
To be honest, I was quite nervous to dance. Although I had danced with Jake for 18 months, over here, the repertoire of steps was far larger and the deftness of the limbs that flicked and flacked around me was daunting. I had the feeling of someone who had only driven an automatic about to get behind the wheel of a manual.
Eventually, a local-looking guy with a heavy fringe approached me with a nod. I stepped up towards him and began to follow his lead.
“I'm a very good dancer...” I told myself.
I was keen to please him, to follow without a glitch - which worked well for the first few bars. But when he started to speed up, a flutter of nerves led me to commit the Tango Follower's Mortal Sin: anticipation of the lead. Assuming his moves before he makes them which deserves being sent back to the beginners' class with a spanking. As our feet jammed and I overcompensated for the faux pas, the room became warmer. No doubt he was regretting his potluck offer. My back stiffened in an attempt to refocus and I zoomed in on an old mantra “Follow, Follow. Follow”.
To follow
To follow and not anticipate
To follow and not to lead.
To follow and not to oppose.
This has been the greatest mental adjustment in my tango journey so far. Which woman of the modern world is comfortable with this sort of arrangement? To be a marionette? A moppet? What type of docile bimbo is happy to relinquish her say in which direction she walks, how her body curves and what shapes her step makes? This is the docile bimbo that I have chosen to become and I'm not doing a good job of it.
I have a little apartment now where I have made a nest with my laptop, maps of the city and tango leaflets, detailing lessons, practicas and milongas. I have migrated from San Telmo, much like those fleeing the Yellow Fever epidemic of 1871, to Palermo, an upper middle class district with shady trees and cafes displaying tantilising pastries.
My little neighbourhood is known as Villa Freud, due to the large number of psychologists practising in the area, many of whom are psychoanalists. There is even a bar called “Bar Sigi” down the road. Argentina vies only with New York for density of quacks per square kilometre and the rate of male anorexia is second highest next to Japan.
I look around to find signs of a deeply troubled people. I see none. Am I not in Latin America, the fun-loving continent? What could be depressing about a place that boasts the best night life in the world? Unlike my home city of Johannesburg where lives are conducted behind high walls and electric fences, the streets here are buzzing with activity and cafes are packed with casual chattering patrons from morning to night. Rather than relying on my car capsule for contact with the outside world, I have everything I need within reach. A tiny laundrette, a fruit shop and Plaza Guemes just across the road, where children play on swings until midnight. I think I'm going to like this place.
