YOU SAY GOODBYE, AND I SAY HELLO: ON DISSING AND BEING DISSED AT THE MILONGA
A few weeks ago, El Hombre was miffed when a friend of ours, who had just arrived at the milonga, walked by him without so much as a wave as Hector of Cachirulo was escorting him to his seat. To add insult to perceived injury, this friend stopped to greet another man seated beside him who called out his name to shake hands and give the perfunctory kiss before scurrying off to catch up with Hector.
Knowing our friend, he probably didn't want to keep Hector waiting for him as he made his social rounds. However, it bothered my Earthly Consort enough to cross the great man-woman milonga divide during a tanda to talk to me about it. My Mortal Partner said, “I think it’s because he’s shy, but you need to tell him that this could have negative consequences for him. People could get really angry off at him and refuse to talk to him ever again.”
Sheesh! Are people that sensitive? Apparently so. And the message is clear when you shun someone at the milonga: I don’t want to have anything to do with you. The consequence to you, the shunner-soon-to-be-shunee, will also be crystal clear: I don’t want to have anything to do with you, either.
I have been on the receiving and given end of the brush off. Take
Exhibit A: Señor A, an Argentine and tango milonguero aficionado, and I had a short-lived fling back in the day when I was still living Stateside, and, when I moved to Buenos Aires, we would see each other at milongas when he was in town. Though “broken-up,” we still mixed business and non-horizontal, tango pleasure. However, when our business relationship went awry (read: tipped to his advantage), I made certain that I got things quietly back on course (read: even). No words were exchanged. I did not create any drama, but he knew I had discretely righted a wrong by taking back what rightfully belonged to me. Still, I saw no need in avoiding each other. We were adults after all.
Shortly after I had retrieved my personal property, I saw Señor A at the milonga. He walked toward my table, and, like a dork, I smiled at him, thinking he would say, "Hello." If you’ve been to a milonga in BsAs, you’d know how people are packed at tables like sardines. Unless you were totally blind and/or clueless, you wouldn’t be able to miss the person sitting on either side of the person you were greeting. Though I smiled at him, he greeted only the person beside me, and walked toward his seat.
Oh, no, he didn’t.
Girl, oh, yes, he did. Hm-mm. (Insert here image of angry black woman with pursed lips, elaborately decorated long nails with hand on hip, and head moving in circle.)
I was aghast. We had shared spit, after all, and the romance didn’t end badly. Plus, I wasn’t going rip him a new one on the dance floor for trying to bilk me out of my personal property. Well, maybe just yank his chain a little, but, since I absolutely hate confrontation, I would have guised it as jest. After thinking about it, I decided that it wasn’t worth trying to salvage a friendship that didn’t really exist to begin with, so I went along with it. We don't acknowledge each other's presence anymore, though I noticed that he stares at me sometimes when I dance.
Exhibit B: Señora B is a porteña in her late 50’s who used to share a table with me, used to run into me and my partner at gym classes in the park, and even once offered to give me a lift close to home after a milonga. I thought we were pseudo-tango friends. Then we were not. I would continue greeting her, but she stopped reciprocating.
It got me thinking...This brush off coincided with making my relationship with my partner official, meaning everyone in the milongas knew I was here to stay. It made me wonder: So, it's OK for a foreign gal to have a brief fling with regular in the milonga, but if she decides to stay and have a committed, happy relationship with a regular, well, then, that’s just not acceptable. I would have called myself paranoid if I hadn't experienced the change in ‘tude around the same time with other milongueras with whom we broke bread on numerous occasions. W. T. F.?!
But I digress.
So, whereas I still greet Señora B's friend who sits beside her every Saturday night, I don’t make an effort to greet Señora B anymore. Good goddess, the woman won't even look at me in the eyes anymore. But, as I asked myself after Señor A publically dissed me, I asked myself how much energy I was willing to invest in someone who, in the end, did not really think highly of me to begin with?
My partner, on the other hand, won't be havin' that 'tude. If someone snubs him, he will look them in the eye, grab their arm or hand, and greet them. They can either: a) look like a jackass in front of everyone when they diss my partner, or b) play nice and give it up for The Man. It's not that he wants to reconcile and be all BFF with them; he just refuses to let an insult go unvenganzad. I, on the other hand, just couldn't be bothered with all that Michael Corleone venganza. I can live with the mutual dissing. It's unfortunate, but, in the end, not unpleasant. We cease to exist for each other, and, I'm fine with that.
However, dissing another person can affect your standing in the milonga, especially if you are new and trying to establish yourself as a dancer. Do as the politicians do. Smile, wave, say, “hello”, hold babies for foto opps. It gets you votes, my fellow jungle people (this goes for the guys, too). At the very least, even if they don't dance with you, they’ll register your presence.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Sunday, June 07, 2009
MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: June 7, 2009
Hong Kong Style
Montañeses 2149 (Belgrano, Capital Federal)
Tel: 4786-3456
There are Asian restaurants around. Some are even OK. However, I've noticed that the one crucial element conspicuously missing from many an Asian restaurant is Asian customers. I mean, where are all the people from the "yellow countries," a term Argentines learn to denote the yellow-colored countries populated by "yellow" people? (Ooooooh! The Yellow People. Be afraid.)
I am, according to the white Argentines of European descent, a person of yellow hue, and, therefore, obviously from one of the only 3 countries that make up the exotic East in their minds: China, Korea, or Japan. However, being of Southeast Asian descent, thankyouvermuch, I am browner than my yellow brothers and sisters. Still, this brown can get down with mellow yellow, and geez, it's nice to walk into a Chinese restaurant where half the tables are filled with noisy, slurpy, eating-with-your-mouth-open Chinese, Taiwanese, or Hong Kongense people. It makes me all warm and fuzzy, and I feel instantly en casa. Call it an Asian thing. Call it a good Asian restaurant.
I noted recently in an Argentina mag that mentioned good Asian places in Buenos Aires. They couldn't have been more wrong. Palitos in Barrio Chino? Palitos sucks, and so does the service. What makes this place stand out? First, as aforementioned, lots of Asians. This is a good sign. Most restos in Barrio Chino or sushi joints in the area are filled with Argentines. Where do all the yellow people go eat? I see them in the Asian Market in Barrio Chino (the best one is on Mendoza, just 2 blocks up from Libertador) busily picking out the freshest fish and veggies, so, it seems, they all must eat at home...or come here.
The resto also has great service. The owner is a gracious, energetic woman in her fifties who checks in once in a while with the customers when she's not working the register. The 2 waiters are friendly and efficient.
Lastly, the food. Sigh. If the Asian people think it's finger lickin' good, then it really must be good. Today, we ordered our usual arrolladitos (the ubiquitous and familiar, meat-filled eggrolls) for starters, with a little bowl for my vinegar 'cause we Filipinos like it like that. Then came our whole, deep-fried, sweet and sour fish, complete with tail and mouth agape. You'll have to ask for the bowl of white rice on the side to get the full-on experience. Delish! According to the owner, fish and other mariscos are, in fact, Hong Kong Style's specialty. I'm going to have to free my mind and try something else from the ample-sized menu.
But that didn´t stop me from looking around to check out what the other non-Argentines were eating. Surprise! There's dimsum, except, instead of the little carts that pass each table, one can pick it out of the pink menu that is handwritten in Chinese. Of course, it's all in Chinese, because who else but Asian people eats this stuff? Hell to the yeah, I DO, I say! If I can't read it, I'll just point to the next table, or ask for it in Spanish. Chicken feet! Sea food and pork-filled steamed dumplings! Fried tofu slabs! Siumai! Get in my belly.
After trying out the various Chinese eateries in Barrio Chino and beyond, Hong Kong Style is, by far, our favorite Chinese trough.
Ambiance: For some reason, most of the Chines/Taiwanese/Hong Kongenses/and one random Filipina-American with her Italian partner congretated to the left of the room, part of which is separated by a screen. No idea why, although the waiter pointed out to us that the heaters were on the left. Very clean place for your usual Chinese restaurant. Chairs could be a little more comfortable.
Service: Excellent. If you decide to try the whole, fried, sweet and sour fish, you can order it before you come to the restaurant so you won't have to wait as long for your order. They're cool like dat.
Price: 1 order of arrolladitos, 1 whole fried fish, 1 bowl of white rice, and 2 hot green teas came up to 74 pesos. Decent price for a very good meal.
Overall: Super duper! I'm coming back for more.
Hong Kong Style
Montañeses 2149 (Belgrano, Capital Federal)
Tel: 4786-3456
There are Asian restaurants around. Some are even OK. However, I've noticed that the one crucial element conspicuously missing from many an Asian restaurant is Asian customers. I mean, where are all the people from the "yellow countries," a term Argentines learn to denote the yellow-colored countries populated by "yellow" people? (Ooooooh! The Yellow People. Be afraid.)
I am, according to the white Argentines of European descent, a person of yellow hue, and, therefore, obviously from one of the only 3 countries that make up the exotic East in their minds: China, Korea, or Japan. However, being of Southeast Asian descent, thankyouvermuch, I am browner than my yellow brothers and sisters. Still, this brown can get down with mellow yellow, and geez, it's nice to walk into a Chinese restaurant where half the tables are filled with noisy, slurpy, eating-with-your-mouth-open Chinese, Taiwanese, or Hong Kongense people. It makes me all warm and fuzzy, and I feel instantly en casa. Call it an Asian thing. Call it a good Asian restaurant.
I noted recently in an Argentina mag that mentioned good Asian places in Buenos Aires. They couldn't have been more wrong. Palitos in Barrio Chino? Palitos sucks, and so does the service. What makes this place stand out? First, as aforementioned, lots of Asians. This is a good sign. Most restos in Barrio Chino or sushi joints in the area are filled with Argentines. Where do all the yellow people go eat? I see them in the Asian Market in Barrio Chino (the best one is on Mendoza, just 2 blocks up from Libertador) busily picking out the freshest fish and veggies, so, it seems, they all must eat at home...or come here.
The resto also has great service. The owner is a gracious, energetic woman in her fifties who checks in once in a while with the customers when she's not working the register. The 2 waiters are friendly and efficient.
Lastly, the food. Sigh. If the Asian people think it's finger lickin' good, then it really must be good. Today, we ordered our usual arrolladitos (the ubiquitous and familiar, meat-filled eggrolls) for starters, with a little bowl for my vinegar 'cause we Filipinos like it like that. Then came our whole, deep-fried, sweet and sour fish, complete with tail and mouth agape. You'll have to ask for the bowl of white rice on the side to get the full-on experience. Delish! According to the owner, fish and other mariscos are, in fact, Hong Kong Style's specialty. I'm going to have to free my mind and try something else from the ample-sized menu.
But that didn´t stop me from looking around to check out what the other non-Argentines were eating. Surprise! There's dimsum, except, instead of the little carts that pass each table, one can pick it out of the pink menu that is handwritten in Chinese. Of course, it's all in Chinese, because who else but Asian people eats this stuff? Hell to the yeah, I DO, I say! If I can't read it, I'll just point to the next table, or ask for it in Spanish. Chicken feet! Sea food and pork-filled steamed dumplings! Fried tofu slabs! Siumai! Get in my belly.
After trying out the various Chinese eateries in Barrio Chino and beyond, Hong Kong Style is, by far, our favorite Chinese trough.
Ambiance: For some reason, most of the Chines/Taiwanese/Hong Kongenses/and one random Filipina-American with her Italian partner congretated to the left of the room, part of which is separated by a screen. No idea why, although the waiter pointed out to us that the heaters were on the left. Very clean place for your usual Chinese restaurant. Chairs could be a little more comfortable.
Service: Excellent. If you decide to try the whole, fried, sweet and sour fish, you can order it before you come to the restaurant so you won't have to wait as long for your order. They're cool like dat.
Price: 1 order of arrolladitos, 1 whole fried fish, 1 bowl of white rice, and 2 hot green teas came up to 74 pesos. Decent price for a very good meal.
Overall: Super duper! I'm coming back for more.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Last Tango in Cachirulo: In Memoriam
I'd see him off and on at the milonga in El Beso, a pasty-looking, low-profile kind o' guy in his 70's with snow-white hair parted severely off to one side. We danced once a long time ago, when I had just moved here--or was it when I was still visiting? There were never any tango fireworks, so I marked him off as "just a guy I had a tanda with once upon a time". I don't know if he was a good man or a bad man. A milonguero or a regular guy who liked to dance. During our tanda, he was...nice. In other words: non-descript. At best, he was a fixture that I knew would probably be in the same place at the same time.
Fast forward a few years later. I discovered a weeks ago that he had died. Ricardo, one of my usual partners pointed to the spot where he died at Cachirulo, saying, "He was dancing with that woman there, and then he had a heart attack and died." The paramedics tried to revive him, but didn't have any luck. He died on the floor that night.
I looked at the woman who was to be his last spin around the floor. She was in her late 40's, maybe early 50's, and cute. He must have been thrilled to danced with her because he never really danced a lot, was never in-demand as a dance partner. Then again, maybe she was one of his usual clients. I just didn't pay attention to him enough. Usually, it seemed he kept to himself, watching the other couples dance, sometimes with a little smile on his face.
Ricardo explained that this guy--I never caught his name--had a history of cardiac problems, which explains why he might not have danced so much. Tango is not the most aerobic dance, but the right partner can get your heart pumping, your juices flowing. What was going through his mind when he decided to ask her to dance? How did he react when she accepted? Did he know it would be his last tanda? Did he know he was going to die when he felt that first sharp pain? And did he try to ignore it? What was it like gasping for your last breath in the arms of an attractive woman, after having danced the dance you loved the most, being embraced to the music you grew up listening to?
Cachirulo remains the same. Same music. Same people. Same cattiness and petty competition for the best seats. But knowing that this man--this gentleman whose name I've forgotten or never bothered getting the first time--died doing what he may have loved the best, but never could do as much as he wanted, makes me appreciate what I am lucky enough to do, albeit rather clumsily at times.
Sometimes I wonder how I'll be spending my last moments. I hope my last days on la tierra won't involve a lot of blood, because I can't deal with the mess. Not that I'd have to clean it up after I kick the bucket. You know, I'm just sayin'. I hope I'll just go to sleep and never wake up, just slipping peacefully into the Great Beyond. Then again, that seems so anti-climactic, especially given that I've had a pretty eventful life thus far. Perhaps choosing to say, "Screw my cardiac problems! I'm going to dance with this hottie even if it kills me," is the best affirmation of life, even in the face of death.
I'd see him off and on at the milonga in El Beso, a pasty-looking, low-profile kind o' guy in his 70's with snow-white hair parted severely off to one side. We danced once a long time ago, when I had just moved here--or was it when I was still visiting? There were never any tango fireworks, so I marked him off as "just a guy I had a tanda with once upon a time". I don't know if he was a good man or a bad man. A milonguero or a regular guy who liked to dance. During our tanda, he was...nice. In other words: non-descript. At best, he was a fixture that I knew would probably be in the same place at the same time.
Fast forward a few years later. I discovered a weeks ago that he had died. Ricardo, one of my usual partners pointed to the spot where he died at Cachirulo, saying, "He was dancing with that woman there, and then he had a heart attack and died." The paramedics tried to revive him, but didn't have any luck. He died on the floor that night.
I looked at the woman who was to be his last spin around the floor. She was in her late 40's, maybe early 50's, and cute. He must have been thrilled to danced with her because he never really danced a lot, was never in-demand as a dance partner. Then again, maybe she was one of his usual clients. I just didn't pay attention to him enough. Usually, it seemed he kept to himself, watching the other couples dance, sometimes with a little smile on his face.
Ricardo explained that this guy--I never caught his name--had a history of cardiac problems, which explains why he might not have danced so much. Tango is not the most aerobic dance, but the right partner can get your heart pumping, your juices flowing. What was going through his mind when he decided to ask her to dance? How did he react when she accepted? Did he know it would be his last tanda? Did he know he was going to die when he felt that first sharp pain? And did he try to ignore it? What was it like gasping for your last breath in the arms of an attractive woman, after having danced the dance you loved the most, being embraced to the music you grew up listening to?
Cachirulo remains the same. Same music. Same people. Same cattiness and petty competition for the best seats. But knowing that this man--this gentleman whose name I've forgotten or never bothered getting the first time--died doing what he may have loved the best, but never could do as much as he wanted, makes me appreciate what I am lucky enough to do, albeit rather clumsily at times.
Sometimes I wonder how I'll be spending my last moments. I hope my last days on la tierra won't involve a lot of blood, because I can't deal with the mess. Not that I'd have to clean it up after I kick the bucket. You know, I'm just sayin'. I hope I'll just go to sleep and never wake up, just slipping peacefully into the Great Beyond. Then again, that seems so anti-climactic, especially given that I've had a pretty eventful life thus far. Perhaps choosing to say, "Screw my cardiac problems! I'm going to dance with this hottie even if it kills me," is the best affirmation of life, even in the face of death.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
TG DOES BUENOS AIRES: A Thursday Night Detour into The Love Zone
I hadn't been in the mood for our usual Thursday night ritual at El Beso in the last few weeks. The residency papers debacle, a bout of the flu, and doing away with the Italian grandma style from every room of our 12 year old apartment (Begone, flowery beige chintz!) was enough for me to avoid the scene for a while. But that didn't stop The Man from being in the mood...for love.
Under the ruse of wanting to go to quiet place with me to talk and have tea, he ended up wisking me away to one of the ubiquitous love motels in our hood. Now, why we couldn't just get it on at home where I know the sheets are washed was beyond me. But I was game to play the high priced call girl for a few hours.
The love motel, known colloquially as the albergúe transitorio or hotel transitorio, is Porteñan institution because, man, Porteñans are into sex. Just walk by the myriad kioskos, turn on a local TV channel, or check out the charmingly named porn shop, "Buttman", on Corrientes. And let's not forget tango and it's origins, my friends. I´m not talking the namby-pamby, aromatherapeutic "making love"; they're into sexing up. To accomodate all this heat, there are telos(in porteña-speak, hotels pronounced backwards), within every 2 or 3 blocks. There's one to cater to all tastes, budgets, and schedules, from the Sex Outlet (because why pay more for sex?) to La Cigarra (www.lacigarrahotel.com.ar), there's bound to be one to fit your needs in your neighborhood. Some, like La Cigarra, the first love motel in BsAs to put TVs in every room and to be featured in 2 films, have themed rooms, like the Asian room, Tropical room, and, if your juju is outta wack, the Feng Shui room. Fun! Plus, they offer free coffee for two every day and a very generous 5 hour turno (turn or shift), but you'll have to call them or stop by to inquire about prices.
The albergue is popular with all kinds of couples: "legitimate", committed couples who can't do the nasty with a bunch of noisy kids or annoying relatives in the house, clandestine pairs of all combinations, as well as the usual business couples (read: for the working girl or boy and his or her clients). No questions are asked; no ID is needed...unless you look unusually young, in which case, they'll card you.
Albergue transitorios are not to be confused with the regular hotel or the hotel familiar. There is no nookie-per-hour going on in those respectable establishments, and if there were, people would have to pay for the whole night, thankyouverymuch. One may stay overnight at an albergue, but only if one checks in after, say, 10 or 11 p.m. This would be a decently-priced crash pad for last minute, overnight-only, late visitors to the area, except that one wouldn't be able to use the place solo, There is a couples-only rule for security purposes: you must come in with and leave with your partner. This prevents any sociopath from leaving his or her partner gagged and tied up in the room. It's an interesing and secure option (use your common sense, of course) for tango hook-ups--if that's what you're into-- after a particularly heated tanda of Di Sarli, Calo, o Pugliese. It happens.
We pulled into the darkened playa privada , or private garage, of one albergue promising renovacion on a sunny and warm late afternoon, and were greeted by gentlemen in a drive-through window, the same drive-through window where one would expect a cheery minimum wage worker to ask for one's food order. It works very much like a McDonalds or Taco Bell, only instead of the usual Egg McMuffin or burrito, one gets a key to one's room. In the nest o' luv The Man chose for the day's adventure, prices range from the dollar-menuesque 60 pesos for the most basic digs to 125 for the most luxurious. Payment is made through a drive-through window on the way out of the garage.
I am proud to say that I once rated the 125 peso room in this very same albergue when my partner and I were still in the honeymoon phase of our romance. It was everything you would imagine a room at love motel would be, complete with faux marble statues of gods and goddesses, indoor jacuzzi, mirrors, and an ample sized bed. However, after almost 4 years together, I rate only the 75 peso room. I didn't take it personally. After all, there's an economic crisis going on, and there are sacrifices to be made.
The seedy, worn look of the place was at once frightening and, yet, strangely alluring. From the drive-through check-in, to walls separating each parking space to keep lovers identites secret, to the separate entrance and exits, the love motel owner´s priority is your privacy, leaving you free to concentrate on loving your partner long time.
I wouldn't have been surprised to hear the bwow-chica-bwow-bwow soundtrack of bad 70's porn as we entered the building. The hallways were unusually claustrophobic and dark, lending it a striking resemblance to certain parts of the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland, but without the spooky pictures of people that follow you with their eyes.
I started immediately working on the lighting because it can make a shabby room look, well, less shabby. With just a few strategic flicks of my finger, the mustardy drapes took on a golden cast in la media luz, and the unsightly, mysterious stains around the bottom of the box spring? Poof! Gone.
Our temporary love nest was outfitted with a not-so-sophisticated sound system tuned into three stations playing rock nacional. The subrate speakers could make Frank Sinatra sound bad. I didn't check out the 20 inch TV, but, come on, who watches a lot TV in a love motel?
The obligatory mirror on the ceiling wasn't a surprise, but the condoms (bonus!) in our welcome packet with comb and hopefully clean robe and towel, was a generous touch. There were mirrors all over the room all for the narcissist and/or voyeur, and a woodlined sauna, in case we weren't caliente enough.
The bed was, well...what do you expect for 75 pesos for a three hour session? However, box spring and mattress thrown hastily on the floor was not conducive to the whole idea of romance. Despite the white, faux leather headboard, the whole arrangement just smacked of beer-and-pepperoni-pizza-perfumed university frat house. However, having the box and mattress on the floor is an inexpensive, albeit cheesy, way to prevent the squeaking that arises eventually from years of horizontal activity. The sheets were obviously not egyptian cotton, and the coverlet had long ago lost its satiny sheen, but I was relieved to discover the sheets are changed after every couple and that the mattress was covered entirely with a thick, impermeable ripstop. Given the number of couples who probably frequent the joint during the course of the day, these are good things to know.
If you´re not into singing your partner to sleep after the lovin´, you can always order room service. However, there's no need to worry about being recognized by the help. The little box attached to the door is made for special deliveries of wine, champagne or the classic sandwiches sin miga. Silent deliveries are made through locked opening outside your door, and remain there until you open the little door from the inside to collect your refreshments.
I preferred to clean up in my own bathroom at home, so we packed up and left our room well before our three hour limit ('cause we're efficient like that). As we walked out into the hallway, we didn't hear a sound. Although the building seemed empty, the parking lot was packed. Could they have soundproofed the rooms? With everything aimed toward customer privacy, I wouldn't put it past them. They seem to think of everything.
Wallet-friendly, discrete, and safe, the albergue transitorio is worth a quickie look for the more adventurous guy or gal.
I hadn't been in the mood for our usual Thursday night ritual at El Beso in the last few weeks. The residency papers debacle, a bout of the flu, and doing away with the Italian grandma style from every room of our 12 year old apartment (Begone, flowery beige chintz!) was enough for me to avoid the scene for a while. But that didn't stop The Man from being in the mood...for love.
Under the ruse of wanting to go to quiet place with me to talk and have tea, he ended up wisking me away to one of the ubiquitous love motels in our hood. Now, why we couldn't just get it on at home where I know the sheets are washed was beyond me. But I was game to play the high priced call girl for a few hours.
The love motel, known colloquially as the albergúe transitorio or hotel transitorio, is Porteñan institution because, man, Porteñans are into sex. Just walk by the myriad kioskos, turn on a local TV channel, or check out the charmingly named porn shop, "Buttman", on Corrientes. And let's not forget tango and it's origins, my friends. I´m not talking the namby-pamby, aromatherapeutic "making love"; they're into sexing up. To accomodate all this heat, there are telos(in porteña-speak, hotels pronounced backwards), within every 2 or 3 blocks. There's one to cater to all tastes, budgets, and schedules, from the Sex Outlet (because why pay more for sex?) to La Cigarra (www.lacigarrahotel.com.ar), there's bound to be one to fit your needs in your neighborhood. Some, like La Cigarra, the first love motel in BsAs to put TVs in every room and to be featured in 2 films, have themed rooms, like the Asian room, Tropical room, and, if your juju is outta wack, the Feng Shui room. Fun! Plus, they offer free coffee for two every day and a very generous 5 hour turno (turn or shift), but you'll have to call them or stop by to inquire about prices.
The albergue is popular with all kinds of couples: "legitimate", committed couples who can't do the nasty with a bunch of noisy kids or annoying relatives in the house, clandestine pairs of all combinations, as well as the usual business couples (read: for the working girl or boy and his or her clients). No questions are asked; no ID is needed...unless you look unusually young, in which case, they'll card you.
Albergue transitorios are not to be confused with the regular hotel or the hotel familiar. There is no nookie-per-hour going on in those respectable establishments, and if there were, people would have to pay for the whole night, thankyouverymuch. One may stay overnight at an albergue, but only if one checks in after, say, 10 or 11 p.m. This would be a decently-priced crash pad for last minute, overnight-only, late visitors to the area, except that one wouldn't be able to use the place solo, There is a couples-only rule for security purposes: you must come in with and leave with your partner. This prevents any sociopath from leaving his or her partner gagged and tied up in the room. It's an interesing and secure option (use your common sense, of course) for tango hook-ups--if that's what you're into-- after a particularly heated tanda of Di Sarli, Calo, o Pugliese. It happens.
We pulled into the darkened playa privada , or private garage, of one albergue promising renovacion on a sunny and warm late afternoon, and were greeted by gentlemen in a drive-through window, the same drive-through window where one would expect a cheery minimum wage worker to ask for one's food order. It works very much like a McDonalds or Taco Bell, only instead of the usual Egg McMuffin or burrito, one gets a key to one's room. In the nest o' luv The Man chose for the day's adventure, prices range from the dollar-menuesque 60 pesos for the most basic digs to 125 for the most luxurious. Payment is made through a drive-through window on the way out of the garage.
I am proud to say that I once rated the 125 peso room in this very same albergue when my partner and I were still in the honeymoon phase of our romance. It was everything you would imagine a room at love motel would be, complete with faux marble statues of gods and goddesses, indoor jacuzzi, mirrors, and an ample sized bed. However, after almost 4 years together, I rate only the 75 peso room. I didn't take it personally. After all, there's an economic crisis going on, and there are sacrifices to be made.
The seedy, worn look of the place was at once frightening and, yet, strangely alluring. From the drive-through check-in, to walls separating each parking space to keep lovers identites secret, to the separate entrance and exits, the love motel owner´s priority is your privacy, leaving you free to concentrate on loving your partner long time.
I wouldn't have been surprised to hear the bwow-chica-bwow-bwow soundtrack of bad 70's porn as we entered the building. The hallways were unusually claustrophobic and dark, lending it a striking resemblance to certain parts of the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland, but without the spooky pictures of people that follow you with their eyes.
I started immediately working on the lighting because it can make a shabby room look, well, less shabby. With just a few strategic flicks of my finger, the mustardy drapes took on a golden cast in la media luz, and the unsightly, mysterious stains around the bottom of the box spring? Poof! Gone.
Our temporary love nest was outfitted with a not-so-sophisticated sound system tuned into three stations playing rock nacional. The subrate speakers could make Frank Sinatra sound bad. I didn't check out the 20 inch TV, but, come on, who watches a lot TV in a love motel?
The obligatory mirror on the ceiling wasn't a surprise, but the condoms (bonus!) in our welcome packet with comb and hopefully clean robe and towel, was a generous touch. There were mirrors all over the room all for the narcissist and/or voyeur, and a woodlined sauna, in case we weren't caliente enough.
The bed was, well...what do you expect for 75 pesos for a three hour session? However, box spring and mattress thrown hastily on the floor was not conducive to the whole idea of romance. Despite the white, faux leather headboard, the whole arrangement just smacked of beer-and-pepperoni-pizza-perfumed university frat house. However, having the box and mattress on the floor is an inexpensive, albeit cheesy, way to prevent the squeaking that arises eventually from years of horizontal activity. The sheets were obviously not egyptian cotton, and the coverlet had long ago lost its satiny sheen, but I was relieved to discover the sheets are changed after every couple and that the mattress was covered entirely with a thick, impermeable ripstop. Given the number of couples who probably frequent the joint during the course of the day, these are good things to know.
If you´re not into singing your partner to sleep after the lovin´, you can always order room service. However, there's no need to worry about being recognized by the help. The little box attached to the door is made for special deliveries of wine, champagne or the classic sandwiches sin miga. Silent deliveries are made through locked opening outside your door, and remain there until you open the little door from the inside to collect your refreshments.
I preferred to clean up in my own bathroom at home, so we packed up and left our room well before our three hour limit ('cause we're efficient like that). As we walked out into the hallway, we didn't hear a sound. Although the building seemed empty, the parking lot was packed. Could they have soundproofed the rooms? With everything aimed toward customer privacy, I wouldn't put it past them. They seem to think of everything.
Wallet-friendly, discrete, and safe, the albergue transitorio is worth a quickie look for the more adventurous guy or gal.
Monday, August 11, 2008
HOW THE LAWS OF THE TANGO JUNGLE BIT ME ON THE ASS
In the animal kingdom, male lions and wolves attack older, more podrido (rotten, or way past the expiration date) members of the pack to make room for the younger, more virile machos. It's nature's rather cruel way of cleansing the population and assuring the propagation of the species. It isn't just; there is no justice in the jungle, or the prairie or wherever wolves and lions call their home. It's just that darn circle of life Elton sang about.
Things weren't boding well for the TG when she spotted even more white hairs sprouting out of her head while fixing the coiff for the usual Saturday night at Cachirulo. I snipped off as many as I could find, an impossible task when the BF was yelling at me to finish up with the girl prep and get on the elevator. I sucked in the gut, lifted up the un-corraled girls (the chicas deserve a break now and then), did a final lipstick check, and shimmied into the elevator in a new dress I bought earlier that day from one of the Plaza Serrano vendors.
We arrived at Maipu, and Hector and Norma gave me the perfunctory kiss and "Todo bien?". Hector took me by the hand and led me toward the center, then swung left and pointed to my seat. WehehAAAIT a sec...Todo was most definitely NOT bien. This was the second time in a row he put me way down left of center, and I seemed to be moving farther down stage left.
As I sat out the first tanda, I took a surreptitious look around. There were some women to my right, near the corner, and some on the other side of the row. The 10-12 seats in the center--the sweet spot--was still conspicuously empty, but there were numerous, annoying little pink stickies taped to the wall with names on them above most of those chairs for some fortunate women.
I knew my dancing hadn't recently taken a nose-dive, and I dance most of the tandas during our short 2 hours at the milonga. Was I already being weeded out as an undesirable hembra? Dag, 40 is looming just over the horizon, but I still have 2 years and 2 1/2 months to go before I come face to face with it. What gives?
I knew the basic laws of the jungle, and had accepted that my relationship status was a liability. But, add my short, social relationship with Hector, and I am suddenly chopped livah? What about X? She's in a relationship, doesn't dance as much as I do, AND she's older. And what about Y? She's nearing 50, hardly ever dances, except with handsome, young Italians (and, OK, she has an enviable apple-shaped ass shaped by years of butt exercises), and she's smack dab in the middle?
Yes, I was whining.
The BF dared laugh at the Tango Goddess' plight. Lucky for him, I didn't strike him down with a thunder bolt (but he was taking me to exchange a purse at the mall, so I had mercy on him. He's so fantastico.). I wasn't anywhere near podrida, he explained gently, it's just that the other women are "worth more than you." Gee, obviously, he'd never heard of "a spoon full of sugar", but he added quickly that many of them have already a long history--meaning 10-20 years--with Hector and the milonga, and/or many of them are "available". He continued, "Why, X told me that Y has slept with half of the milongueros already and is always on the prowl for younger men. You know X. She's my reliable fuente of milonga gossip." As with most of the pantheon of jealous, insecure, and tempermental gods and goddess, this downlow was strangely soothing to the TG.
However, that didn't take the sting out of seeing the PTYs (as in "I want to love you/(PYT)/Pretty Young Thing") snagging dances easily with one of my favorite dancers. When they or any younger foreigners are in the house and wearing miniskirts, I just need to go home with my tail tucked between my legs to lick my wounds and have some chocolate. I become almost invisible, except to my most die-hard fans.
Then I remembered how it was when I was young(er), newer, and feeling, you know, very fresh in the miniskirt that I'm seriously considering retiring because of the cellulite situation. I was one of them once upon a time, and most women at the milonga looked at ME with suspicion and disdain. I had evolved into a permanent member of the milonga community. Hector can put me anywhere he wants, and, as long as they know I'm at the milonga, people will want to dance with me. They might not seek me out with as much testosterone-driven panting, but I still dance. So, I'm not on the marquee. Does it really matter?
Whether or not you get the best seat in the house is NOT irrelevant. In fact, it is still crucial to one's experience of the milonga, but there will always be someone coming from behind who is fitter, younger, and cuter than your tired, 37-going-on-40 or 50 or 60 year old ass. It's not just; there is no justice in the tango jungle. There are only machos and hembras simmering in a hot and sweaty soup of hormones and pheremones, embraces and meaningful looks, with each one vying to be king or queen of the jungle.
At the end of my night at the milonga, I left alone to catch a cab to go home, my BF having gone to dinner with some friends. As I stood at the corner, a middle aged man, who seemed to be missing a few jugadores (players, as in soccer), sidled up to me and noticed I was wearing tango shoes. "Would you dance with me if I came to the milonga?" he asked. "Of course!", I replied laughing. On the other side of me, an elderly woman supporting herself with her husband's help and her cane chimed in enthusiastically, "Oh, you dance tango? How wonderful! You're so pretty." She smiled so broadly at me and studied my face so intently that I could feel myself blush. I wished them a good evening before crossing, and, as I watched them still slowly making their way across Corrientes in my taxi, a tango began to play on the radio.
We are different from the animals. We can rise above the soup, even as we're stuck in our not-so-desirable seats. We can enjoy the dance whenever and how much we do so. We can offer ourselves to and embrace our favorite partners for those few precious minutes of pleasure. We can.
"Oh, you dance tango? How wonderful!"
How wonderful, indeed.
In the animal kingdom, male lions and wolves attack older, more podrido (rotten, or way past the expiration date) members of the pack to make room for the younger, more virile machos. It's nature's rather cruel way of cleansing the population and assuring the propagation of the species. It isn't just; there is no justice in the jungle, or the prairie or wherever wolves and lions call their home. It's just that darn circle of life Elton sang about.
Things weren't boding well for the TG when she spotted even more white hairs sprouting out of her head while fixing the coiff for the usual Saturday night at Cachirulo. I snipped off as many as I could find, an impossible task when the BF was yelling at me to finish up with the girl prep and get on the elevator. I sucked in the gut, lifted up the un-corraled girls (the chicas deserve a break now and then), did a final lipstick check, and shimmied into the elevator in a new dress I bought earlier that day from one of the Plaza Serrano vendors.
We arrived at Maipu, and Hector and Norma gave me the perfunctory kiss and "Todo bien?". Hector took me by the hand and led me toward the center, then swung left and pointed to my seat. WehehAAAIT a sec...Todo was most definitely NOT bien. This was the second time in a row he put me way down left of center, and I seemed to be moving farther down stage left.
As I sat out the first tanda, I took a surreptitious look around. There were some women to my right, near the corner, and some on the other side of the row. The 10-12 seats in the center--the sweet spot--was still conspicuously empty, but there were numerous, annoying little pink stickies taped to the wall with names on them above most of those chairs for some fortunate women.
I knew my dancing hadn't recently taken a nose-dive, and I dance most of the tandas during our short 2 hours at the milonga. Was I already being weeded out as an undesirable hembra? Dag, 40 is looming just over the horizon, but I still have 2 years and 2 1/2 months to go before I come face to face with it. What gives?
I knew the basic laws of the jungle, and had accepted that my relationship status was a liability. But, add my short, social relationship with Hector, and I am suddenly chopped livah? What about X? She's in a relationship, doesn't dance as much as I do, AND she's older. And what about Y? She's nearing 50, hardly ever dances, except with handsome, young Italians (and, OK, she has an enviable apple-shaped ass shaped by years of butt exercises), and she's smack dab in the middle?
Yes, I was whining.
The BF dared laugh at the Tango Goddess' plight. Lucky for him, I didn't strike him down with a thunder bolt (but he was taking me to exchange a purse at the mall, so I had mercy on him. He's so fantastico.). I wasn't anywhere near podrida, he explained gently, it's just that the other women are "worth more than you." Gee, obviously, he'd never heard of "a spoon full of sugar", but he added quickly that many of them have already a long history--meaning 10-20 years--with Hector and the milonga, and/or many of them are "available". He continued, "Why, X told me that Y has slept with half of the milongueros already and is always on the prowl for younger men. You know X. She's my reliable fuente of milonga gossip." As with most of the pantheon of jealous, insecure, and tempermental gods and goddess, this downlow was strangely soothing to the TG.
However, that didn't take the sting out of seeing the PTYs (as in "I want to love you/(PYT)/Pretty Young Thing") snagging dances easily with one of my favorite dancers. When they or any younger foreigners are in the house and wearing miniskirts, I just need to go home with my tail tucked between my legs to lick my wounds and have some chocolate. I become almost invisible, except to my most die-hard fans.
Then I remembered how it was when I was young(er), newer, and feeling, you know, very fresh in the miniskirt that I'm seriously considering retiring because of the cellulite situation. I was one of them once upon a time, and most women at the milonga looked at ME with suspicion and disdain. I had evolved into a permanent member of the milonga community. Hector can put me anywhere he wants, and, as long as they know I'm at the milonga, people will want to dance with me. They might not seek me out with as much testosterone-driven panting, but I still dance. So, I'm not on the marquee. Does it really matter?
Whether or not you get the best seat in the house is NOT irrelevant. In fact, it is still crucial to one's experience of the milonga, but there will always be someone coming from behind who is fitter, younger, and cuter than your tired, 37-going-on-40 or 50 or 60 year old ass. It's not just; there is no justice in the tango jungle. There are only machos and hembras simmering in a hot and sweaty soup of hormones and pheremones, embraces and meaningful looks, with each one vying to be king or queen of the jungle.
At the end of my night at the milonga, I left alone to catch a cab to go home, my BF having gone to dinner with some friends. As I stood at the corner, a middle aged man, who seemed to be missing a few jugadores (players, as in soccer), sidled up to me and noticed I was wearing tango shoes. "Would you dance with me if I came to the milonga?" he asked. "Of course!", I replied laughing. On the other side of me, an elderly woman supporting herself with her husband's help and her cane chimed in enthusiastically, "Oh, you dance tango? How wonderful! You're so pretty." She smiled so broadly at me and studied my face so intently that I could feel myself blush. I wished them a good evening before crossing, and, as I watched them still slowly making their way across Corrientes in my taxi, a tango began to play on the radio.
We are different from the animals. We can rise above the soup, even as we're stuck in our not-so-desirable seats. We can enjoy the dance whenever and how much we do so. We can offer ourselves to and embrace our favorite partners for those few precious minutes of pleasure. We can.
"Oh, you dance tango? How wonderful!"
How wonderful, indeed.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
IS THAT A CHORIZO IN YOUR POCKET...?
There are times when I feel extra hot at the milonga, when all the elements come together and just WORK: I've got a great dress on; I'm wearing my expensive support bra from Victoria's Secret that gives me that extra lift and butt-cleavage; I'm not bloated for once; the hair and make-up are cooperating; and people want to tango with me.
I don't know if I also start exuding special pheromones into the atmosphere in these rare moments of hotness, or what, but it is during these occasions when I feel a special schwing-a-ding-ding going on in the nether-regions of a male tango partner or two. It's downright uncomfortable. I mean, surely he notices it. I sure as hell do. What do I do? These are guys with whom I've danced with before. We know each other, joke around, dance, and chau. Now, his little one-eyed monster is saluting me during a tanda. Should I take it as an insult or a compliment?
I like to take is as just a biological, animal heat thing. The poor guys can't help themselves. Their equipment is out there--and, Jungle Sisters, we all know it just takes a stiff breeze to get the boat out of the harbour--and embracing them surely doesn't help matters. Plus, there you are, flaunting your cute Dancing Queen self all over the milonga, whattya gonna do? If they are gentlemen, they will be as as surprised and embarrassed about it as you, so your best bet is to smile and pretend like nothing happened. The moment the tanda breaks, the magic will be gone, and his soldier will be at ease.
The special case, of course, is the pajero (roughly, someone that likes to hacer la paja=masturbate) or franelero (a feeler-upper) who dances with women to get their jollies, in which case, you have every right to cut the tanda short and leave him and his trouser snake abandoned and frustrated on the dance floor.
There are times when I feel extra hot at the milonga, when all the elements come together and just WORK: I've got a great dress on; I'm wearing my expensive support bra from Victoria's Secret that gives me that extra lift and butt-cleavage; I'm not bloated for once; the hair and make-up are cooperating; and people want to tango with me.
I don't know if I also start exuding special pheromones into the atmosphere in these rare moments of hotness, or what, but it is during these occasions when I feel a special schwing-a-ding-ding going on in the nether-regions of a male tango partner or two. It's downright uncomfortable. I mean, surely he notices it. I sure as hell do. What do I do? These are guys with whom I've danced with before. We know each other, joke around, dance, and chau. Now, his little one-eyed monster is saluting me during a tanda. Should I take it as an insult or a compliment?
I like to take is as just a biological, animal heat thing. The poor guys can't help themselves. Their equipment is out there--and, Jungle Sisters, we all know it just takes a stiff breeze to get the boat out of the harbour--and embracing them surely doesn't help matters. Plus, there you are, flaunting your cute Dancing Queen self all over the milonga, whattya gonna do? If they are gentlemen, they will be as as surprised and embarrassed about it as you, so your best bet is to smile and pretend like nothing happened. The moment the tanda breaks, the magic will be gone, and his soldier will be at ease.
The special case, of course, is the pajero (roughly, someone that likes to hacer la paja=masturbate) or franelero (a feeler-upper) who dances with women to get their jollies, in which case, you have every right to cut the tanda short and leave him and his trouser snake abandoned and frustrated on the dance floor.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
BECAUSE I'M JUST FEELING WACKY TODAY
http://solutions.3m.com/wps/portal/3M/en_US/preventive-care/home/products/home-care-therapies/tango/
Drum roll, please! Introducing the Tango Tongue Cleaner!!! Better cleaning, less gagging! Bonus! And look at the pretty colors! :-)
http://solutions.3m.com/wps/portal/3M/en_US/preventive-care/home/products/home-care-therapies/tango/
Drum roll, please! Introducing the Tango Tongue Cleaner!!! Better cleaning, less gagging! Bonus! And look at the pretty colors! :-)
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