The Tango Jungle: Survival Tips, Curiosities, Etc.

2011-05-09T02:41:00.004-03:00

SOME REFLECTIONS OF AN EX AND EX-EXPAT

A few years ago, after my dissertation defense, my advisor asked me at my celebration dinner, "So, what drew you to Marcelo?" I had danced a tango with Marcelo to illustrate the concepts of tango and the Jungian idea of soul during my presentation, so I suppose that she, like many who meet Marcelo, was intrigued by him. I replied, "I think I wanted a strong lead."

I believe, as many dancers do, that dancing reflects who one is and how one interacts in the world. Marcelo, my now ex-pareja on and off the floor, was the strong presence in my life that I needed around the time I moved to Buenos Aires. He was the charismatic, take-charge personality who made a difficult transition into a different culture and a new chapter in my life, well, a teeny-weeny bit, less difficult. Alright, let's be real. The transition was a bitch, and I never quite got the hang of life in Buenos Aires. Still, I was in love and game for anything.

But was I really in love? Or was I in love with the romance? In love with love, itself? In love with the fact that our relationship began as a tango, each of us seeking each other in a sea of faces across the floor, and finding in our mutual embrace that we responded to each other in ways that were unexpected and exciting? It was the thrill of finding an exotic Other to reflect who each one of us was, or who we wanted to be. That, I believe, is the allure of the tango milonguero and its passionate embrace: the intimate mirroring for a precious 12-15 minutes within the warmth of someone's arms. With the right partner, it's intoxicating. However, when does that embrace, mirroring, and the inevitable shaping of the Other into one's image become dominance and manipulation? In other words, when does a strong lead become suffocating?

The late tango master, Ricardo Vidort, with whom I had the pleasure of taking private lessons before he died, remarked, "Your style is a feather style. Very light." However, he urged me, as did my other teacher, Roberto Canello, to find and develop my own style. Sadly, my tango, as in life, has been to mold myself to the needs and the expectations of my partner within his embrace. I never wanted to weigh my partner down in the tango, or make too many demands on my partners off the dance floor. Consequently, my romantic and dance partners laud my ability to be what they want, especially in the beginning, but what happens to me? What happens to my dance?

Perhaps the larger question is this: Is tango the right dance for me? It takes two to tango, but, if tango turns out not to be the right dance for me, am I going to be dancing solo for the rest of my life? Call me a sappy romantic, but I like being in a relationship. I'm fine as a singleton, but I learn better within a relationship.

Thankfully, as there are many kinds of dances, there are many kinds of couples. Perhaps the ideal partnership for me is one which allows for a delicate balance among freedom, connectedness, and space. Take salsa, for example. The couple can dance apart or together in a larger space that tango allows. In my experience, one is always physically connected to one's partner in tango milonguero, and one has only the space within the embrace to be creative.

Honest to god, in the last year of our relationship, the embrace felt like a trap. I felt suffocated, not only by the relationship, but by the ideas of masculininty and femininity implied in the tango. Forget about Argentina accepting gay marriage; the culture is still unbearably machista. That means that there are certain guidelines for how men and women should behave and look that are even more outdated than those we have in the States. Given the number of people and cultures in the U.S., I believe it's easier to entertain different ideas of masculinity and femininity. Of course, I count among my good friends gay Catholics, theater folk, nudists, art models, those flexible with their ideas of gender and sexual expression, and those who could care less about whom other people love. My perception may be slightly skewed.

The more I remembered who I was and realized that I could never accept these insane rules, the more I imagined myself living a new life without Marcelo in my own country, where I knew I would always return. The possibilities and plans excited me, even as I continued to try, unsuccessfully and increasingly half-heartedly, to be the partner that Marcelo wanted and needed.

So, what is my dance? Clearly, I know what I don't want. "What does Evie want?" the benevolent and radiantly beautiful TG asks. What I want for myself, on and off the dance floor, is a partnership. I've seen partnerships that work, and they look like hella fun. Though my friends admit that they've hit rough patches along the way, they move around each other with the sexy flow that comes from familiarity, a willingness to negotiate, trust, and respect. It's hawt.

Well, I've never been one to wait around for things to happen. I should de-retire my dance shoes now, and slip into something that makes my boobs look perky again.

Bailamos?

2010-01-12T21:25:00.001-03:00

EVERYDAY A LITTLE DEATH: Osvaldo Zotto Dies at 46

Another great one has left us for the Great White Way in the sky. One of the stars of TangoX2, which I saw in D.C. when I was just learning how to dance was found dead in his apartment in Boedo of an apparent heart attack last Saturday, the same day that Tete died.

At one end of the spectrum, you have Tete, who, for better or worse, lived his life the way he wished. At the other end, a younger artist who was paving the way for the less experienced dancers. In them, one sees the old, with his lived experience of the tango's origins, and the new, with his innovation, energy, and the exportation of modern tango into the world. Both talented, and both gone.

Has the TG turned morbid on you? Well, I have had death on my mind a lot, even though I'm a goddess and all. These two events that rocked the tango world just seemed to be the physical manifestation of the metaphorical deaths and losses I experienced in 2009.

I realized for the first time last year that perhaps one of the big lessons I must learn is the art of letting go. So far, loss has only been metaphorical, but no less painful. From the moment I decided to move here, loss has been a constant companion. I've had to let go of relationships, ambitions, projects, hopes, and ideas about myself that weren't doing anything to enrich my life because they were either outmoded or rendered irrelevant, given my geographical location. Although these things were necessary for the life I had then, they kept me trapped now in who I believed I still was and/or had to be, in a life I believe still existed. So, letting go left some huge gaps that, honestly, were pretty damn scary to deal with.

But, as Julie Andrew says in The Sound of Music, "Whenever God closes the door, somewhere He opens a window." The losses and the spaces they created were accompanied by surprises and opportunities that came to fill in them, including new family relationships and friendships, and a new vocation that merges my interests in health and psychology. These new additions don't replace what I had before. I believe they are a transformation of what went before, a reincarnation of what once was, entering my life to carry me forward into 2010,and, maybe, beyond.

Of course, death and loss sucks when it happens, and pondering the inevitable--physical deterioration and death of loved ones--will either make me want to crawl under a rock, or, hopefully, make me appreciate everyday I have with them and to love them more generously.

Happy 2010!

2010-01-08T10:56:00.002-03:00

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST: R.I.P. Tete

If you've spent any time in Buenos Aires, you would have seen a white haired whirling dervish on the floor otherwise known as Tete. Though wheezy from asthma with an ample belly, he could dance circles--literally--around younger dancers.

Last night, the security person at El Beso told us that Tete had died yesterday at noon. Lucia added that he had been dancing the night before until around midnight, though he had been dealing with some health problems for a few weeks. She explained that he died of cardiac problems at his home, and that they had found him already dead on the floor. Most people were stunned, including us. One sees them as fixtures at the milongas, and expects to see them sitting there forever. However, as divine as they may seem on the floor, they succumb to death as all of us less-divine dancers will.

I was suprised to hear that quite a few had mixed feelings about this man, this tango legend. I have to admit that the few times I danced with him were torture. When I was his partner, and when I watched him, I always got the feeling that he wasn't dancing with me; rather, I was just along for the white-knuckle ride. So, I never danced with him again. For me, he was an acquired taste.

However, I can't deny that the man had a unique style that will never be replicated, even though one catches glimpses of his creativity and his energy in his young nephew, with whom I adore dancing. Just as the other milonguero greats who left this mortal dance floor before him--Ricardo Vidort and Carlos Gavito, for example--Tete takes with him his tango memories, his knowledge of tango's history which he lived and breathed. I looked around El Beso last night and wondered who would be next. Chiche? El Flaco Danny? These aren't guys who make good health and clean living a priority, which, I suppose, is part of their charm and, ultimately, their downfall. However, their presence in the world leaves an indelible mark on tango and the milonga, and their absence leaves an empty spot on the dance floor that will never again be filled by their own particular, even peculiar, magic. R.I.P.

2009-07-19T08:29:00.001-03:00

SOMETHING STINKY THIS WAY COMES

In the tango jungle, one finds many a strange and exotic species. There is one peculiar creature that migrates to the southern hemisphere from his native Italy at least once a year to partake in the elaborate mating ritual that is the tango. There are many subspecies of this particular bicho that many females at the milonga have enjoyed studying up-close-and-personal, such as the sweet-smelling and physically attractive Tanus Hottius, but the Tanus Odiferous is probably the rarest of this group. I have only discovered two very closely-related subjects in existence in the past four and a half years.

Although the slightly bloated physique of the Tanus Odiferous suggests a more distant relation to the Tanus Hottius, our subject, like most in this family of exotica, shares the former's impressive terpsichorean abilities. And, unfortunately, that's where the similarities end.

The tragedy of his aromaticness marks a shocking contrast to his dancing, which pleases Her Divinity. In his less pungent, yet still smellificent state, I have enjoyed forays on the dance floor with him. Of course, after these occasions, my consort ordered me to perform a ritual cleansing before joining him in bed, but it was worth the price of admission for a great tanda. However, a few nights ago in El Beso, the Tanus Odiferous was particularly pungent. And when I write, "pungent," I mean he raised the bar on stinky, elevated reeking to an art form, broke all olfactory boundaries. El Macho summed it up succinctly: El mal olor se pudrio (The stinkiness rotted.). It was a heady, complex bouquet of rotting meat, sweaty feet, rotten eggs, musty clothes, kitchen grease, and Roquefort dating back to the French Revolution. Dude. Was. Ripe.

As he made his way around the perimeter of the room with his most unfortunate partner, both men and women turned their heads away in disgust. In her beneficence, the TG was feeling mighty sorry for him watching people's reactions. She thought, “What gives, O, Putrid One? Dost thou not know that thy powerful odor rises to the heavens, and offends greatly both mortal and divine alike?” In the midst of her reverie, El Macho dared look at her straight in the eyes and warned her: "If you dance with him, I swear I will book you a room in a hotel because you'll just end up polluting the house with his smell. It'll take forever to clear out."

Dag. Harsh.

I'd like to say that my own Italiano was exaggerating, but, if anyone knows about olores, it's him. He reveled in his own barely tolerable odors when we first started knockin' boots. But love (and lots of pleading and nagging on my part) changes you, and now he's a normal daily showerer. The point is that with his Italian schnoz, he can pick up scents like a dog, embarrassing scents I don't dare mention here. So, as he walked toward me to dance, it took him a millisecond before he grabbed my hand and stepped a full 2 yards away from Tanus Odiferous, his eyes wide in wonder as he whispered, "Lo sentis?"

Yes, doll, TG did, and in her infinite wisdom, decided against sullying her outfit with Mr. Odiferous' mortal stench.

2009-06-09T10:36:00.009-03:00

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.

2009-06-07T15:47:00.004-03:00

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.

2009-05-03T16:04:00.002-03:00

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.

2008-11-19T09:12:00.034-02:00

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.

2008-08-11T13:02:00.006-03:00

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.

2008-07-10T09:15:00.003-03:00

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.

2008-07-09T09:31:00.001-03:00

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! :-)

2008-07-09T08:18:00.003-03:00

WHERE THE HELL IS MATT?

This is even better than a tango video, and a wonderful way to start your day. Enjoy, everyone, and have a fantastic 9th of July (Argentina Independence Day)!

http://www.vimeo.com/1211060

xoxo - TG

2008-06-26T10:53:00.006-03:00

ORDER IN THE JUNGLE

OK, I really wanted to keep this blog completely low-speed, as in no video, photos, music or things flying around. But, ah, I HEART my new closet.

My mortal consort was not anywhere near prepared to co-habitate with someone whose lineage originates in the land once lorded over by the original Queen High Goddess of Shoes: Imelda Marcos. I mean, come on! She and her husband may have completely corrupted that poor island nation, but you have to give the former first lady snaps for her killer shoe collection. I can only dream of having such a collection, but I'm doing pretty well with what I have right now.

Being a tango dancer doesn't help with the shoe addiction. In fact, it enables it! I've been pretty good, though. I haven't bought a pair of dance shoes in about 7 months, the last pair bought especially to match my new year's outfit (and then, hell, why not buy another for good measure? I ended up with two). To date, I have 12
pairs of dance shoes, but that includes 5 pairs I can't really wear because they're uncomfortable. So, really, I've got 7, including 1 pair of flat, black jazz shoes I used in my theater days that I wear once in a while when I'm feeling especially slummy. These are just my dance shoes.

Now, imagine Argentine closets trying to hold all this. Got the picture in your mind?

Add my f**k me heels, hootchie-heeled sandals, flipflops, sneaks, boots, flats, and 1
pair of sensible, black, job-interview shoes.

Finally, add clothes. I'm not talking about what tourists bring for a few weeks. I'm talking about the wardrobe of a clothing aficionada, a bargain hunter with crazy fashion sense, multiple personality disorder, and a credit card.

It was pretty scary.

I started claiming some of my BF's closet space to make room for my classy winter overcoats. I was desperate.

So, I did what any woman would do: I got more closet space! (OK, yes, I did some purging, too.) Here is a picture of the new shoe department in my closet. Don't your shoes rate their own department? So pretty...oh, so pretty. I love it! And I've got some empty cases just waiting to be filled...

2008-06-11T08:28:00.002-03:00

THE ECONOMY AND THE MILONGA

I found this wonderful article today from the website inthefray.org. Their tag line is "see the world through different Is". Just love it!

Here's the link: http://inthefray.org/content/view/2805/27/

Enjoy!

2008-06-10T16:58:00.004-03:00

THOSE SNEAKY THINGS GUYS DO, AND HOW TO PUT THEM ON ICE

Animal Planet or Discovery Planet is always on during some point of the day, usually when the BF is home. A few nights ago, we caught a British guy's report on bats. One particular bat species goes into deep freeze--literally--during the winter with ears up and bat wings wrapped around them like a mini sleeping bag.

Every once in a while, these little suckers need to wake up and feed to get the blood going, and, wouldn't you know, the male bat takes the opportunity to get his little bat rocks off with some girl bat taking her winter snooze! Animal Planet generously filmed the romantic moment in infrared, such that the male, all hot at bothered, appeared red, and the female, half-asleep during the (read: his) passionate love making, still glowed mostly blue, except, of course, you know...

What does this have to do with tango? Not much, except that some milongueros can be as sneaky when trying to wheedle a dance out of you. If you're too nice, you may end up with a tango never even wanted.

I thought about the fate of the female bat during Lujos this past Sunday at Plaza Bohemia (444 Maipu). A milonguero I hadn't danced with in about a year or two used the break between songs during a tanda to invite me to dance. I had been away for three weeks, so he broke away from his dance partner to give me the perfunctory kiss. Then he said, "OK, I'll look at you for the next dance," to which I smiled and nodded. All the while his partner stood aside smiling. It's sorta cheesy that he's shopping around before the tanda has even ended, and I commend the partner for being so gracious as he acted like a heel.

Other guys have come up to my table to "chat" with me for a few minutes, then snuck in their invitation. The guy has me right there. He's been friendly, courteous, interested in what I have to say, what I've been doing, so how could I possibly refuse to dance with such a nice guy? I admit to having taken the bait more than a couple of times.

Did I really want to dance with these guys? Not really, so I guess you could have called my spins around the floor with them a "charity tanda". How could I have just let them schmooze dances out of me? The truth? I didn't want them to be mad at me, and I didn't want to be a bitch. Whaa, whaa, whaa! What a sorry excuse! Do you think any Argentine woman would have put up with that?

The problem here is Toxic Niceness. Elizabeth Hilts, author of Getting In Touch With Your Inner Bitch, asks three questions to test your level of toxicity:

1) Have you ever said "yes" when you meant "no"? (Um, yes.)
2) Have you ever wanted to give someone a piece of your mind and eaten a piece of cake instead (or even the whole cake)? (That would be another "yes", as I wipe the chocolate frosting from the side of my mouth.)
3) Have you ever apologized when it wasn't your fault? (Guilty.)

Jungle Sisters, I am a cesspool of niceness.

Hilt proposes tapping into one's Inner Bitch, "that integral, powerful part of [every woman] that is going unrecognized," the one who can smile as she's giving her firm "I don't think so" to any milonguero without feeling like a bad person. These guys may grumble, but the poor mortal milongueros will just have to learn to live with life's disappointments.

Let's summon our Inner Bitch Goddesses to make the milonga a more pleasant and guiltfree place to be.

2008-05-10T08:02:00.005-03:00

CHATTIN' UP: Chiche...just a chiche

Madonna, Prince, and Charo (that mammary-endowed, guitar-wielding songstress from Spain). What do they all have common? They're so well-known that they rate going by their first name only. Chiche--unofficial lord of the (tango) dance, the one, singular sensation--deserves to be among these famous one-namers.

So, what's in a name? After dancing with him for three years, I still haven't learned his real name. And do I care? No. Because chiche just says it all. Dancing with him is like playing with your favorite toy. It's a blast! He explains that when he was born, he was so darn adorable that they called him chiche, meaning a cute thing, a toy. Awww.

OK, so times have changed, and he's not so cute anymore with his pot belly, nicotine habit, smoker's cough, and a slight musty aroma. His dancing, though, is consistently fresh, innovative, musical, and exciting. You never know what you're going to be doing with your feet when you follow him. A few staccatos here. A lovely long line there. It's not that his dance is complicated or flashy, his moves are spare, economized. However, there's an energy that, literally and figuratively, keeps one on ones toes.

Tango, he says, saved his life, pulling him out of a deep depression after a painful end of a romance 10 years ago. Now, dancing tango is part of his weekly routine, along with his nightly 3 cigarettes, a glass of moscato, and a slice or two of pizza. But, like most older milongueros, his tango history begins long before the break-up. It's in his bloodline, his abuelos, padres, and tios taking turns dancing in his large home.

Surprisingly, his great love isn't the tango. It's jazz, which was, synchronistically, created around the same time as tango. "Sale mas cosas" (more things come out) with rock 'n' roll (boogie, swing, etc.) than with tango. He can't explain why this is, though. He could've fooled me, especially when dancing the milonga. Miriam Pincen, a well-known figure in the tango community, says he is one of the few, real milongueros who remain today. These guys, like Ricardo, whom I wrote about in April, have history, experience, a love for the dance, and a dance style that is utterly unique.

However, it takes two to tango, so I asked him what does he looks for in a partner. He says, "No tengo bailarines. Tengo buenas acompañantes (I don't have dance partners. I have good dance companions.). These acompanantes put everything into the dance, releasing themselves "physically and mentally". It bothers him when he doesn't feel this while he's dancing with a woman.

He looks for the same thing when watching couples dance. He spurns flashiness for simplicity. He enjoys especially couples who dance por adentro, roughly "from the inside", when they dancing for themselves and for the dance instead of for an audience. You get the same feeling when you dance with him. The rest of the milonga does disappear, and you find yourself surprised and challenged with every step.

So, what other dance would this milonguero, rock y roller love to conquer? "El flamenco," he replies without missing a beat.

For Chiche, flamenco would just be child's play.

2008-05-01T10:07:00.004-03:00

DANCING (AND BLOGGING) WITHOUT OBLIGATION

Sigh! I just found this funky blog (www.tartx.com) that took a load off my mind! I mean, blogging, like dancing, should be fun, not a chore, especially since I'm not being paid for doing either of them! So, I added a new internet doohickie thinging, also known as a widget (I just learned that word. I'm learning a lot of things lately since I started La Vida Vintage!) that proclaims, "Blogging without Obligation." My blogs will be posted when I feel inspired to do so. Nuf said.

You know, they should have a widget for "Dancing without Obligation". My partner and I go dance tango 2x per week, usually on Thursdays and Saturdays. To tell you the truth, I could take or leave tango at this point in my life. Once the dissertation on tango ended, it was like a veil lifted. There IS life beyond tango. Thank goodness! I still get my tango fix a couple of times a week, and I know it's good for da relationship, but that's pretty much it. It's a thing I do, like going to the movies or getting my upper lip waxed.

Now, "Dancing without Obligation" should be plastered all over the milongas to warn those men, both local and foreign, to use the cabeceo instead of walking up to a woman and basically obligating her to dance or to turn his ass down. I feel badly for the guy, but, really, these guys have to learn.

2008-04-30T15:48:00.003-03:00

A NEW VENTURE

Every good tanguera needs a nice outfit to wear, right? But why do you have to content yourself to looking like everyone else?

That's why I opened La Vida Vintage on Etsy, a fantastic website shopping emporium for crafts and vintage products, including vintage clothing. Check out my blog by clicking on the widget with the "E" and read the blog. Then click on over to my Etsy shop. Too impatient? Cut and paste this to your browser: http://www.lavidavintage.etsy.com.

For those of you looking for more modern clothing, I'll be opening up a casa-boutique called FoundLove somewhere around July 2008 in Palermo, so keep your eyes peeled for more information!

Happy dancing, and viva La Vida Vintage!

2008-04-22T11:46:00.006-03:00

CHATTIN' UP: Ricardo, El Milonguero Viejo (whose last name I don't know)

Balding, slightly hunched over, and coming up to just below my eyeballs when I am in my tango heels, 84-year-old milonguero, Ricardo, would probably not fit the profile of an ideal dance partner in any other ambiance but this one. However, his clientele is skewed toward the attractive-under-50 set, a phenomenon that could only seem normal in the milongas of Buenos Aires, where the only requirement a man needs to fill his dance card is to dance well.

From across the room, his eyes meet mine, and he mouths, “Vamos?” I nod my acceptance. He walks across the room, and gives me the perfunctory kiss on the cheek before we embrace to start our dance.

Some may scoff at his limited repertoire. There are no fancy sequences, no acrobatics. Just a few simple steps repeated throughout the piece. For Ricardo, it is all about feeling. “One dances the feeling one has,” he explains, “You can tell when a woman dances without emotion.”

He has had over 70 years to perfect his ideas about tango, May 2008 marking the 70th anniversary of the first time he stepped foot on the pista. He has danced to the most famous orchestras playing live during the 1940´s and 1950´s. His longevity and popularity in the scene has earned him free entrance to many milongas, he notes proudly.

“We never took tango lessons,” he says, “We learned on the danced floor, making up steps,” Ricardo is one of the few remaining dancers who can remember what tango was like before it became a cash cow for the local tourism industry. Whereas most of the friends his age have stopped dancing, he still walks or takes the bus to the best milongas several nights a week, a practice he credits for keeping him spry.

One of the main draws of tango is, of course, the chance to embrace and be embraced by many women while dancing to beautiful music. A life-long bachelor, who has had a generous sprinkling of affairs and a couple of long-term relationships, he does not hide his enthusiasm for women, remarking, “I pay attention to women and what they wear. I even notice when they change their perfume.” When asked if he has a certain "type", he replies, "I've dated blondes, brunettes, all kinds. What is most important to me is the woman's skin." He adds with a roguish smile, "Como lo tuyo."

When he mentions how nice my legs are, I am flattered, but surprised by his compliment. Unlike many men who use the tango embrace as a prelude for more horizontal activities off the floor, he has only ever been the gentlemanly grandfather type who, in my mind, could never entertain such thoughts. But he shrugs and chuckles as he says matter-of-factly, “Eh, si, with those legs you should wear more skirts.”

I would call him a viejo degenerado, except that he's such a gentleman when he slips these comments into our 30 second conversations between songs. One can't help but giggle and blush.

Like the archetypal Latin lover, he appreciates women, but it seems his first love will always be the tango. As our set draws to a close, I ask if Argentine women have an advantage over foreign women when it comes to dancing well. “Bueno,” he says thoughtfully, “Not necessarily. First, you need a sense of rhythm, then you need ‘cadencia’,” the ability to feel the music and translate that feeling in the dance. “In fact, there are two foreigners who dance well,” he murmurs, “and one of them is in my arms.”

At 9 p.m., Ricardo is my last partner for the night, my enthusiasm for tango waning with every grumble of my ravenous stomach. For him, though, the night is still young and filled with the promise of more tango embraces.

2008-01-23T14:35:00.000-02:00

OFF THE BEATEN PISTA: Rosario Tango

Last weekend, the BF and I went to Rosario to visit a friend and his family. Of course, bringing the tango shoes along was a given, but where could we go?

Once we got there, our hotel (Hotel Riviera - a Solans Company hotel) gave us Rosario´s tango bible: Rosario de Tango. Honey, there´s tango here every night! This sleepy, almost vintage little town by the river has terrific architecture to gawk at AND a hoppin´ tango scene. Unfortunately, after spending a day cruising the river on a small boat and roasting in the sun, we were pretty beat, just dead tired, so we couldn´t bring ourselves to spend more than 2 hours there. Still, your benevolent Tango Goddess scoped it out to bring back just a taste for YOU!

The Club Sportivo America at Tucuman 2159 (0054-341-155982683), "La Milonga de Rosario," is a typical club del barrio, meaning, it´s sort of like a rec-room, basketball court, and all purpose party room rolled into one. The requisite bad lighting, corregated metal roof, mini stadium seating, metal fans, plastic tables and chairs, and basketball hoops were all there, but once the people arrived--some couples dressed for a night on the town--the place transformed itself to a veritable neighborhood milonga where everybody knows your name.

The dance level is, thankfully, much higher than the milonga in Ushuaia, but don´t come expecting orgasmic tandas to the best music mix. We spent from 10 to 11 p.m. dancing to B-side tracks in a room with only 8 people. Buenos Aires it ain´t. However, if you fear going into tango withdrawal while away from ol´ BA, check this place out. For the bargain basement entrance fee of 7 pesos, you can get yourself a little fix.

The ad in the guidebook says milonga starts at 10, but, hey, remember you´re in South America, not in Switzerland. The people start streaming in around 11:15, usually in groups. The dress code is anywhere from dressy to resort casual, but I didn´t see any jeans there, except for mine. It would be best to reserve a table, as this milonga gets very busy after 11:30 p.m.

2008-01-14T14:16:00.000-02:00

TANGO BLOG TAG

´K, so onetotango tagged me to list 7 random things about myself. What the heck, here I go! If you´ve been tagged at the end, write your stuff and then tag other people. You´re supposed to tag 7, but I only tagged 3 at the end of mine.

1. I make a mess in the kitchen every time I cook. This is why I don´t do it. Baking is cool, but I don´t consider that cooking. It´s too much fun.
2. I used to be a nude figure model in the D.C. area. Yes, I´ve flaunted my T&A all over the place and loved it. My favorite job EVER. AND I didn´t have to worry about what I was going to wear to work. AND I got paid for it. Ch-ching!
3. I don´t listen to tango music on my off days. Tango is not any of my playlists. If I didn´t dance to it, I probably wouldn´t ever listen to it.
4. I really love psychology, the theories and ideas. I like playing with them, breaking them down, destroying them, and creating something new. Totally out of the box when it comes to the subject...which generates a lot of strange looks.
5. I am addicted to thrift shopping. I am skilled at finding really cute stuff for myself that would look horrible on other people. Actually, an old college roommate said, "You know, you have the ugliest clothes, but they all look good on you." Um...thanks? I still going through Salvation Army withdrawal...sniff.
6. My bras cost more than most of my clothes. You know, a girl needs a decent bra that gives her a lift. That sh*t costs money, though.
7. Writing is very painful for me. I love it; I hate it. It´s like a bad relationship I can´t and don´t want to get out of. It hurts so good.

OK, I´m tagging the following bloggers:
tangoinhereyes
tinatangos
working artist

2008-01-01T14:53:00.000-02:00

OFF THE BEATEN PISTA: Milonga at the Fin del Mundo

Happy 2008 to everyone from Ushuaia, Argentina, a small island at the southern tip of the continent and about 1000km from Antarctica. So, yes, while you guys in Buenos Aires are sweltering in the summer "horno" (oven), I´m sitting in front of the hotel computer in ski pants, undershirt, and cashmere sweater.

We decided to ring in the new year here because The Boyfriend just became a new "abuelo" (grandfather) to a bouncing Ushuaian baby boy. (No, no, don´t think of me as a grandma. TG is eternally youthful and glorious!) Since the BF is not the slobbering grandparent type, we were able get away and do some exploring, which included hitting the local milonga! For those of you on your way to or from an Antarctic cruise, this would be a fun way to take in some non-penguin oriented local scenery.

"Milonga del Fin del Mundo" may sound rather apocalyptic, but our visit turned out to be a pleasant surprise, a great way to beat the cold and break in my new dance shoes. We made a reservation for a table right on the waxed ceramic tile pista (killed my knees-you may be better off with dance sneakers) from which we were able to scope all the locals (and some foreigners) dance into the light-filled wee hours of the morning. The crowd is a mixed bag of usual white haired and suited up men, tourists, locals anywhere from their pre-teens through their 50s, most of whom fall in the average dancer category. This is not Buenos Aires, so you should probably expect some invitations "al lado" instead of from across the room. By all means, accept! The milonga takes place every Sunday night from 10 p.m.-2 a.m. at the casual Nautico Restaurante (Maipu 1210, Tel: (54-2901)430415) that boasts a great view of the Fuegian (as in Tierra del Fuego) bay and the surrounding mountains.

We stayed at the Las Hayas Resort Hotel for a few days (Luis Martial 1650 Tel: (54-2901) 430710/8), a decent 3.5-4 star hotel at the foot of the mountains with a killer heated pool and fantastic views of the bay. Next to the Resort runs a yellow-marked hiking trail that you can follow all the way up the mountain until you reach the Cumbres del Marial, an adorable ski resort (aerosillas are across street from the hotel) that houses an equally adorable Casa de Te called "La Cabaña" (Luis F. Marial 3560, Tels: (54-2901)424779/434699/434752. Load up on coffee, tea, and baked sweets before your hike back down to Las Hayas or to the road leading to the center of town.

If you managed to work that all off on the 40 minute hike down, check out La Cantina Fuegina de Freddy on San Martin 326 (Tel: 421887) for a grilled merluza negra (LOCAL sea bass) that is as tender and fresh as the chubby thighs of a newborn baby (Sorry for the image! It was the first thing that came to mind!). Seriously dee-lish and worth the 60-some pesos for a slice of pescado heaven. The BF had a terrific king crab soup. The king crab, by the way, is worth ordering just to take a picture. It´s gigantoid!!

Well, folks, I wish all of you the best for 2008. Happy dancing. TG

2007-11-22T15:16:00.000-03:00

EVERYTHING'S COMING UP BARBIE - An Homage to an American Icon on this Thanksgiving Day 2007

I have this doohickie thingie (I'm such a moron when it comes to techie toys) on Gmail that gathers daily all the information on the web that has to do with Buenos Aires and sends it to me in my in-box. Today, the most interesting piece of news was the grand opening of the Barbie Store in Palermo. I live in Palermo, but I haven't seen it yet. Looks like I'm going to have to do a little touring around my own neighborhood this weekend.

The store, the first of its kind in the world, is the brain-child of 39-year-old Tito Loizeau who, taking a clue from Field of Dreams, thought (and I'm paraphrasing liberally...check out the Chicago Tribune for correct quote), "If I build a shrine to a doll with unrealistic proportions in one of the plastic surgery capitals of the world, impressionable 3 to 12-year-old girls and their wealthy parents will come." And so they do...in droves, apparently. It boasts a store with Barbie-inspired clothing for girls, a funcioning beauty salon, and a tea house, and the place is available for rental for about 600 US smackers. How's that for a tango venue???? See Milonguera Barbie and Milonguera Skipper in a catfight over Milonguero Ken! See Milonguera Skipper dropkick Milonguera Barbie on la pista! See Milonguero Ken screw both of them over for the cute "mozo" (waiter)!

Now, I was more of a Matchbox (trademark symbol thingie here) kid. I liked little race cars, building blocks, puzzles, and games like Perfection and Superfection. I finally got a Barbie (another trademark thingie here) when I was around 8 years old, not because I really wanted one; I just though it was time to get one to see what all the fuss was about. After about a week, I was bored with her, but I played with her out of obligation. Since my aunt took the trouble of shelling out the 20 bucks for her that I might as well play with her. So, I spent afternoons trying to curl her blond nylon hair with my hot curling iron, which left brown crusty stains on my iron...I don't recommend trying this at home...and bending her legs forward at her kneecaps. I loved the snapping sounds her joints made. Though it seems I may have been manifesting inklings of sociopathy--torturing and destroying playthings--she was rather pretty pointless (which, um...I guess is how sociopaths regard their victims. It's been a while since I've been in analysis...). I couldn't see her doing much, though she later transformed herself into Doctor Barbie or Barbie, M.D., and I wasn't going to ask my parents to pay for her pink corvette, her playhouse, or her beefy boyfriend/friendboy, Ken.

No, puhleeeze don't tell me they have an Islamic Barbie complete with hijab and red carpet on which to pray, and puhhhhhleeeze don't mention that now they've spraypainted her different colors and have increased her ass size to better represent POCs (People of Color). Barbie is annoying, and in no way can, as mentioned by a Mattel executive, "maintain [her] relevance by extending her into other parts of a little girl's life." How about making a Boobjob Barbie, complete with surgury scars? Or what about Eating Disorder Barbie? Girls are asking for surgery and are succumbing to EDs earlier in life, the least they can do is make her REALLY relevant. For a funny essay on a more relevant Barbie, check out About.com and look up Hypothyroid Barbie.

And poor, neglected Ken. Will someone please unlock the closet door for him?

2007-11-14T11:07:00.000-03:00

A MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: November 14, 2007

I Due Ladroni-Ristorante Italiano
Fitz Roy 1951, Palermo Hollywood
4899-4060
www.idueladroni.com.ar

I had a mad craving for sashimi last night, so we headed out to Dashi, a Japanese joint in Palermo. The usual smiling (and totally fake) hostess greeted us at the door at 8:30, and began to walk us over to a table that was smack in the middle of the still-empty restaurant, which did nothing but irritate the heck out of the BF. He thinks many restaurants conspire to punish early eaters by giving them the worst table imaginable. So, after the BF asked the hostess for some other options, which were as bad as the first, we walked out and headed to his newest culinary discovery: I Due Ladroni.

"No, it's not that I want to eat Italian food. Really!" Whatever. Never come in between a hormonal, PMS-ing woman and her cravings. It can get ugly. But I had just read an article by an Indian guru earlier that day about managing one's expectations, so I wasn't going to get upset, but I did reserve the right to pout.

Anyhoo, talk about opposites. We were greeted by an exuberant and affable Roman, who let us choose our table, and proceeded to talk in Italian to the BF who hails proudly from Southern Italy (and may your foist child be a masculine child). I have to say that I get completely turned on hearing Italian, sort of like Jamie Lee Curtis in a Fish Called Wanda, so things were definitely looking up.

This establishment is relatively new, having just opened about 2 months ago, but I see a very bright future for Francesco and his business partner, Philip, the more sedate, serious, and considerably shorter of the two owners. Not only is the food outstanding (Frankly, I'll put my already-tainted-rep. on the line to say that it's the best Italian restaurant we have tried in Palermo, maybe in Buenos Aires, with the exception of Marcelo's in Puerto Madero), but the service is wonderful, a rare find in restaurants here. Cheerful owners who listen to you? Fantastic! Waitstaff who are cordial, attentive, AND genuine? Amazing! My experience here was so positive that I made a reservation for 4 for later this week! These guys are the real deal, and they've stolen our tastebuds and our hearts. Get it? Ladroni? Thieves? Stealing? Yuk! Yuk! Yuk!

***A word about customer service in Buenos Aires...OK, two words: IT. SUCKS. In general, restaurant staff (especially) are way the hell too busy talking to each other, goofing off, and not paying attention to the people who pay their bills: the customers. Hello?!?! People come to eat at restaurants. How about coming to the table within 2 minutes of our arrival to take their orders instead of making us flag you down? It really BUGS me. Bad service in restaurants or shops (I DETEST salespeople who hover and watch me as if I were going to steal something in their store full of poorly made products) will make us walk out the door, as we did in Dashi.***

Francesco is like the archetyal Italian mamma, only taller, skinnier, and hairier, bounding from kitchen to tables in 3 or 4 large steps with his incredibly long legs, and doting on us, stopping short of darning our socks and tucking us in. His energy and enthusiasm are contagious, which gives a fun and homey vibe to this medium-sized restaurant adorned with copies of colorful vintage Italian ads, black and whites of famous actors, and red-checked tablecloths. But on to the food.

The meal started off with two scrumptious little pizzas and a basket of bread made in the restaurant, coupled with little condiment bowls of sundried tomatoes, black and green olives, and marinated red and green peppers. We were checking out the Parma ham and bufala mozzarella combo for our entrada, but Francesco informed us that they didn't have Parma ham right now. He could have easily substituted Parma for Serrano, and we probably wouldn't have known the difference, but he scored some serious points by being honest and not trying to pull a slick "viveza criolla" on us. We opted instead for the caprese, an Italian classic of tomatos and bufala mozzarella, which was perfect. I mean, it's so simple, how can a restaurant screw it up? No, this one was so perfectly condimented that it didn't need anything extra, though I added just a touch of balsamic vinegar. What can I say? I have a Filipino palate that likes sour.

Next, the BF chose the risotto con hongos. I chose the salmon, though, I was also tempted by the pasta bolognese, risotto, and pumpkin-stuffed ravioli, stuffed by Francesco himself. It's always a good sign when no one talks during a meal. It means the food is good. BF's risotto was perfectly al dente, and the hongos were real porcini mushrooms, again, REAL porcini mushrooms, not regular funghi slipped in there to unsuspecting customers. I had a couple of forkfuls, and the taste was rich, earthy, and comforting, with just the right amount of...everything. In fact, I'm going to order it the next time we're here...or maybe it'll be the pasta with bolognese sauce, or maybe... But I loved my salmon, fresh and cooked perfectly, with a side of cooked vegetables and yummy puffed pastry with I-can't-remember-and-I-didn't-write-it-down-but-it's-a-veggie inside.

I decided not to get dessert, but if I had gotten one, I would've have gotten the tartufo or the tiramisu. So many to choose from!

On Tuesdays, then have an addition to the regular menu. This week included such main courses as suvlaki de cordero, pollo tandoori, and bouillabaise, all of which would have suited me just fine if I hadn't wanted a slab o' fish.

This restaurant was instant love, and will be a regular stop on our weekly dining circuit.

Ambiance: Homey for a decent-sized restaurant. I can see families and couples coming here.

Service: Impeccable and down-to-earth. A RARITY!!! PLUS, Francesco speaks English pretty well.

Price: I didn't look at the bill, so I can't tell you what I paid, and I hate math. BUT here are the price ranges in pesos. Aren't I a benevolent goddess? Entradas: between 16-22; Salads: 22; First Plate: 27-35; Second Plate: 31-36; Dessert: 9-16. This is not an inexpensive place, but they use quality Italian ingredients (De Cecco) which shows in their food. So completely worth it.

Overall: Fantastic find! Get on a plane, and try this now!

2007-11-14T09:56:00.000-03:00

HOLA, ONCE AGAIN!

To all my (3) readers out there: A hearty "hola" and "que tal" to all!

I decided to take an unannounced hiatus from pretty much everything for 2 months. Call it laziness, call it my thyroid wreaking havoc on my hormones, call it leaving BA for a month to visit the Philippines and China. But volví, y voy a quedarme aca (sorta, except for little jaunts to freeze-my-So. Californian-ass-off Ushuaia and the Chilean fjords) until May, when I leave for the States again. So, you're stuck with me again for awhile.

First things first: Women in their mid-30's need to have their thyroids checked! If you've been feeling exhausted, irritable, and depressed, are gaining weight though you haven't stopped watching what you eat or exercising, are not finding pleasure in things that usually interest you, like tango dancing--sort of like PMS has invited itself for an unwelcomed extended stay--get yourself over to your nearest endocrinologist to get your hormone levels checked PRONTO!

Second: Get yourself second or third opinions. I didn't want to be put on any Levoxythorine or any other hormone just yet, so, before I left for Asia, I went to a homeopath in Los Angeles who is also an MD. I wanted to do a treatment that would be as "suave" and as natural to my system as possible. I'm not a completely new-agey person, but I hate taking medicine. I take baby aspirin, for chrissake, when I have a headache. I like my body to be able to work its kinks out the way it thinks it needs to. (Of course, this doesn't apply to those who are suffering from really serious disorders that really need allopathic meds.)

Although the medical care is pretty good in BA, and there are very good homeopaths here, there's nothing like being able to talk about your feelings and health in depth and in your own language without having to fumble for words. There are just some subtleties that you feel in your own language that you can't quite capture in a foreign one...at least for me, that is. The good news is that I'm feeling back to my old self again, and my TSH level has decreased. I'm going to keep tracking my levels YOU HAVE OTHER OPTIONS!

Third: Since thyroid problems may kick in when you're stressed out to the max...umm...like when you move to another country, start a new relationship with someone who doesn't speak your language, and are in the middle of writing a dissertation...you need to take care of yourself! Take a yoga or pilates class; watch what you put into your body; take a hot bath; get a massage! In short, spoil yourself! I've taken advantage of the decent exchange rate in Argentina, and have started getting massages. Cintia at Petit Pilates, where I also take my pilates classes, is wonderful for a gentle lymphatic drainage massage (in Palermo: 4777-1042), but there are other massages available like Chinese or Thai massage. Check them out! (I get no kick-back for this or any of my recommendations. I wish! I just like supporting people I think give good service.)

Enough, I say! Enough of all this serious business! Let's get back to some tango and food related fun!

Some updates:

I. A reader asked me for an update on my friend who hooked up with a milonguero. Well, as expected, they didn't last beyond 3 or 4 boinks, but I like to think that they enjoyed their moments together. He called her a few weeks back just to say, "Hello," and he greets her at the milonga if they manage to pass by each other, but he doesn't look at her to dance.

Now, this could be taken two ways: He's an ass. Or he just doesn't want to lead her on. Like he told me and my BF, he dances with people he likes dancing with or "para cojer" (to fuck). Um, I appreciate and respect his honesty. At least he makes things clear. I suppose if this were an ideal world, and if we all acted like grown ups all the time, we could take things casually and be friendly with our ex-flings without having expectations, but, let's face it, as Barbra warbled, "we're children...needing other children...and yet letting our grown up priiiide...hide all the neeeeed insiiiide...acting mooooore like children (sniff) than children." Damn. Baby, it's cold outside, but, hey, there were no guarantees to begin with and no promises made.

PLUS, she isn't exactly free either, since she was still seeing her ex once a week and seeing her the milonguero unduh-covuh. How much of a committment could she have made, even socially? Which makes me want to ask her (if I had the balls...which I don't): What do you want? I don't think she knows. So, until she knows, how is she going to get it? Maybe she got what she needed for a few weeks, and maybe she just needs to be satisfied with that. I dunno. Not exactly a romantic way of looking at this, which is disappointing for romantics like moi, but then again, they're waaaaaaayyyyyy the hell past the rose-colored glasses stage.

II. Our friend Nestor La Vitola, the now-former teacher and dancer, has lost to date a whopping 11 kilos!!!!!!!! My BF badgered him to death until he relented to starting a diet that consisted of reducing portion size and replacing sugar with sweeteners (which I, personally, don't like... I mean, really, how good for your body is aspertame? Pero bueno...it's a start.). Let me tell you, the man dances better, if that was at all possible. Without all that weight to schlep around on the dance floor, he's dancing is "mas liviano" (lighter), he's able to move better, and he doesn't wheeze as he's dancing like he used to. He noted the same changes himself, and he's much happier now.

One more little note about Nestor: He decided to resign as Monica Paz's co-instructor a few weeks ago due to non-tango work committments, but Monica is still teaching and is currently on the East Coast (US) on a teaching tour.

All the best, and happy dancing! TG

2007-08-27T16:34:00.000-03:00

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES AND THE CROCODILOS

My friend just got laid. My friend, a striking older woman with a laugh as loud and bawdy as a bunch of sailors after a 12 pack of cigarettes and a few bottles of Johnny Walker, got her grrrroove on with a milonguero. From her glow, I'd say he gave her a rockin' good time. I'm so proud of her.

But it took a while to get to this state of post-polvo (post-orgasm) bliss. Lemme 'splain old-school, milonguero-style courtin' by reviewing a little of the basics of the birds and the bees.

My BF has a courting theory based on genetics and evolution. He says that women are built to "hacer la luchita", or to play hard to get. It helps the propagation of the fittest species. Who wants to get laid by, or god-forbid, have offspring with someone too eager and desperate? Desperation is soooo NOT a turn-on. Eeeewwww. Go AWAY! We want men who are willing to work a little bit, and then know when they need to back off, and, if necessary, to have enough of a backbone to tell us to "andar a la reputa que nos repario" (literally: to go to the very slutty mother that gave us birth twice over" or to go fuck off), but in a nice, gentlemanly way, like Rhett Butler: Frankly, Graciela, a mi no me importa.

An avid Animal Planet and Discovery Channel watcher, he cites observations of crocodile courting behavior as proof that all animals have this little tango dance o' love before the van starts a-rockin'. The male crocodile follows the female around in the water, nudges her a little bit with his nose, swims little circles around her, splashes the water with his tail to show how big and bad he is...you know, typical testosterone-driven behavior. The female of course, being female and proper and well-brought-up with good breeding, snubs him. This goes on for a week until, when he's pretty much ready to throw in the towel (my BF's assessment and wierd segway (sp?) into explaining human behavior), she finally gives in, has little crocodilos, and then, of course, suffers from the baby daddy's up and leaving her. But that's for another blog note. Let's focus on the romance, people!

Female homosapiens, it seems, are no different than the crocodilas. We, too, play hard-to-get...for the most part...except for that one time in Spain when...oh, and then, there's that guy I met at that club in college...oh, yeah, the guy at the airport. In general, we like feeling desired. That's part of the fun of the milonga, too, isn't it? It's gosh-darn primal. Feeling our power to attract los machos, getting dressed up to go out and play the field, even if it an imaginary field that only exists for 2 or 3 hours. It's fun, that frisky singleton feeling.

However, there is an art to the "luchita" (the little fight). There is only a certain period of time a guy or crocodile or ape (Hmmm...are these things synonymous?) will put up with a woman's flirtatious rejections. Sure, he'll make a pest of himself, teasing, cajoling, practically seducing you with his dance for a while, but, after a while, he'll suddenly turn to ice. I mean, once it gets to this point, he may very well ignore the woman at the milonga, so she can just forget about looking at him. Hmph! This has happened to many women I know at the milonga and yours truly, of course.

Now, if she only saw him as a pest, good riddance. BUT _IF_ she had been interested in him, it's time for her to stop the playing around, time for the cazada (hunted) to be the cazadora (hunter). If the woman works it, and I mean, WORKS it, pulls out all the stops, wears that outrageously expensive Victoria Secret push-up bra, and seduces him, the man will fall. They like to beat their chests and howl at the moon, but, for the most part, they're incredibly easy to get into bed, IF that's what you want to do. And this is, indeed, what my dear friend wanted to do and did.

Back to the story - After my friend turned down his various invitations to go out, he had HAD it. And yet, every time we went out together as a group, she would exhibit the tell-tale "I'm-so-ready-to-throw-down-let's-move-the-furniture" mating signs: leaning into him, laughing at his stupid jokes, etc. It was adorable, damn it. So, she was definitely into him, just letting the luchita get outta hand. How'd she get him back? Goddess-style: SHE invited HIM for coffee. How could he resist?

Now, who knows if this is going to last. Who knows if this is going to be one of those crazy milonga flings people get into. And who the hell cares. My friend was glowing, and we, her friends, basked in her happiness.

2007-08-21T09:28:00.000-03:00

MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: August 22, 2007
Chila-Buenos Aires Cuisine
Alicia Moreau de Justo 1160
4343-6067

Say, Buenos Aires Cuisine, and you may think about beef and chimichurri, chorizo, and dulce de leche. Or pasta and more pasta. This elegant restaurant in swank Puerto Madero serves up "suave" dishes, many of them based on seafood, for a not so "suave" price. This place is expensive, but is it worth it?

I've gotta say, "No." But that doesn't mean that I had a horrible time either.

First, the service is wonderful. The waiters are attentive and nice to look at. Second, it's located in pretty Puerto Madero, and on a nice day, it can't be beat, except maybe by Marcelo's next door. Third, the bread is outstanding. The waiter came around with a basket full of freshly-baked flavored breads and a generous slab o' butter sprinkled with salt. From a savory nut and cheese to a lovely malbec-touched slice, you're sure to find something to whet your appetite. Fourth, the coffee presentation was so elegant. A little silver tray of condiments (?) came with containers filled with brown sugar, dark chocolate powder spiked with cinnamon, and regular bleached sugar. The bite-sized morsels of creamy chocolate goodness and the half-a-thumbprint sized lemon tarts were enough to sate my dessert craving.

BUT

what about the food-food?

The BF wanted to try something different, expand our already expansive restaurant repertoire. As I studied the menu in front, my eyes glazed over in boredom. Now, I like food, and I was hungry, but I wasn't feeling the love. Still, in the name of culinary adventure, I followed the BF in.

It was already 1:00 in the afternoon on a holiday, and we were one of only 2 couples in the restaurant. Usually, other popular restaurants are bustling, but, strangely, this one was practically empty. We outnumbered the staff.

There were only a couple of things on the menu that appealed to me: a salad of hojas verdes with walnuts and a spaghetti dish with broccoli, cashew nuts, and dried tomatoe in a creamy mustard sauce. The BF ordered the besugo (fish-don't know what kind) in broth. Neither main course was "feo" (ugly), but my palate didn't do summersaults of joy either. It was just...OK. It was a case of being hungry and being fed in a beautiful and elegant setting. But was it worth the hefty price tag? Mmmmm...not so much.

Ambiance: Elegant and modern. Great date place, especially with the mellow music, low lighting, and scenery.

Service: Excellent.

Price: With drinks and coffee, about 130 pesos for two, maybe a little more. Can't remember what the receipt said.

Overall: If you're willing to skimp a little on the elegance and presentation, head on over to Marcelo's next door, where you'll be served twice as much for the same price.

2007-08-19T23:53:00.000-03:00

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DANCE: Circulo de Trovador

This long weekend, I had the chance to catch the show "Bodies: The Exhibition" at the Abasto Shopping Mall which opened on August 15. These are real bodies--previous owners apparently signed an agreement donating their remains to science--preserved in formaldehyde and dissected. It sounds like a horror movie, but it's absolutely fascinating. Seeing the intricacies of the body--the seemingly cotton-candy lightness of the capillaries of a finger pad, slices of brain, a clogged artery, the tendons of a left foot, a liver with cirrhosis (eeeuuuwwwww!)--made me want to pledge myself to veganism and a life in the country.

After seeing a comparison between a healthy lung and one stained dark gray with nicotine-related cancer and emphysema, I thought smugly, "Well, thank god, I don't smoke. Then I remembered I had just spent 2 hours inhaling second-hand smoke at the Circulo Trovador, a dance hall (one of the few that were still operating in greater Buenos Aires shortly after Cromanon in December 2004) located in the provincia of Vicente Lopez at Libertador 1031, where we celebrated the birthday of a friend from the milonga.

This venue has not one, not two, but--count 'em--FOUR disco balls, 2 strobe/whirly light contraptions, black lights, and a fog machine. These people take their Saturday night seriously. The marble floor was extremely slippery, but these people were not dissuaded. The management placed a damp rag on the floor by the entrance for dancers to wet the soles of their shoes so they wouldn't slip.

When the "milonga" started, the DJ opened with a strange, rather depressingly slow tanda. It was going to be a very. long. night. A few couples showed off their moves on the floor, and it was clear, as one of my friends observed, "They dance differently here." I'm not quite sure how to describe the "provincial" style, except to say it is "provincial". They don't dance like tourists with legs flying and complicated choreography, nor do they dance like city slicker milongueros with elegance and technique. Perhaps what distinguishes them from these aforementioned groups is their non-descriptiveness. However, enthusiasm and their gusto in pursuit of a good time, especially during the salsa, compensate for their lack of "milongueroness".

Thankfully, after his apparent warm-up tanda, the DJ started spinning some traditional milongas, valses, and tangos. Interspersed were fun sets of salsa, merengue, cumbia, and swing. It had more of a discotheque feel than a milonga, which explains why organizer calls this a "baile" instead of a milonga.

To tell you the truth, except for the second-hand smoke, I enjoyed myself at the Circulo, burning off a few calories dancing salsa and swing, and replenishing what I had burned with some glasses of red wine and picadas. All in all, it was a nice break from our usual Saturday night routine.

Your best bet would be to reserve a table for you and a group of friends. I wouldn't go alone. First of all, it's too far. Second of all, the cabeceo is used here, but, since most people come with a mixed set of friends, they usually danced with people in their own group. It could make for a lonely night. However, with a group, you could have a fun time here. Make reservations by calling 4838-0546 or 4838-0472.

2007-08-17T10:16:00.000-03:00

CHATTIN' UP: Oscar y Lucia of Lujos (El Beso)

Enter El Beso on a Thursday night, and you will be greeted with a kiss on the cheek by Lucia, the dark-tressed, and often cat-eyelinered milonguera, who bears a striking resemblance to both Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, and Morticia Addams. Don't let her warmth fool you, though. She has been known to incur the wrath of many women, foreign and local, for her apparent disregard of their comfort and seating preferences at the milonga. Thankfully, I had always felt cared for and respected by her, even as she ushered me to my seat in the "segundo fila" (second row) during my first two trips to BA.

So, last night, our usual tango night, I accosted Lucia for an interview while she was trying to strap on her heels. Catch her off guard, I thought, and she'll give me the goods. With the grace of a fine hostess, though, she obliged and sat me down for our tete-a-tete before she continued with her duties as "anfitriona" (hostess).

I had my usual query prepared: How do you score a good seat at this popular milonga?

Addressing the Tango Goddess by her mortal name, Lucia reminded me of how this milonga began 4-5 years ago in Lo de Celia--before the lamentable Cromagnon discoteca debacle, before foreigners began the mad rush to buy property, before one had to wear protective gear to dance in Salon Canning on Sunday nights. They gained a loyal following in those days, and these people, most of whom are excellent dancers, continued their patronage when they moved to El Beso. Obvio (obvious) that they should keep these people happy by reserving them the better seats. The rest of the good seats are given based on merit, on how you dance.

"I'm always watching," she said.

It may sound ominous, but Oscar, her snow-white coiffed business parter (and maybe ex-lover or present lover?), claimed to do the same. He studies people on the floor--their elegance (or lack thereof), their balance (ditto), the placement of their bodies--and seats the men according to his observations. He declared, "I'm a bailarin (a dancer), not a milonguero. I enjoy the dance. A milonguero is usually "buscando cosas" or "hac[iendo]travesuras" (something like-doing bad things, or being up to no good)." He added in sotto voce, "I like women, of course, but I'm always very respectful." In the end, the dancing is his love; it even gives him "placer" to just sit and watch. "I even got a divorce after more than 40 years of marriage because of the tango."

Lucia remarked that there are women--good dancers--who opt to hide in the back instead of being squished like a sardine in the primer fila with the rest of the women. However, these women don't lose any dance momentum; they dance just as much as the women who are easier to see because they dance well.

She may consider placing a woman she doesn't know in the front if she asks nicely and if there is an available seat, or if she comes recommended by a good dancer. But don't put it past her to take away that privilege if she ends up having two left feet.

If a group of tourists enter with a guide, she will ask the guide if they dance. If the guide is honest and says, "Mas or menos", she will allow the group to enter and to sit, but not dance. She explained, "The place is small, and we don't want this to turn into a place for only tourists."

I cited what happened at Cachirulo last Saturday. A group of friendly Northern Europeans (Germans, perhaps?) had descended upon the milonga, and, the men, in ignorance of or disregard of the codigos, began to invite women to dance "al lado" (literally, on the side or beside; in this case, inviting without using the cabeceo). It flustered Hector so much that that he begged someone make an announcement to them in English to please "cabecear". Asking non-dancers or so-so dancers to just sit and watch prevents all that embarrassment from occurring, she remarked.

Knowing the codes is part of the milonga experience, but, unfortunately, many people aren't familiar with them. It could save a lot of ego beating if people would just ask someone local (or better yet, read my blog!). Lucia, for example, will take away dance privileges if she notices that they don't know how to "manejar la pista" (navigate the floor), or if they look like they are competing for the tango escenario championships with voleos and ganchos, moves which are generally banned from tango milonguero clubs. I have seen Oscar approach people (usually foreigners) to tell them to leave the dance floor during the intermezzo (music between tandas) to remind them to please respect the establishment and the rules.

Snagging a good seat at Lujos, then, is just a simple matter of dancing well and following the rules. It's harder than it sounds, of course, because becoming a better dancer and learning the codigos is a long, frustrating process, but one that improves greatly one's experience of the milonga in the future.

Lujos functions on Thursday nights starting 6:45/7:00-ish p.m. at El Beso, on Riobamba, near Corrientes.

2007-08-15T08:06:00.000-03:00

TANGO BREATH

I don't know many tango dancers who don't carry along a pack or two of Tic-Tacs in their suit pocket or their bag. If my BF manages to forget to bring along one of the hundreds of packs of those Listerine breath strips I always bring back from the US, he usually stops by the kiosko around the corner from El Beso to pick up a bit o' minty freshness.

The thing is, how do you kill off your early dinner of ajo con pasta with 2 tiny "1 and 1/2 calorie breath mints?"? Or how does someone with poor to non-existent dental hygiene cover up that odor of rotten eggs emanating from his mouth? This is no exaggeration, by the way. I had the unfortunate chance of dancing with someone who danced divinely, but who smelled like last year's Grand Slam breakfast deal at Denny's. This is a case of some hard-core, non-TicTac interventions. Skanky-breath-ed milongueros, please take note.

Check out this blog article I stumbled across from tips4women.blogspot.com today about how to handle bad breath.

Wishing you many lovely tandas with partners with fresh breath. TG

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Monday, 13 August 2007 (www.tips4women.blogspot.com)
Women Tips on How to Prevent Chronic Halitosis By Learning What Causes Your Bad Breath

I once took a class in Argentine Tango, which was set up so that men and women constantly exchanged partners while learning the stylized steps. That was okay, but there was one guy who had zero rhythm, and three minutes of trying to tango with him (counting to himself and still failing his steps miserably) was like a stumbling, cursing lifetime. But dancing with that poor klutz (I'm no Pavlova, by the way) was nothing compared to the man whose breath was so bad, I had to fight to hold my own breath or simply go mad. In the few steps where we turned away from each other, I had to gasp for a fresh breath of air, then turn for the next hellish step into the miasma. I felt bad for the man at first: clearly, taking a tango class wasn't going to make him popular with women as long as he could not get rid of his bad breath. But soon, I started to hate him: how could he not know the effect his breath had on others? Why wouldn't he chew a mint, for crying out loud?

It was so bad that I actually considered telling him, a total stranger, that he should chew gum so I could bear to dance with him. I didn't have to go that far, though, because in the end, I met a lovely, sexy, middle-aged psychologist who was not only a fine and graceful dancer, but who smelled nice and liked to dance with me. He managed to show up in front of me more and more often in the partner exchanges, and soon, I hardly danced with anyone else.

Preventing bad breath from occurring or at least affecting others

I brush my teeth about five times a day, and chew gum too. I good swish of mouthwash can be quite refreshing after a garlic filled dinner as well. But there have been times when forays into Vietnamese cooking or beer-and-pizza-with-the-guys has left my mouth less than fresh, which is why I carry gum in my purse for emergencies. This is a quick, temporary solution to curing lunchtime bad breath. While some people swear by breath mints, I've found that they don't do much for eliminating your breath once they're gone.

Natural Solution to Stop Bad Breath

If you don't want to get into any serious breath medications, there simpler more natural products available. For super-halitosis emergencies, you can use Breath Assure, which is nothing more than capsules of parsley oil. You don't chew them (I tried it once and was rewarded with a strong, sweet, oily taste that made me look like my friends' cat the day we tried to give him Benadryl to reduce the swelling from a spider bite. The vet didn't specify the type, just the dosage, and the liquid baby-dose Benadryl made him foam at the mouth for two hours. It was extremely unnerving.) The parsley oil works wonders, eliminating garlic breath and sweetening the breath for hours. Maybe that's why Greek, Turkish and Arabic cuisines combine parsley with lemon and garlic for relishes, salads and sauces.

If you are on a date and in a pinch with absolutely no breath prevention methods on hand, try eating the parley sprig most restaurants place of their plates as decoration. It's free, easily available, and it works! Just be discreet so your date doesn't catch on to your halitosis worries.
Causes of Bad Breath

Bad breath that comes from food is easily finished off by brushing your teeth, scraping your tongue, flossing, gum chewing or the aforementioned Breath Assure, but chronic bad breath can be a symptom of other problems health problems such as tooth decay, sinus infection, gum disease, or stomach problems. Eating disorders can also create halitosis from the stomach acids churned up by hunger or by vomiting. If you (or the guy in your tango class) experience chronic bad breath, the first thing to do is get to your dentist for a checkup. After ruling out possible dental care issues, your dentist may recommend a visit to the doctor to rule out other illnesses.

Home Treatment Remedy for Halitosis

Old mouthwashes contained alcohol and mint flavorings. New mouthwashes include zinc and chlorine dioxide. Zinc stops the process that creates the sulfur compounds in the mouth, which are largely responsible for causing bad breath. Chlorine dioxide kills the sulfur that's already present. You may decide to add mouthwash to your regular hygiene program whether or not you have other health issues that need to be resolved in order to stop chronic halitosis for good.

2007-08-09T09:42:00.000-03:00

MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: Special Breakfast Reportaje-August 9, 2007
Kentucky Bar and Pizzeria
Corner of Godoy Cruz and Santa Fe

My tango teacher, Roberto Canello, suggested that I sit down sometime to just listen to tango. Doing so, he said, will open up new possibilities for my dancing. I find listening to tango (studying or learning the differences b/t the orchestras) rather tedious, to tell you the truth. Don't get me wrong. I love the music when I'm sitting in a milonga or when I'm dancing, but I don't automatically search for tango music on my iPod to keep me company while I'm working. I'm a Gwen Stefani-Ella Fitzgerald-Beyonce-Prince-Cake-Broadway tunes kind of gal off la pista. I know I'm committing some kind of tango mortal sin by admitting all this, because what's tango without the music???

Ever multi-tasking, I decided to have breakfast the other day at Kentucky, a confiteria-restaurant-bar located on the frenetic corner of Godoy Cruz and Santa Fe, knowing that they'd be playing danceable tango hits for our desayunando pleasure, the same tangos you hear at your favorite milongas. Try to stop yourself from grabbing your partner and dancing!

This place boasts "La Mejor Pizza de Palermo since 1942". Their pizza has satisfied my cravings for take-out pizza on many occasions, since it's just down the street from our lair, but they also have a decent breakfast promo: $4.50 for cafe con leche and 3 medialunas; $3.50 for cafe and 1 medialuna.

I managed to pick the clunker of the 6 medialunas I was sharing with my macho that morning. A little on the hard side. The rest were doughy and rather dense. However, taking a cue from one of my wacky male psychology colleagues who says, "There are no bad breasts" (a nod to Melanie Klein), I declare that there are no bad medialunas. After all, how bad can buttery bread topped with sugar be? I used to like their medialunas a lot, but after eating the ones at Nucha, which are flaky and buttery and more expensive, Kentucky's come in at a very faaaaaar away second place.

Pizza, as I said, is pretty decent. I'm a fan of the napolitana with chunks of garlic, perfect for scaring off those pesky guys who invite you to dance by walking up to you and asking directly. They also serve the standard Argentine fast-food fare: minutas, empanadas, sandwiches.

Ambiance is noisy, but, if they decide to turn up the tango, it's a very pleasant breakfast experience. Plus, you can check out old black and white pictures of Argentine stars, immortalized with their sideburns and feathered hair on Kentucky's wall. For you smokers out there, they have a glass-enclosed room especially for you, one of the few confiterias out there that have managed to keep and add more nicotine-addict clients.

2007-08-05T09:49:00.000-03:00

OF MILONGUEROS Y MILONGUERAS

Milongueras and milongeros are great character studies. After a few years of living here, getting to know some of them, and hearing stories from and about them, I've tried to distilled all the descriptions and stories into a few profiles for your reading pleasure.
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WHY are there so many old fart milongueros and no old fart milongueras? Many of the old milongueros started dancing when they were little, in the patios and kitchens of their childhood homes. They grow up to meet THE gal of their dreams who is, at the time, young, beautiful, and a light on her feet. They frequent milongas together until they start having kids. The woman grows older. So does the man. The woman gains weight and grows a paunch. So does the man. One night, they go back to the milonga. He dances. She doesn't. Just a fluke, she thinks. She goes back, and it happens again. She sits there night after night until she decides not to go anymore. She's humiliated. Who wants to dance with a 70 or 80 year old woman?

No one. Who would want to when there are hot 30, 40, or 50 year old professional women in tight pants and stretchy tops?

The man starts going to the milonga alone, because, though he is old, wrinkly, balding, and slightly overweight, he is sought-after by these younger women for his dance, his 50-40 year history with it. He relives his younger days every night at the milonga. The thrill of the chase. And, if he dances well, he will score because a women will fall in love with his dance.

This woman, one of many in the milonga who hold advanced degrees or have their own practices or businesses, has her own source of income. She is independent, cultured, savvy, and, yet, she falls for the old milonguero or the younger dancer because of his dance, the way he holds her, what emotions he transmits to her.

In general (there are, of course, exceptions), there is a marked difference in the socio-economic levels between the men and women at the milonga. Local and foreign women tend to be more educated and more economically independent. The men...not so much. Many of them live off the women they sleep with. It's so very TANGO, so very MILONGUERO, and so very ugly and, unfortunately, acceptable. Living off a woman makes you "vivo" (smart, crafty, wiley). I've heard stories of smart women falling in love with a milongueros, only to be short a few thousand dollars and a boyfriend after a few months of wonderful tandas. Who is to blame? I have heard women say that it is the woman's fault. She should have never given a milonguero money, they say.

There exists, of course, the female counterpart to the old miloguero, except she is a bit younger and more than likely lives off the tango giving tango lessons. She puts "todo la carne en el asador" (all the meat on the grill) while she's dancing, seduces him, and ends up having her lifestyle subsidized by the man.

There are also milongueras, those hot women in their mid-40s or early 50's who dance well and financially independent, who are on the prowl for a young muffin o' studliness. Is she looking for love or a lay? Hell, why not both? Like the old milonguero lusting after the young woman, she, too, has a fantasy of "ponerse de novia con ese pibe" (to become the girlfriend of the young man), or to at least, "echarse un polvo" (to have an orgasm). Some women even frequent "pibe paradises" such as La Viruta, where the dance level seriously blows, but where she can seduce a younger man with her dancing and her readiness to throw down.

Then there are people like me, both foreigners and locals, who aren't really milongueras or milongueros because we don't get entangled in the tango intrigue, though our passion for the dance is the same. We enjoy and love the tango and the milonga for what it is: a hobby, a sublime diversion, a metaphor for life, but NOT a life.

2007-07-25T20:12:00.000-03:00

JUNGLE LOVE

You met him. His dancing made you swoon. You made him laugh, and he loved your embrace. And soon, you started doing a little mattress dancing. Against all milonga odds, both of you are STILL together. How do you do it?

I've asked several long-term, happily hooked-up couples recently their secret to keeping love alive in the milonga, a "den of scum and villainy" (any original Star Wars fans out there?) where, it just so happens, your little honeybun met you!

One rather flirty man, coupled still after 25 years, stated that whatever happens in the milonga STAYS in the milonga. His wife enjoys watching him dance with women who dance well and vice versa. He enjoys dancing because he can enjoy a fantasy for a few minutes with one of his favorite partners, but he makes it clear that things stay completely platonic, that there are boundaries he doesn't cross.

Another happily comprometido (hooked-up, involved) man explained that the milonga holds the same temptation as any other ambiance. True, I said, but any other ambiance wouldn't include my being in someone's embrace. Plus, I don't recall ever pressing my cheek and breasts against my male co-workers for 10-12 minutes. This is NOT like the real world, which makes the milonga all the more alluring. However, I agree that the temptation and opportunities exist everywhere you go. (On a few occasions, men have tried to pick me up in church, the most un-milonga place one could imagine.) The point is, "What do you do with this sexual tension?"

"You just play stupid," he replied. It's natural that one's instinctual, base animal nature should awaken (schwing!) when one is in the arms of someone attractive, smells good, dresses really nicely, dances like a dream, and...excuse me...let me take a quick cold shower...but after the song is over, so is the magic.

Part of what makes the milonga so attractive is that one can enjoy the fantasy without sacrificing reality. The trick is not having this space collapse into either side. Trying to prolong the fantasy by taking it off the dance floor is a dangerous proposition, as oftentimes, under florescent lights or in the daylight, your dance god may turn out to be from hell.

Every couple has its own implicit or explicit rules. Even couples who swap partners have boundaries, (not that I write from personal experience). For example, if one partner starts to feel uncomfortable, the deal is off. Rules, limits, boundaries: these help to provide a container for the relationship. They help the partners feel respected and relatively emotionally safe.

Even tango couples who have broken up have rules. Sometimes they split up their usual milongas. You take Canning on Sundays. I take El Beso on Tuesdays. It prevents any awkwardness one may feel while watching one's ex "trabajando" (literally, working, or on the prowl) at the milonga.

Some couples prefer to sit and dance together for the whole milonga. In this case, it would be a definite faux pas to look at the man for a dance. However, should you notice that both partners dance with other people , you can feel free to look at the man.

The TG and her male consort have established their own tango rules. We have the option of dancing with whomever we wish, however 1) no dancing with anyone for more than one tanda, except for each other; and 2) we can request an embargo on dances with a particular tango partner. Let me clarify that we are both rabid about our independence, but, the notion of independence within the context of a committed relationship needs to be a little more flexible. After all, you are supposed to be sharing a life with someone.

These rules we have established don't make either of us feel trapped or controlled. Quite the contrary, they prevent milonga drama from occurring and allows us the freedom to enjoy the milonga and the tango fantasy without having to "controlar" what the other person is doing with someone else. He knows I'm not trying to pick up every Tomás, Ricardo, or...uh...Harry whom I embrace, so he can fully enjoy being with his partners, and vice versa.

He likes to say that he enjoys dancing with other women, but, at the end of the night, he is picked up and taken home by the one he likes the most. In short, the tango and the milonga keep the flames o' desire a-burnin'. We get to seduce each other again.

2007-07-25T08:35:00.000-03:00

A MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: July 25, 2007
Restaurant: Te Mataré, Ramirez
Address: Paraguay 4062/Primera Junta 702 (San Isidro)
Tel: 4831-9156/4747-8618 (San Isidro)

When my darlin' BF was courting me (read: trying to get into my knickers), he wined and dined me after the milonga at proper restaurants for proper ladies of proper breeding, you know, places with the low lighting, tasteful background music, excellent wine lists, good reviews. Once we, ahem, moved on to "dessert" and the "cheese platter" and the "coffee", he started taking me to places like Te Mataré, Ramirez, "an exquisite banquet for the imagination, for hedonism and the exigent palates," where you can suck "lomo" (beef) juice off your partner's fingers as you watch a few actors perform erotic scenes (fully clothed, of course).

This restaurant is a haven for dirty minds. The decor murmurs "elegant bordello" with very dim lighting, sperm-shaped salt shakers on the tables, and suggestive photos on the wall. If you just can't keep your hands off your little tango alfajorcito, you can indulge in a little foreplay with footplay under the table, thoughtfully covered with an oversized tablecloth for discretion and privacy.

Reading the menu is meant to be an erotic experience, as well. From start to finish, the dishes are sure to get you hot and bothered. Just check out the name of this entrada (appetizer): Me Entrego Sumiso al Asalto de tus Pechos (I humbly submit myself to the assault of your breasts.) aka risotto-filled, erect chipirones" (squid or calamare, I think). This appetizer was a little on the small and salty side. For my principal (main course), I ordered the "Pecaminoso colita de cuadril" (sinful cut of meat - still can't get my cuts of meat down in Spanish) a punto (pink), but it came well done, I mean, dead, and slightly charred, to my disappoinment and to my boyfriend's taste. He ended up eating my leftovers. The little eggrolls on the side were cold and just sad. He chose "creamy and voluptuous" risotto nestled in an edible bowl, which he said was "pretty good". No other comment besides that, so I'm guessing that it was average. I have to say that I was rather disappointed with the food this visit. Things didn't weren't as succulent or tasty. Perhaps we'll just have to come here for dessert, wine, and a little canoodling under the table.

We didn't stick around for the show this time around, but we saw one of their productions last year in the San Isidro location, I must tip my hat to the actors who have the...er...balls to do this gig, because what I saw was over-the-top. It was more blatant sex, than sexy. More sensational, than sensual. A lot of groaning and talk about "culos" (asses). I guess the owners forgot about the brain being the biggest sex organ because there was no subtlety, no suggestion, which, for me, is the sexiest part of sex. In a media censorship class I had for my undergrad degree, we watched a close-up of two hands slowly unpeeling an orange. My classmates and I were embarrassed to admit that this clip was a lot hotter than watching the well-endowed John Holmes grunting and grinding his way to porn superstardom (Sigh! I loved that class.). It's all in the presentation. So, although the food was decent in the San Isidro location, I didn't leave with that satisfied, spent, light-me-up-a-ciggie feeling I should have had if the show had done its job. Then again, I guess that's up to you to remedy when you go home with your sweetie, you naughty girl.

Atmosphere: SSSSSexy and SSSSSSensual. Some of the shows can be rather "fuerte" for some tastes, almost bordering on audio-porn, so call ahead to find out what's on stage.

Service: Average

Total damage: Dinner for two with wine and water: 171 peso, and me love you long time. Kind of pricey. If you are a card carrying socio of La Nacion newspaper, you can get 20% off your tab at this restaurant. Check out La Nacion's website for details on other restaurants and businesses with this offer.

Overall: Perfect for awakening horniness, but not for sating hunger. I'd be up for trying this again for dessert after a milonga.

2007-07-21T08:29:00.000-03:00

A MILONGA IN DA HOOD

Looking for a milonga that's long on local color and character and short on pretention? I'd recommend going to the Centro Cultural Tato Bores located on Soler between Vidt and Salguero on the 3rd Friday of every month. There's no exchange of currency at the door, no coat check, no dueño showing you to your seat. In fact, there's also no wood floor, no champagne, and you have to get the soft drinks and empanadas your own damn self, but that just adds to the "casera" (homemade) charm. Given its location in auditorium/cafeteria of a local elementary school, and taped signs on the wall instructing kids to raise their hand if they want something, the milonga has that casual "community center" feel that I've always loved. All that's missing is the processed-cheese-cafeteria food smell.

Before you turn up your nose thinking that you're too much of a slickster tango dancer to set any part of your 3-inch heel-clad foot through the doors of a slightly delapidated elementary school to dance with dressed-down no-namers, I'd say that this is a great opportunity to let your hair down, take off your control-top pantyhose, and witness tango maybe at its purest: in the community, with normal people of all ages who love the dance, and who aren't so concerned about making an impression.

Of course, being populated with dancers who aren't so concerned about making an impression does lend itself to some wildly varying "niveles de baile" (dance levels), mostly leaning toward the average, below average, and just-starting-out. However, I have never had so much fun, nor felt so comfortable and so relaxed at a milonga, maybe because the codes seemed more flexible here; or maybe because IT DIDN'T FEEL LIKE WORK, as in "working" the outfit and the hair, "working" the room with the eye contact. In fact, I would have been perfectly happy to chill out and watch, as I sat all bundled up in my bulky sweater, pants, and winter coat, but, hey, a milonga is a milongo, and I had my tango shoes on. One man, a friend of mine, asked me directly. Then my boyfriend invited another guy we had just met, who was sitting at our 8-top round table with his wife/partner, to dance with me. The rest of the time was spent getting to know people at the table, a rare occurence in a regular milonga.

Néstor La Vitola and Mónica Paz, both teachers here, suggested arriving between 9:00 and 9:15 p.m. to get a seat at one of the 9 or 10 tables. By 9:30, the place is usually packed to the gills.

This milonga is part of a the governement-sponsored and subsidized project called ProgramaCultural en Barrios, and is just one of the many cultural activities offered by the Ministerio de Cultura around town. This locale offers classes in everything from percussion to theater games to screenwriting, many of which are free-a-licious, always a bonus for a thrifty milonguera who needs to save her stash for aguas con gas at the milonga and another pair of shoes.

2007-07-18T10:17:00.001-03:00

CHATTIN' UP...Néstor La Vitola, Milonguero and Tango Teacher (and overall nice guy)

You've probably seen a tall, bald guy in El Beso's "Lujos" on Thursday nights or Saturday nights at Cachirulo on Saturday nights, but he would not have made much of an impression just sitting there, usually with his arms crossed across his chest, and watching the dancers as he takes sips from his glass of soda. He does not dance very often because "I only dance with the people I like dancing with," and, it turns out, there are only a handful who rate a tanda with him. After working in his regular job and then teaching tango a few nights a week, he prefers to choose partners who make dancing a pleasure rather than a chore. I'd wager, though, that he would make many a tangueras' night if he took a few more spins on the floor. The man dances like buttah, providing an all-too-brief respite from the real world, AND he's a gentleman! Bonus!

Recently, I took advantage of my budding friendship with Néstor, or "el gordo pelado" (the bald, chubby guy) as my BF calls him affectionately, by bribing him with FREE pizza and blog notoriety in exchange for some of his thoughts on the tango. Free food and a chance to talk about tango for a bit? I had him in the bag.

I asked him first about the abrazo (the embrace). What exactly is a "lindo abrazo"? Women hear it from guys all the time. Guys exchange notes on who has one and who doesn't. Néstor likens a good abrazo to what one experiences when hugging a good friend; it is an affectionate "entrega del cuerpo al otro" (the delivering over or surrendering of one's body to another). This gesture may come in many forms in tango, whether slung across his shoulder, wrapped across his back and placed firmly on or near where a woman's bra-overhang would be located, or in the middle of his back, laying gently upon his spine. Wherever the arm goes, it's all good, as long as he feels the woman giving herself over to him as her partner and the music, and as long as she is on her "eje" or axis, the imaginary line that stretches from the metatarsus through the top of the head.

The tango, he continues, is the melding of two bodies into one, "a little work of art." In general, he dances for pleasure, to the orchestras he likes, and with sole intention of enjoying himself as part of a tango couple. The need to "mostrarse" (put oneself on display or show oneself) is minimal, his dancing inspired from what springs from the inside, rather than influenced by what may or may not look good on the outside. His tango, from "afuera" (on or from the outside) appears deceptively simple, but his partners FEEL peace, excitement, warmth, protection, caring. It's delicious, intoxicating, and one notices oneself forgetting everything in his embrace. Given his connection with the music, he describes humbly his dancing as just doing what he does, without regard for steps or technique. In fact, if one asked him about a step he performed recently, he wouldn't be able to tell you, because he creates steps in the moment and forgets them.

He remembers tango being present everywhere and in everything when he was growing up. Hailing from "humble roots", he recalls sneaking into theaters or confiterias (cafés) with his friends to watch and listen to orchestras play by asking people leaving for cigarettes or for the night for their contraseñas, the entrance tickets allowing audience members to come and go as they please. Saturday nights were spent listening to a tango show on the radio with his family. His parents also met through the tango, and when he was 13, he joined his parents in their local milonga. These memories helped cultivate and inform his unique interpretation of the tango and the dance. He says, "One receives the feeling of the music. These are related to life experiences."

Years ago, an Argentine in D.C. say to me that a foreigner could never dance the tango. The tango, he said, is a lightpost, a barrio, all the specifics and the shadows of memories of a culture and family that are porteñan. I never forgot what this man said, mostly because being told, "You can't" forces me to do everything in my power to prove his or her assertion wrong. So, I asked Nestor, "Do we feel the music the same way? I am not an Argentine, and I did not live the same experiences as you." He answered, "It depends on each person's story." He paused and added, "You're very close to capturing that feeling."

I couldn't help but feel like Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs, looking like an elegantly-dressed rube in not-so-cheap Comme Il Faut shoes. "Quid pro quo, Dr. Lechter!"

Nothing. No more explanation. I guessed that "capturing" this feeling depends on living my experiences and creating more memories. "You fly back to tango class now, Claaaarice. Fly, fly, fly...fly, fly, fly..."

There are many things one can feel from a women when dancing with her, he notes. However, while many extranjeros (foreigners) dance well technically, "I don't feel anything from them." They perform "pasos vacios" (empty steps), and one "cannot feel alone [dancing tango]. The feeling [generated] by the music is the most important aspect of the tango." Asked for his "orquestras preferidas" (favorite orchestras), he answered, "I like the more melodical orchestras; Calo, Di Sarli, Puliese. I find them inspirational and exciting." My personal faves, too.

Now, the dirt: In general, Néstor dances only for the pleasure of dancing and RARELY eroticizes the dance. Yeah, but, come on, now. Does he ever use the tango to get lucky? He answers frankly, "If I like her, I will use it to seduce her." "Oooooh," I thought, "slickster milonguero secrets!" If my BF, a self-professed "machito" (macho man - howls of laughter from me) calls his friend "muy seductor," I HAD to find out his secrets of milonguero seduction. "I may," he divulged, "use a closer embrace. I may play with her hands a little bit, perhaps touch her neck, but I will only do this if I'm getting a vibe from her." Whatta guy!

Néstor is available for individual lessons or group classes with Mónica Paz, a beautiful and statuesque Argentine tango dancer and teacher with years of experience in her own right and legs just about as long as I am tall. Both also provide lessons solo, so contact them directly for information. You can find out more about Néstor and Mónica on their cool website: www.tangopormilongueros.com.

2007-07-15T09:50:00.000-03:00

CHATTIN' UP...Hector of Cachirulo on Milonga Seating Strategy

444 Maipu. Saturday night at Cachirulo, one of the best nights of tango in Buenos Aires. The tables are about 3/4 empty when we arrive at 6:30 p.m., our usual time, and there are a few couples taking advantage of the free space on the dance floor. The red curtain opens and closes, regulars and tourists, couples and singles come through and wait as Norma, the benevolent "anfitriona" (female host) exchanges the entrance ticket for a raffle ticket. Up for grabs in a few hours is the usual bottle of champagne. We don't stick around for that, as 9:00 p.m. is dinnertime for both of us (and goddess help the person that comes between me and my hungry stomach). Still, we manage to pack in our tangos, milongas, and valses with our usual clientele in a short amount of time. We're efficient that way.

Hector, always elegant in a suit and tie, his few strands of gray hair in place, greets us with arms outstretched, and he tells my partner to sit in his usual seat in the primera fila. Then he takes me by the hand and leads me to my seat in the primera fila, a few seats to the left of center. I had a seat right smack in the middle of the row for a long while, but, because the smoke from my neighbor was killing me, I requested a seat next to the non-smoking ladies a little farther down the row. Thankfully, it hasn't affected my dancing at all, as I'm still sought out. Now that the non-smoking ban is in effect, a move back to my original seat could be in the works, but then I would miss talking to my neighbors, which is part of the fun, so I may just stay where I am. Whichever spot I choose, though, that spot will be my regular seat. I will be able to count on that seat having my name written all over it even BEFORE I arrive. It's MINE, MY PRECIOUS...

I asked Hector about his organizational strategy, if, indeed, he had a strategy, as the seating arrangement causes a lot of consternation among many dancers, both Argentine and non-Argentine. A few Saturdays ago, I witnessed a tall blond woman, who was obviously not a local or Argentine, tell Hector that she didn't want to sit in the back. She wanted a seat in the primera fila, anywhere up front where she could be seen. Another woman I know would not pay the entrance fee unless she knew where she was going to be seated first. What gives, Hectorcito? Give a lady a good seat, will ya?

Oh, if it were only that simple, dear grasshopper...

Listen, he said, the primeras filas are reserved for A) those local regulars, who keep the food on the table YEAR-ROUND, and not for tourists who come in for a few weeks or months at a time; and B) those local regulars and regular foreign visitors who dance well. Those who fall in the second category include two fabulous Italian women who come here for 2-3 month dance stints, who come faithfully every Saturday during their stays, and who are very popular with the gentlemen.

He admits that that there are local regulars in these coveted seats who don't dance as well as some of the tourists, but they are at his milonga every Saturday night, don't cause any fuss, and are also popular with the milongueros. Then he pointed out another regular visitor from Italy, fresh off the plane and sitting one row back from the front row of seats. He said, "That woman dances very well, but I had to put her there because the women who usually sit in the front row will get angry and not come back if I give away their chairs." When those who have permanent seats leave, like my partner and I, Hector has them already reserved for those who come in with the second wave of dancers between 9:30-10:30-ish.

But what about the extranjeros/as who live here and who are STILL given crappy "ubicaciones" (locations, or, in this context, seats)? Well, that has more to do with the quality of their dancing than anything else. Frankly, they may just not make the grade. I use myself as an example. I used to get so frustrated with the seating politics. I was an OK dancer, AND I was young and pretty cute, for chrissake. That had to count for something. However, I found that I had to earn my spot by working on my dance, which was humbling. And they watched me improve, and with that improvement came my seat.

And they are probably watching you, too. I see Norma watching people's feet all the time at Cachirulo. It's sort of unnerving when you catch her doing it, but I understand now why she does it. Hector goes to El Beso on Thursday nights, not only for the ambiance, but also to watch the dancers, many of whom will be going to his milonga.

As I said in one of my first messages, it's about the bottom line. Popular male and female dancers draw more male and female dancers which, therefore, brings home the bacon. Mmmm...I love to hear that bacon sizzlin' myself, so one can hardly blame him.

The worst thing a woman can do when she is given a seat that's not to her liking is to get pissed off. At the very least, ask calmly and and respectfully, if there is any way the host would consider giving you a better seat. If he or she will not relent, then accept what is given to you, or leave (This second option will probably do more harm than good, by the way.) If you accept what is given to you week after week, month after month, and you take classes to improve your technique, and, still, the dancing gods do not bestow upon you the place which you feel you deserve and/or a night filled with wonderful tandas, then perhaps you should consider that this particular milonga is not for you. Perhaps the level of dancing is just too high for you at the moment, and you need to reconsider other milongas where the dance level will allow you to dance and have a good time...which is the whole point of coming here in the first place, right? Why be miserable?

Think about Darwin's survival of the fittest. The baddest-ass animal is going to get the first and the biggest bite. Cachirulo is a place where good dancers from all over the world, who care about the dance and not just steps, go to dance with good dancers who care about the same thing. This milonga is VERY difficult to break into for the average-to-below-than-average dancer who comes into town once a year and who is relatively unknown. It is even more difficult for the aforementioned dancer to break in if he or she is unattractive. BUT it would be a VERY good opportunity for a dancer to sit and watch the dancers, which is an education and a pleasure in itself. I learned a lot this way: feet placement, abrazo (embrace) styles, embellishments.

Please keep in mind that the seating arrangement you see at Cachirulo will probably be different from the arrangement at Canning, or El Beso, or La Viruta (Thanks, Elizabeth.). Each dueno (pronounced duenyo...can't figure out how to get the little doohickie that goes over "n") has his or her own criteria. So, as the Good Book says, the first will be last, the last will be first depending upon the milonga.

And that, my friends, is the law of a jungle called Cachirulo.

2007-07-13T12:26:00.000-03:00

WEIGHT AND THE MILOGUERA: PART III

OK, so if it seems like I'm all over the place on this issue, it's because I'm struggling to understand the influence of THIS culture upon my body and my person, and I will probably grapple with these issues for a long while.

This is such a pressing issue for me for several reasons:

As a practicing psychotherapist, I have seen and continue to see women with body image distortions all the time, whether culturally-based or originating in childhood abuse, for example. I am driven to read and continue to deepen my understanding of why these distortions are so prevalent. Men have body distortions, too, but I think women have more at stake. Women are so identified with the body - childbearing, menstruation, breasts - but, I believe, from my tiny experience in Buenos Aires, women are so much more identified with the body HERE, or maybe I've just become super sensitive to how women are perceived. Good god, just turn on local TV and flip through Gente or some other celebrity-watching magazine, and you'll see what I mean.

My beef is not with the idea of having surgery; rather, it is with reasons WHY people go so willingly and with great enthusiasm under the knife. What is the ideal one tries to live up to? Our own ideal? But what exactly influences our image or images of the ideal? Most people want to look like someone else (yes, I'll have Julia's lips, Jennifer's hair, etc.) which may explain the reason why many people with plastic surgery end up looking the same to me.

BUT, if it makes one look and feel better, people say (including me), why the heck not? Everyone should have the freedom should do what they want with their bodies. True. I really DO believe this, though it may not sound like it. I have even been planning my future boob lift, doing a test-run in front of the bathroom mirror by shifting upward the skin above my breasts and gazing upon temporarily perky boobage. Then I think, geez louise, breasts are SUPPOSED to make their slow journey toward our knees as time goes by. But then I see Nacha Guevara in a local production of "The Graduate" with 25 year old boobs on her 60-ish year old body, and it makes me go hmmmm.... Something else that makes me go hmmmm is a Southeast Asian woman dying her hair blond and getting blue contacts (I have seen it. Life in L.A.), but WHY pick blond hair and blue eyes? Perhaps to seem more exotic than her normal Southeast Asian self by turning herself into a Eurasian? Freedom of choice? Do we really have a choice? If you CAN do it and WANT to do it, they why not? Would a white Argentine go have nose surgery to have a flatter, more "indigeno", nose like mine? If not, WHY not? I really don't know the answers, but I'm asking the questions...and I think the questions are just as complex and loaded as are the answers.

I also struggle with my own exoticism here. It's a label that the Argentines have given me. EXOTIC...not necessarily pretty or beautiful, but exotic. What does that mean? Exotic like...like...a new plant species found on a recently discovered, uninhabited island? Like one of those women in a Gaugin painting? Beautiful, yet silently hanging on a wall? Exotic like one of those wierd colored dogs their creating in Japan? To me, this word smacks of different, other, "them" and not "us", a curiosity, a novelty-again something to be observed.

Then there's my shape. Well, I have short legs, an average sized bosom and don't really have a small waist, but here I am in pilates in mad pursuit of one. I consider myself an intelligent, discerning individual, not prone to give into cultural pressures, but I have inadvertently and inevitably, so it seems, been sucked in. What I do in response, once I snap out of my urge to fit in, is to open my closet to look at my crazy collection of vintage clothing from thrift shop days in the U.S. and tell my hairstylist to cut my hair really short. I become, once again, unabashedly, different, but in an organic way, in a manner which originates in me and not the culture. And then I feel great, whip up some peanut butter cookies, and go dance.

All of this has sort of made me re-evaluate and explore my own idea of femininity and what it means to be a woman. North Americans, for example, are not feminine, from the comments I have collected from Argentine men. We are too opinionated, too ready go after what we want, too independent, and too eager to EAT. I have heard from more than one Argentine woman that she doesn't eat at all or she eats very little, and they say it with pride. When I say I love to eat, they look at me like I have 3 heads. You mean, you don't have a salad for lunch?! What do you mean you eat those little cookie things that come with your coffee?!

Here's an interesting anecdote I heard from a North American male friend/tourist in Buenos Aires: He goes to the gym to work out and comments to an Argentine friend who is also working out there that the women are so slim in this country. The Argentine says it's because they don't eat, but, unfortunately, they're always in a bad mood. My friend asks which would he rather have: a slim woman who doesn't eat and is in a bad mood, or someone in a good mood, eats, and is not slim. Well, hands down the answer was a slim woman who doesn't eat and is in a bad mood.

I guess it's different for me, having lived here for a little over 2 years straight. In general, I don't hear all this from women who come here for tango fixes for weeks or several months, but, living here, moving around in the culture and listening to Argentines, I definitely think that the collective psyche, if you want to call it that, has more of an opportunity to impress powerful images and beliefs upon you. Perhaps I was more immune to it in the States because of my social group, a bunch of iconoclastic, outside-the-box thinkers, so these were non-issues for me. But move a person to a place where one just starting to form a social group, or, as a friend of mine put it, looking for one's tribe, where even WORDS have gender and gender roles are more clearly delineated (with tango, it becomes a little messier, and I'll be writing about this in the future), and I think one becomes a little bit more sensitive to this type of bombardment.

This is now THE END of Weight and the Milonguera, thankyouverymuch, but feel free to continue commenting.

2007-07-09T21:59:00.000-03:00

WEIGHT AND THE MILONGUERA: PART II

Did I say something in my last blog entry about taking care of oneself? OK, OK, I completely let myself go this holiday weekend (July 9=Dia de Independencia) enduring the Patagonian winter weather in Bariloche, Argentina. Didn't dance tango at all, but froze my ass off and compensated for all the calories my body burned struggling to keep warm by relishing some killer hot chocolate at the confiteria in Del Turista, one of the biggest producers of chocolate in the area. LOVED IT!

And tomorrow...I pay...and the next day...and the next day....

Thanks so much to all who commented on my last blog entry on weight, and still others who commented about men and the milonga and about my strange obsession with cleanliness. It's so nice to know someone out there is reading my musings! I feel the love...

I just started reading Susan Bordo's collection of essays on the body, culture, and feminism called "Unbearable Weight," the perfect book for living in beauty and youth-obsessed Buenos Aires and for our theme on weight and the milonguera. Reading it has given me more food for thought.

I was involved in the theater and the art modeling world for a bit while I was still in the States. In both venues, as an actor and nude figure model, I was to be looked at. The audience or class saw every my dimpled thighs, my protruding belly when I was PMSing or not, my slightly sagging 30-something breasts, but never once did I feel as on display and objectified as I do here in Buenos Aires and, specifically, in the milongas. Isn't it strange that I should feel more self-conscious dancing with clothes on than contorting my naked body on the model stand? I can't even think about putting on a bikini here without grabbing a sarong to wrap around myself. At the pool, I try to figure out the best way to untie my sarong and get into the pool 2 feet away without exposing my belly. What is the deal?!?!? I have become a neurotic Argentine.

This transformation happened slowly. At 5 foot 3 and 1/2, I used to weigh a healthy 123 when I arrived 2 years ago. I worked out but didn't kill myself at the gym, ate healthily, but people still described me as "gordita" or slightly plump or fleshy. I never heard this from my theater friends or from artists back home. I just heard that I was beautiful, and I believed them. I even FELT beautiful, empowered, womanly.

Currently at 115, milonga people tell me that I'm "mas linda" now that I've lost weight, but I feel that have become a slave to the scale, a slave to 1/2 portions of everything, a slave to the damn mirror. Eating one medialuna has become like committing some mortal sin which must have its corresponding penance at the gym. Having dessert after a meal is to be restricted to only special occasions. Honestly, I'm the same size, but, as I wrote in my last entry, I rearranged the furniture a bit thanks to thrice weekly pilates sessions and 1/2 portions. Do I like myself with my new bod? To tell you the truth, yes. Working on my core, which one of you mentioned, I have now begun to see tiny, microscopic rips in my abdominal area. My thighs are really strong now, and I have better posture. It's rather nice. It's an accomplishment. So, yes, I do like myself and my new bod, which is a good thing. Do I like myself better? Not necessarily, as my new proportions have now forced upon me the responsibility and pressure of maintaining all this, which I accept, but, honest to god, sometimes I wonder if its worth it and why the hell I'm doing this (besides the obvious health aspects and the trickle-down benefits for my dancing).

I believe part of it is my wanting to fit into my new country, which is especially difficult for me since a) I look nothing like your typical North American person - aka - any of the Friends castmembers (I am Asian of the Filipino variety. Do they know where the Philippines is? No. As far as they know and care, it might as well be a small country attached at the hip to China. And how many people of color have appeared on Friends?); and b) I don't look portenan. So, if I am not identified with North America or the Philippines or Argentina, then with which cultural group do they identify me? I'm sort of the odd-ball person that says she's North American, but really she's got slanted eyes, so we'll just call her Chinese or Japanese or Korean. They're all in the same part of the world anyway.

Filipinos have a different body type. We are, in general, shortish and roundish. I happen to like my short, roundish brown body. I find it sensual, but compare me to a thin portenan, and I might as well be called overweight. I also refuse to grow my hair, which, to the dismay of my hair stylist, I have cut every 3 weeks within an inch of its life. He tells me every month that I need to little wisps on my neck, but I find them incredibly annoying because they grow out within a few days of being cut. According to him, my haircut, sliced and diced and sometimes standing on end, does not reflect the Argentine idea of femininity here, which is basically long. But these women end up looking the same to me. Their bodies look the same; their hair looks the same; their clothes look the same. No one stands out. To me, I don't see beauty; I see generica...except for maybe Moira Casan and Susana Gimenez, whom I see as examples of a new species of humanoid - part flesh, part botox, part silicon - both Argentine celebrities and obvious "hinchas" (fans) of the surgical knife.

Perhaps, I have been trained to see "beautiful" and "sexy" in another way. I love form, in all its shapes and sizes. Alberto Giacometti's pencil-thin figurative sculptures are quite striking and hauntingly beautiful, but I love the roundness of Botero's painted figures. Watch me in Crate and Barrel, and I gravitate toward roundish vases. I find round absolutely beautiful, and I don't think round necessarily means un-fit. I have overheard Argentine men say, "Oh, she's not pretty, but at least she's thin." Thin. Does thin mean healthy? Not necessarily. Thin means, well, thin with no noticable pockets or ripples of fat. Does thin make for a better dancer? Not necessarily. A thin woman who is not in physical condition can drag a man down just as much as an overweight woman can. Worse, a thin woman can feel absolutely weightless, in the negative sense that there's nothing there, no substance, no body. And what's tango without body?

I think Geraldine, a fabulous tango dancer whose last name escapes me, has a banging body. Not thin by any stretch of the imagination, but exuberantly curvy. (Thanks to the reader who mentioned her name in her comment!). But, while watching her dance one night a few years ago, an old milonguero and master teacher told me, "Baila bien, pero, ojo, no es flaca" (She dances well, but notice she isn't skinny). Wouldn't it have sufficed to have mentioned that she dances well? Why throw in the "flaca" business?

And look at our beautiful older actresses: Helen Mirren (Good god, she looked hot at the Academy Awards. She has got it ALL going on.), Diane Keaton, Meryl Streep. These are positively radiant, physically beautiful, and NOT FLACA! And the best part is that they're not trying to squeeze themselves into tiny Spandex or Lycra strangely-cut contraptions like some of the milongueras do here. What is THAT all about? I'm not saying that a 50 year old shouldn't rock a minidress, but not one that makes one look like she is trying to recapture the glory days of her youth. It becomes something sad, even tragic.

As I said in my last entry, each person should whip their body into its best shape, not the shape dictated by milongueros, or magazine ads, or cultures. I am, while still roundish and shortish, close to excellent shape for my body-type.
Sure, I have my trouble spots, but throw on a sleek black dress and some cute dance shoes, and I am good to go. I think sexy radiates from the confidence in knowing one's body enough to accentuate the positives and gloss over the slightly- less-than-positive. It comes from an ability to accept one's physical limitations, working with what one has right now, and being able to carry everything onto the dance floor of life with dignity and integrity.

2007-07-02T20:59:00.000-03:00

WEIGHT AND THE MILONGUERA: The Good, The Bad, and The Fugly

OK, so did I have problems with my weight before I came to Buenos Aires? No. Did I have a problem with body image before deciding to live here? No more than the usual neuroses women have. Fast forward a few medialunas, plates o' pasta and "damn, people, don't Argentine women have hips?" later, and you've got yourself a weight and body obsession. How I long for the days when "Rubenesque" and cellulite were in style and accepted, when it was a GOOD thing for women to be, as Missy Elliot says, "big bone-ded". It meant you ATE. It meant you had money in the bank to feed yourself and your family.

So, is the Tango Goddess going to go off on a socio-economic rant? No, I'm talking about weight, people. I'm talking about poundage, kilitos, as Argentines say. It's pretty well-known that Argentine women are obsessed with their weight and how they look in general, which is cool. It's nice to take pride in oneself. The TG, herself, likes to groom, but, damn, those oversized sweats and flan look good sometimes.

I, thankfully, do not have a weight problem, but, you know, it takes effort now to maintain my weight now that I'm getting older. Like most women, I battle with those stubborn 2-3 pounds that give me that (loveable) muffin top when I wear my jeans. However, deciding to live in a society that is SO self-conscious (and I have lived LA and the DC area, so I KNOW self-consciousness), has turned my battle into a war (must be all the damn therapists here talking about making the unconscious conscious).

Now, what does weight have to do with the milonga? With tango? EVERYTHING, I have discovered. First of all, everyone--both men and women--are looking, studying, observing you the moment you walk into the milonga. They are looking at what you wear. Is your stomach hanging out? Are you busting out of your Lycra/Spandex dress? Got a new butt-lift? The milonga is a sensual world, and that means you are on display. You are to be looked at. And, hey, let's be real...you're doing some looking yourself, aren'tcha?

Along with the emphasis on the visual, the milonga also emphasizes the kinesthetic. How do you move? How do you feel? You are overweight? You will most likely not be invited to dance if the milongueros do not know you and your dance. You have a body that is "cylindrical," meaning you don't have a waist? Dancing with you will be called a "mudanza" (moving a house). You're feeling puffy from the water weight before your period? Been eating too much asado? Your partner will feel it, too. You don't have energy to support your own weight because you don't work out? Your partner will be hating life supporting your weight during the tanda. I have heard these lines used by milongueros to describe women in the milonga, including me! I once told my dance teacher that I was about to get my period, and he groaned and said, "It's going to be a very difficult lesson." They notice when you've lost or gained a few kilos, and they have no qualms about telling you. It's harsh, man, and I absolutely hate it. Why can't we appreciate inner beauty? Haven't they seen those Dove "real beauty" campaigns?

Unfortunately, in life, it's all about the outer package, and no one can avoid making automatic rash judgements based on the sensual. Sure, you get to know someone and then realize what a fantastic individual that person is, but how much time does one spend in deep conversation on the dance floor? In one of my many arguments with milongueros about this weight theme, one will inevitably bring up the fact that I, too, have my wierd prejudices. For example, I absolutely cannot stand guys with doughy-sweaty palms. It's just gross. It's like sticking your hand in, well, skanky, sweaty dough. I also have a thing about really thin guys. I mean, what do I hold on to? Yes, it is a fact that the woman should not rely on the man completely to sustain her, but, still, I like to hang on to a little meat. It gives me a sense of containment and security (calling Dr. Freud).

Tango is, indeed, a very physical dance. There is very little between you and your partner's flesh. You feel his body. You feel his bones or belly, the 5 o-clock shadow he didn't bother to shave, his hands, his chest, and, yes, sometimes, his trouser snake. When he puts his arm around you, he feels every inch of you. That little bra overhang, the pleasant squishiness of your waist, the softness or roughness of your hand, the silicone breast implants you got 8 years ago that have hardened to cement, your weight. EVERYTHING.

That weight has an effect on his dancing which, in turn, has an effect on the dance you share with him, which, in turn, has an effect on you. I am not proposing everyone should be walking around like Kate Moss clones, god forbid. I am suggesting, however, that women take more responsibility for 1) their own dance and 2) their own bodies. Do yourself a favor and whip your body into it's best shape for yourself and for the sake of your own dance, your own life. Dancers train because it makes their dance better. Their muscles are supple. They have more stamina. They radiate energy and good health. And, yeah, sometimes, they lose weight. Sometimes, like me, they just redistribute their weight, rearrange the furniture a little bit. Skim off a little belly here; add a little booty there.

Dancers don't depend on their partners to make them dance, but dance WITH their partners, adding their own unique signature to the tanda they share. Tango has EVERYTHING to do with the physical and sensual, with how one takes care of and carries oneself. And THAT is beautiful, baby.

2007-06-29T17:07:00.000-03:00

TANGO BURN-OUT: Sometimes A Goddess Just Has to Chill

Thursday night is our usual tango night at El Beso. I get gussied up for a few whirls around on the dance floor and then dinner. Last night, I just wasn't feeling the urge to go through the whole production process...and it IS a production. After all, the Goddess is a GodDESS. Why, even Aphrodite had to bathe and perfume herself before she went on the hunt for an unsuspecting mortal lover. I'm not on the prowl, as I am happily hooked-up, but, still, I don't want to look like I've just rolled off the pilates mat all smelly and hair askew.

I wonder what the deal is with these occasional breaks I need to take. Sometimes, the milonga scene is just too much too take. After all the beautification, (which, hell, doesn't take THAT long, and, usually, I really enjoy the primping and preening), I feel as if I have to go to work. I mean, I never liked the whole pick-up bar scene anyway, and when I went dancing, it was usually with a bunch of girls I ended up dancing with the whole night. In the milonga, I have to sit and wait, follow the codes to get a dance invite, not be too eager or look like I'm too bored, look good, AND dance well. Then there's the gossiping, the pettiness, and cattiness that get on my last raw nerve. Sometimes, it's just too much work and bad ju-ju, and I'd much rather spend my time in my jammies watching King of The Hill...which I do every so often.

It is VITAL for people to have a life outside of the milonga, or you will wither away until you look like one of those old, hard-core milongueros who have nothing BUT the milonga. And, really, how interesting are they outside of the milonga? Have you spoken to one lately? They're not really that much more interesting during the milongas. Take a Spanish class; work out; take a non-tango dance class; travel outside of Buenos Aires; check out some museums; take in some theatre; meet non-tango people for cultural exchange talks over coffee. There is so much more to life than the milonga. Just check out the BA Herald or any one of the number of on-line BA resources. I knew that if I wanted to survive here and feel like a normal person, I would have to find other things to do with my time than dance. I'm glad I did.

Going to the milonga is a bi-weekly ritual my partner and I enjoy, but I also relish occasional breaks from the scene. After a week or so away from the milonga, absence makes my heart grow fonder, and I usually can't wait to go back. That's a nice feeling to have after 10 years of dancing.

2007-06-27T15:03:00.000-03:00

MILONGA CODES LEARNED THE HARD WAY: A Tango Demi-goddess' Initiation into Full Goddess-hood

First off, let me explain the Tango Goddess' absence. She was fretting about her final dissertation draft, which is, thankfully, over and done with, and had been traveling and doing all that graduation and post-doctoral meltdown/depression stuff. She has now climbed down from her perch off Olympus momentarily to bid you all a hearty, "Welcome back!" Have you missed her? Have you? Have you? Place a pair of new leopard-patterned leather dance shoes in the offering box there at the entrance, and she will bestow upon you at least one tanda with the man you want to dance with tonight. She goes through a lot of shoes. (Surely, the goddess must have ancient links to that archipelago called the Philippines...)

I thought that I would jumpstart this blog once again with something that I wish someone had clued me into. Aside from all the usual dance-related codes one needs to learn, such as the cabeceo, a savvy non-Argentine tango afficionada needs to have one of those electronic translator contraptions to figure out what these milongueros are REALLY saying and, more importantly, what one saying back to them. The Tango Goddess is not only stunningly beautiful (and oh-so-humble); she is kind and gracious to all those mere mortal men with whom she chooses to dance. This bewitching combo has gotten her into quite a number of very sour pickles! Thankfully, the first gerkin has a happy ending...so far...as it concerns her mere-mortal partner on and off the dance floor.

It was her last night in Buenos Aires. She didn't know if she would ever see this man again. She used all her divine powers to get him to stay, but, no, being a mere-mortal, he had to go eat and then sleep. She was near mad with desire (and a few hours away from a very long bout of the flu), so she told him she would accompany him downstairs. She battled with herself (and tried to get her balance with the rail...she was also about to start her period...oh, joy): This was it. She either had to do something about what she felt, or find some Roman Catholic restraint and risk asking herself for the rest of her immortal life, "What if? What if?" So, she did what any red-blooded North American would do. She took the bull by the horns. In other words, once she and her prospective beloved reached the bottom of the stairs, she took a deep breath, grabbed him, and planted a big wet one on him. Then, she asked him if he wanted to go out for coffee.

Now, to most people from North America, this would seem like a sweet scene right out of a 50's comedy (edit for tongue, of course) with hero and heroine walking hand-in-hand in the middle of the empty street at night to the 24 hour diner on the next block. Roll closing credits. A kiss for us is, indeed, still a kiss, and does not necessarily imply, in moment of said kiss, other parts of the either party's anatomy. A kiss is an event in and of itself. Retold to Argentines in Buenos Aires, however, a kiss implies sex. Not only did I initiate tonsil hockey with the man, I also invited him for *gasp* coffee!

I was a bad, bad girl. I was a brazen hussy. I was asking for it. (Look, why waste time? I had less than 24 hours until my plane took off for the United States. The clock was a-tickin'. ) "No," you say. "Stop!" The Tango Goddess wasn't asking for it. She was planting the seed for "IT", but IT still needed time to grow and be fertilized and watered and all that stuff that the Tango Goddess is really bad at. If the kiss was not enough to seal the deal for the mere mortal, the very forward invitation to coffee was.

Coffee, it seems, has a different connotation within the milonga. Multiple choice: A man asks a woman for coffee in the milonga because a) he wants to get to know her better over a cortado in a public confiteria, or b) he wants to get to know her in the biblical sense, preferably in the privacy of his or her own home. The answer, as I have been told over and over again by men and women alike after my mere-mortal partner and I have regaled this episode, is B...always, always B. I had sex on my yankee brain, and I was gonna get me a little action before I was leaving the country.

So, recap and Lesson I: self-initiated kiss + self-initiated invitation to coffee = horny North American ready to party. Don't let this happen to you if you don't want it to happen to you. If you should receive an invition "para tomar un cafecito", remember that coffee (usually) = sex and that "men and women can't be friends because the sex part always gets in the way" (unless, course, you and he have already boinked and have done away with the sexual tension...but when is it done away with, really? Or if one of you is gay). This is never so true as in the milonga.

My next sweet mini gerkin has to do with the subtleties of the Spanish language and my attempt to translate American sentiment into castellano, which is impossible to do. You know, you watch a show like The Sopranos or King of the Hill with Spanish subtitles and the translators completely miss the point of what the characters are saying. It's just painful to read sometimes. Imagine how wacky you sound sometimes when you're trying to speak another language that you can't yet think in.

I made the mistake of telling one of my favorite dance clients that I hadn't seen him in the milonga in ages and that I hope he hadn't forgotten about me. I also told him that he now had a debt of 3 tandas. In my mind, I meant exactly what I wrote. There were no hidden sexual come-ons at all. If I had to translate it further, I would say that I meant, "Hey, haven't seen ya in ages. Put me on your dance card. Since I don't dance with ANYONE for more than one tanda (which he knew, of course), I expect that we'll have a dance for the next 3 weeks (which really could have gone without saying because every time we see each other at a milonga, we look at each other to dance a fast milonga)."

This guy blew "Don't forget about me" all out of proportion, and ended up writing something to me about how exciting it is to dance with me, and how, if it weren't for the obvious immense respect he has for my relationship with my romantic partner, he would dance all night with me, etc, blah, blah, blah, all of which I took as normal milonguero bullcrap and promptly forgot. Somehow, his live-in girlfriend finds out about our e-mail exchange, and now she's pissed off at me. The sad thing is that he likes this drama because his OTHER girlfriend (and yes, my dears, many of them do have official wives and official girlfriends, as well as some unofficial ones) tucked away in some barrio. Many of them are forbidden to dance where they dance.) feels even more sorry for him now that his official girlfriend has gone off her rocker again with her jealousy. When I commented to him, half-jokingly/half-mockingly, "My goodness. So many women fighting for you," he answered, "La verdad...que si (The truth is...yes)." I haven't danced with him since that comment, as it finaly dawned on me that he is a sad little man stirring up a little drama for himself to make himself feel important. It's just boring to watch. I'm willing to strike him off my dance card.

A little note about poligamy here. Many men, and I'm assuming some women, too, have a little somethin'-somethin' on the side there to spice up whatever they have going on "on the record". The sad thing is that they are often looking for number 3. That's fine and dandy if everyone were on the same page and in agreement, but, sadly, it is often not the case. The Tango Goddess has had her fare share of liaisons, and she can tell you from experience that the drama eventually takes its toll.

Look, the things that should throw up the red flags with men at the milonga are the same things that should make you suspicious of men off the dance floor: If a man tells you he has his milongas and you have yours, it means he's on the prowl. If he does not give you his home number, he's married or living with someone. If he only wants to meet you on certain days and times, once again, he is comprometido and already has a woman and chilluns. Oh, but he really loves you? He thinks you're the most beautiful thing in the world? His wife and he don't make love anymore? His girlfriend is a harpy, and they're going to break up at any moment? Lies, lies, lies. Believe them at your own peril.

Lesson II? Watch what you say and do, even if it sounds innocent to you. Men can easily take amiability as flirtation and will push your good will and good manners as far as they can go, preferrably right into the sack. These guys have fantastic imaginations.

Lesson III? You are most likely one of the many mares in the stable, and there are many stalls available. Do you want to be another mare?

Gerkin Tres - Well, this is just a general note about how much it sucks to be relatively young, slightly above-average looking, a decent dancer, friendly and dating an Argentine who dances. You lose prospective female friends. I have had women who were really open and friendly in the beginning to me turn ice cold once they discovered I was dating one of their own. How dare I! HOW DARE I. It's downright mind-boggling and, gosh darnit, it hurts my feelings. And when they do ask questions, I always feel like they're fishing around for my motive in staying with my partner. Money? Power? Sex? All of the above? I feel them studying me, waiting for me to make a complete fool of myself so they can sneer. The fact is, though, I've no problem making a fool of myself because I carry it off very well. Fallen in front of people? Done that. Made an alcoholic spectacle of myself away from the milonga? Uh-huh. Danced really sluttily with cheesoid, grabby men? Yup. Is my head still high? You betcha. I've figured this much out: People will always gossip. If they're gossiping about you, it's because you're life is far more interesting than theirs.

Lesson IV: Women will talk if you're attractive and if you pose a threat to them. By Jove, let 'em talk.

Toodles, my loves! TG

2006-12-10T19:37:00.001-03:00

A MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: December 10, 2007
Restaurant: Pepito
Address: 383 Montevideo (off Corrientes)

As avid readers, we decided to dedicate part of our Friday checking out the used bookstores that dot Corrientes. Wanting a break from our usual restaurants, we stopped at Pepito, located near Paseo La Plaza with its little shops, eateries, and theaters.

This cafeteria-style restaurant is well-known and, as I have been told, very portenan. The restaurant remained practically empty, except for the two of us and a family of tourists, until about 9 p.m. when the locals started pouring in. By the time we left, the place was bustling.

I was feeling guilty from the previous night's carbo-load at Marcelo, so I dined lightly on a basic chicken noodle soup (sans chicken) and canned sardines with tomato and onions. I felt virtuous, but was unimpressed by my dinner. My boyfriend, on the other hand, feeling the warm fuzzies of being in a typical portenan restaurant, ordered the classic "puchero de gallina".

The puchero, or pucherito, if you want to be more "carinoso", is a vat of boiled veggies and several different pieces of meat. The water in which these ingredients are boiled go into whatever soup the cook decides to make. In our particular pucherito, we found a 1/2 piece of sausage, a chicken thigh and boob, and a slab of fatty pork, along with carrot medallions, chopped chard, a whole peeled potato, cabbage, and garbanzo beans.

I am sure this concoction warms the cockles of many portenans, though I am hard-pressed to understand the reason why from my taste of this particular pucherito. My very first pucherito tasting sometime last year left me unsatisfied, too. First of all, the sausage was radioactive-red from all the preservatives, but it was probably the only item that was close to having any kind of flavor. Everything else tasted flat and boring. With a little salt, the pucherito became a flat and boring culinary experience with salt.

The place has some positive aspects, however. Tourists wanting a taste of Argentine cuisine that doesn't include a side of cow can have their fill of "minutas" (the Argentine version of fast food that includes mystery meat breaded and deep fried), pastas. If you need to have beef, you can, of course, get your fix here. In addition, it is in the heart of downtown BsAs, and is close to the theaters.

Think first before coming here. While our dining experience was not horrible, I would encourage you to save yourself for other restaurants featured in the Chow Guide.

Atmosphere: Very large, non-descript, cafeteria-style restaurant.

Service: Friendly and efficient

Bathroom: Clean

Total damage: 58 pesos

Overall: Clean, efficient, and thoroughly unremarkable. Come here if you need to feed, but not for pleasure.

2006-12-10T18:51:00.000-03:00

THE VIRTUES OF A CLEAN BATHROOM: A Special Report for A Milonguera's Chow Guide

You've probably been wondering what my deal is with the bathroom report in my Chow Guide. I wouldn't call myself a neat freak or a germophobe. If you had seen my car and one of my old apartments, you would know that nothing could be further from the truth. Matted dog hair, sticky cup holders, unidentifiable and dehydrated vegetables in the back of my fridge. It was pretty gross, I have to admit.

However, while the rest of my world could have been growing fur or serving as lab experiments, my bathroom was always clean. How did such a slob become such a proponent for a clean water closet? As many psychotherapists like to think, it all goes back to one's family of origin.

My mom worked for hospitals and the American Red Cross. We'd take our shoes off at the door and wash our hands as soon as we arrived to prevent bringing any germs from the world outside into our house. When I was little she instructed me to stand on or hover over the toilet, or to line the seat with an inch's worth of toilet paper to prevent any contact with other people's germs. She disinfected the kitchen and bathroom with such environment blasters as Comet or Ajax. God love her.

These childhood experiences have been burned forever in my memory, so that I cannot review a restaurant without also checking out the bathroom. Of course, I could probably do a kitchen tour, but, as my boyfriend says, I should just stay away from the kitchen. Besides, the bathroom tells me plenty. It reflects, in part, how the kitchen personnel will care for the food I will put in my body. If the bathroom is downright nasty, or if the soap dispenser is empty or the toilet paper is missing from the stalls, how much attention are they going to give me and my chow?

Details and impressions are important, as we all know from tango. A tweak to one's hip or a turn in one's head can make all the difference in the world. A careful consideration of one's partner in the dance many times reveals a careful consideration of others in general. Of course, I may be having an "off" day and could care less about my hip alignment, as these restauranteurs may be all about the kitchen and nothing else, but putting forth the effort to attend to such details marks the difference between a good experience and fantastic experience on or off the dance floor.

2006-12-04T11:44:00.000-03:00

A MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: December 3, 2006
Restaurant: Marcelo Ristorante, Cocina Italiana
Address: Alicia M. de Justo 1140, Puerto Madero
Tel: 4342-8689/4342-8243

I believe in signs and symbols. I read my horoscope in the Sunday supplement and my fortune from Chinese fortune cookies. I try to decorate my home according to the tenets of feng shui, and will occasionally say a novena to the St. Jude, the Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases, when I'm especially desperate. Given my touchy-feely-California grooviness, how could I consider the fact that one of my favorite restaurants in Buenos Aires and my boyfriend share the same name to be a mere coincidence? Impossible! It's a sign.

Oh, I could dedicate a whole blog to extol the virtues of Marcelo The Boyfriend, but then you'd have to throw up. Instead, I will sing the praises of Marcelo The Restaurant.

Marcelo Piegari, son of Daddy Piegari (who owns the famous "Piegari" restaurant) and long-lost younger and shorter cousin to Tom Selleck, has made his mark on the restaurant scene of BA. Having eaten at his father's more formal and more expensive restaurant located in the underpass near the Four Seasons downtown, which is also home to Mirasol and other such high-priced and high-brow restaurants, Piegari Junior blows his dad out of the water. True, Piegari Senior has established a fine Italian restaurant for those who like a little more intimacy with dark wood paneling and brass, but I believe Marcelo and his co-conspirator, Adolfo Astigarraga have founded a fine restaurant known for their excellent and abundant Italian cuisine and outstanding service at a price that's hard to beat. In fact, you'll find Marcelo taking care of his baby almost every night. On especially busy nights, you may even find him playing both maitre'd AND parking attendant.

Having burned what seemed to be a few hundred calories on the dance floor at El Beso on Thursday night, the Tango Goddess was sweaty and ready to eat. Our party of 3 shared the following: a salad with lettuce, tomato, and onion, melanzane parmigiana, pizza margherita, taglionlini bolognesa, and an amaretto ice cream for dessert. First, the appetizers. I wasn't really in the mood for a salad, but it looked so fresh that I had to give in. Who would of thought of asking for the salad ingredients to be cut julienne-style would make eating salad so much more fun and easier to eat? Thanks to our friend for the tip. The melanzane/eggplant parm rocked, even though I thought I was ordering our regular melanzane a la siciliana, which also rocks the house, by the way. The eggplant a la siciliana is chopped and marinated, and comes without the cheese. The pizza, your basic cheese pizza with the usual extra chopped garlic, was a revelation. I have to say now that I have found pizza paraiso. Dare I say it is better that Casa Mia's pie? YES! It had a thin crust, with just the right amount of cheese for it to be slightly goopy, but not messy. A plus for when you're dressed up.

The utter lightness of the pizza allowed me to indulge in my other Marcelo fave: pasta with meat sauce. Come on. It's pasta with meat sauce. How pedestrian! Seriously, folks, it's absolutely delicious. We always choose the thinnest possible pasta because, according to Marcelo The Boyfriend, it holds the sauce better. I happen to disagree. I mean, what about penne or any other pasta with a hole? But, hey, who is an Asian American to argue with an Italian? The pasta is never over-cooked here, thank goodness, or there would be hell to pay. The meat sauce is TO DIE. The difference, I think, is the fact that you can see the chunks of meat in the sauce and that it's a much more "suave" taste, not at all like the super-tomato-ey red bolognese sauce I'm used to. The order of pasta was enough for the three of us!

Their desserts are wonderful, too. The amaretto dessert topped with cream was sinful, but I have also had their chocolate volcano which is always a good choice, especially when you need a chocolate fix and/or are nearing that time of the month.

Atmosphere: This may not be a suitable place to take your sweetie on his or her first date with you, but it is in pretty Puerto Madero and located on the water. Unlike Piegari, this restaurant is more like a refined cafeteria with linens. This place packs 'em in during the weekends, and, therefore, gets pretty loud and crazy busy. You can even see the waiters tense up. However, everyone's usually very well-behaved-no foodfights to report-although there are the occasional rugrats who roam freely. There is a separate, closed-off space for smokers.

Service: These waiters work their butts off, and are always very polite and professional.

Bathroom: CLEAN and always stocked with soap and toilet paper!

Total damage: 3 people, including water, wine, and tea = 147 pesos. This, I believe, is a bargain, considering that the portions are big enough to share, at least between two people.

Overall: It's love, I tell you.

2006-12-03T19:07:00.000-03:00

THE JOYS OF A SMOKE-FREE JUNGLE

December 2nd marked the 2-month anniversary of the BsAs government's non-smoking ban in public places smaller than 100 square meters. Those locales with more than 100 square meters are allowed to dedicate 30 percent of their space to smokers, provided that this dedicated space is enclosed and has its own ventilation system.

Now, when this new law was being debated, tango goddess thought, "There's no way in hell this law is going to be put into effect." She has witnessed people running red lights as police hang back and watch, dogs doing their business in the middle of the sidewalk without their owners' cleaning up, cartoneros digging through people's garbage for things to recycle (always very cool) and leaving garbage strewn all over the sidewalks and streets (so not very cool), kitchen personnel licking plates in the back after customers' have finished eating (eeewwww), and friends being taken on the more expensive scenic route to their destination by taxi drivers. Granted, I am certain that such things happen in the U.S., although I am sure I would be hard-pressed to find restaurant personnel licking customers' plates. However, it seems that people can get away with murder here, or, at least, it appears that there is, as one Argentine observed, no sense of civic duty.

The night before the start of the ban, I told my Argentine boyfriend that this law would be loosely applied, certainly in the milongas, given how many of the milongueros and milongueras smoke. I was prepared to continue carrying my asthma medication with me everywhere I went, and to continue stripping off smoke-perfumed clothing after every milonga. He swore up and down that non-smokers like him would rise up, take to the streets, and fight for their right to breathe! I wanted to believe him.

On October 2nd, I walked into my favorite neighborhood cafe to have my cafe con leche descafeinado, and, lo and behold, they had declared the place smoke-free. To my pleasant surprise, many cafes taped hand-written "libre de humo" signs on their doors and windows. Still, would hard-core milongueros and milongueras obey this law? I was certain they wouldn't. After all, the milonga is a business, and business means getting as many people packed into one's milonga, and many of these people are used to sitting their in their cloud of Marlboro humo.

As I walked into El Beso, I found, again, to my pleasant surprise, that it, too, had been declared a smoke-free environment. Not only that, they had a copy of the law posted at the entrance. My jaw dropped. "Yo te dije, y no me creiste," he said with a grin, but I know, somewhere in that pesto-marinated Italian heart of his, that he, too, doubted that the law would take effect as well as it did.

The smokers of the milonga scene, who come armed with mints for their oral fixation, and who must now step out of the milonga for their breath of fresh nicotine, declare this law to be "a verguenza". If I had any balls and confidence in my Spanish skills, I'd retort, "You know what the verguenza was? Having to sit next to smokers and giving up my right to breath." My boyfriend, who has balls and Spanish skills, tells them to look at this as an opportunity for them to stop smoking. Many people, according to recent statistics, have begun to shake the habit, and more power to them.

Thanks to the the BsAs government, the tango goddess now roams freely in the tango jungle, smelling sweetly once again.

2006-11-20T10:38:00.000-03:00

A MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: November 19, 2006
Restaurant: Mia Casa
Address: J.A. Cabrera 4570
Tel: 4777-2723

When your feet are killing you and you've worked a week's worth of calories off on the the dance floor, there's nothing like having a down-home dive around the corner from the milonga...and I mean DIVE.

Part of the charm of this pizza/comidas arabes joint is its diveness. Currently devoid of any artwork, except for one poster from the 80's of an Arab woman dressed in traditional garb, and lacking any kind of aesthetic sensibility whatsoever with respect to table setting, this restaurant has become a milonga institution by its proximity to Salon Canning. It draws much of its customer base from that milonga, as well as from the budget-conscious locals. These guys took a hit when the milongas closed in late 2004/early 2005 after the Cromanon incident.

The other part of its appeal comes from the two owners, whose names, of course, escape me. The woman zips around in the kitchen whipping up Arabic specialties from your basic hummus to kebbe and, with help from her very capable co-cook, great pizza. The woman never stops to take a break. Her charming and diminutive husband/partner plays maitre d' and waiter.

Here's some dip: The woman owned the restaurant with her then-husband. Her current husband was the waiter. I don't think I need to say more. Let's just say there was a lot more cooking in the kitchen than just pizza and pita bread.

And thank goodness the cooking didn't stopped with their affair!

Last night's menu consisted of our usual sauteed berenjenas (eggplant and tomatoes), a small pizza napolitana with extra garlic for my Italian boyfriend, a 1/2 carafe of the house wine, and a bottle of soda water. It was just enough for me to feel full without busting the seams of my jeans. For those of you used to a Chicago style thick-crusted pizza or a NY style thin-crusted pizza, this crust is sort of in the middle. Not too thick, but definitely not thin. The cheese is decent and gloopy enough, but sometimes, depending on the brand they use, looks a little on the pasty side. Lately, though, they seem to be using the cheese I prefer, giving the pizza a nice smooth flavor and consistency. The added tomato slices make me feel healthy. The wine gets poured out of a big unmarked jug, but, damn, it's good stuff. Slightly sweet and light in the mouth, but after a few glasses, the world is alright with me...which is basically my criteria for a good wine. Don't expect a Chateau Lafitte or whatever hell other red wine brand you have to pay 100 bucks for, but over a slice, it's perfect.

My only beef with this place is...I hate to say it...the cleanliness. OK, I know, I know, I'm not in the States where the Health Department closes down restaurants that don't have soap in their dispensers. I like to think the ovens obliterate any germs or bugs that may have made their way onto my food, and I will continue to think this, thankyouverymuch. The people are so friendly, humble, and eager to please, and the food is so good and cheap that this place will always having me coming back for seconds.

Atmosphere: Atmosphere?! Think, "dive", and add food. No linens, no china, no chairs or tables featured in Architectural Digest. Good music and good people make all the difference in the world.

Service: Superb! The owners want you to have a great experience in their restaurant.

Bathroom: Since this is a review, I have to say that the bathroom could use some cleaning with lots of Comet or another industrial strength cleaner. The last time I used the bathroom there, I swore I would never use the bathroom there again. Denial is a good thing sometimes, psychotherapists be damned (and I'm one of them!).

Total damage: Dinner for two: 19 pesos. The most expensive thing on the menu was a large "completa" pizza for 20 pesos. There are a lot of cheap eats for 8 or 9 pesos, Arabic food you can just grab and run.

Overall: Great chow if you think nice thoughts and plan to use the bathroom before coming.

2006-10-30T11:50:00.000-03:00

A MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: October 29, 2006
Restaurant: El Manto
Address: Costa Rica 5801, Palermo
Tel: 4772-2409

El Manto, Sagrada Cocina Armenia and Bar (Holy Armenian Cuisine and Bar), will leave you screaming, "Oh, God! Yes, Yes, Yes!"

One of the pleasures of living in big cities, like D.C., NYC, or L.A., is being surrounded by international cuisine. I loved having my occasional falafel sandwich, stuffed grape leaves, and hummus. I loved turning a corner and downing some pad thai, then skipping over to the indian restaurant down the street for those sticky honey balls. When I left the States, I thought I was going to have to turn carnivore. Imagine my surprise when I found this little gem in Palermo!

It's hard to describe the cuisine of Cher's ancestors. Greco-Middle Eastern? Whatever it is, I'm calling it, "DEELISH". Here are a few of my favorites. If you're going with a group, I'd get the mezze appetizer platter that has a little bit of everything. Use the warm pita bread to dip. If you want to make more of a committment, the Ensalada Belen, with its blend of veggies, golden raisins, and cashews, is excellent. I'd recommend the hummus, the babaganoush, the filo triangles stuffed with cheese, or stuffed grape leaves (grape leaves=parra), too. The falafel is a little on the hard/crunchy side, but one can always ask for a side of their plain yogurt-also a pleasure, as yogurt here tends to be sweetened with sugar or artificial sweeteners-for dipping. I'm usually full by the time I polish off the appetizers, but, hey, a girl's gotta eat.

For the main course, I almost always get the mousaka. The Patagonian lamb with rice is also an excellent, albeit very rich, choice for those cold nights. The vegetable terrine is rather bland for me, but their dish with rice and strips of chicken and makes up for it. Their gyros are very good, too, but I usually save them for lunch, when I don't want to be so formal. Their lunch special (between 19-25 pesos including drink) is a good buy, by the way, and includes the gyro on the menu. The main plates are plentiful, so I always share with my boyfriend, especially after the appetizers.

For dessert, I usually go for a nice mint tea (real tea leaves!) that comes with the platter of desserts that is enough to satisfy a sweet tooth or to share with another person if you are counting calories. It includes baklava, and cookies stuffed with pistachios. There are other items made with filo dough, as well, but their names escape me.

Atmosphere: Sort of industrial looking with the unfinished concrete walls and floors. Subtle lighting. Awesome marble (but surely uncomfortable) throne for those big celebrations when you want to feel like a queen or king. Great music.

Service: We have never had problems here with the service, except when we call to make reservations. For some reason, restaurants in general are hesitant to give away their prime seats (against the windows), saying that they are reserved. If we pester them enough when we get there, they'll give them up.

Bathroom: Their women's restroom is a bit closet-like and could use more lighting. I love the communal sink outside the bathrooms, though. I feel like I'm washing my hands at some natural water source in a far-off Armenian village.

Total damage: Lunch-between 19-25 pesos, Dinner-around 60-70 per person including wine, water, and dessert.

Overal: Great chow!!!

2006-08-22T19:31:00.000-03:00

THE CABECEO: THE ART OF SNAGGING A DANCE PARTNER

I'm a fairly liberated woman. When I know what I want, I have no qualms bonking him on the head and dragging him back to the lair myself. The milonga, however, relies on a little more subtley.

The cabeceo an art. To do it well requires a woman to fine-tune her feminine wiles.

1) During the intermezzo, check out the room. This is the time to shop. Trust me, everyone is checking out prospective partners.

2) See the hot Italian guy you want to dance with? Look at him, smile at him, bat your baby browns. Work it. He'll get the message. If he looks away, don't be discouraged. Keep your sights on him. If he continues to look away everytime you look at him, move on.

3) During the first couple of notes of the tanda, look at your prospective partner. If he looks at you when the tanda begins, for godsake, don't look away. He'll think you're declining. This is no time to be shy.

4) If you've managed to peak his attention, you need to hold your gaze steady. When he gets up to walk toward your table, keep looking at him until he is standing before you. DO NOT GET UP UNTIL HE IS STANDING IN FRONT OF YOU. The reasons for this will be covered later.

5) Face the music, and dance.

Note to numero 4: Ladies, ladies, ladies...I know there are more men than women in the world, but we have got to be good to each other. Can't we all just get along? If the man wants to dance with the woman sitting beside you, and is giving all the signals of wanting to dance with her instead of with you, why...WHY do you get up and steal what is rightfully hers??? Why do you lean over to block her view of her prospective partner? Why do you immediately jump up to grab her partner?

I had a few women steal a few tandas that belonged to me. How did I know they belonged to me? Because he never took his eyes off me, even when he was standing near my table. But, being the kind, generous person I am, I kept my claws to myself so as not to embarass the other woman. An Argentine woman will not put up with this. In fact, some will never dance with the man ever again or will at least give him the cold shoulder for a few weeks. They argue that the other woman is a shameless, conniving ho-bag who knows exactly what she is doing. OK, maybe not a ho-bag, but definitely shameless and conniving.

True, mishaps do happen. Distances may be great, and you may be having a contact lens malfunction, but the key is waiting until he gets to your table. If no one stands up, and if he is still looking at you expectantly as you squint back at him, he is yours.

2006-06-12T12:46:00.000-03:00

JUNGLE POLITICS: THE SEATING HEIRARCHY

A girl has got to dance, right? But how the hell can you with all these heads in your way? No one can see you hidden away in the gulag near the bathroom or in a far corner. The seats you need to set your eyes on are in the front row. For example, in El Beso, these seats are the front rows on either side of the dance floor. In Maipu 444, they are the seats against the far wall in front of you as you enter the hall, as well as the first row on the right side of the dance floor. The seating heirarchy for the men is the same.

So, how can your work your way up the food chain so that you, too, can be queen of the jungle? It's the same stuff you have to deal with in the workplace. It's who knows whom. It's performance. It's schmoozing. It's politics, baby. You are under surveillance, guilty until proven innocent. It comes to this: The people who run the milongas look at how you dance, with whom you dance, and how often you dance, because having a milonga filled with good, popular dancers makes them the money.

True, being your hot, charming, witty self can open doors, and you'll probably have milonguero slobber all over you before you can say "agua con gas." Ultimately, though, it won't earn you respect as a dancer, only the lust of the men and the disdain of the women. Worse still, though you'll probably dance, you will not dance your best, and you will not be challenged to improve, which is something which we should be striving for in every area of our lives. So, why not show them that you are also a woman of substance and not just a pretty face with a hot bod?

When I first came to BsAs, I had no clue. No one knew me from a hole in the wall, so I found myself seated consistently in a no-man's land, whether that was four rows back from the dance floor or in a corner. The only men who would dance with me were the ones who approached me directly...a big milonga no-no which will be explained in a later blog entry. It was to my detriment that I accepted, because people watch each other dance, and what they saw was someone who couldn't dance.

The only chance I had to save myself from milonga purgatory was -- and this is the first law of jungle politics -- to
DANCE WELL. For me, this meant taking lessons to work on my technique, and implementing these changes at the milongas. Slowly but surely, people started to notice. The better dancers started asking me to dance, which meant I had to sacrifice dancing with the C level dancers, even if it meant not dancing for several tandas in a row. If you watch very carefully, the better milongueras, and milongueros, for that matter, do not dance a lot. They wait because they know they have the pick of the litter. People WANT to dance with them, so they can afford to be more selective...which leads me to the second law...

If you are going to dance, DANCE WITH THE BEST. OK, it's a hard, cruel fact that there are fewer men than women, and it's even more difficult reality that there are even fewer men in the testosterone pool who can actually dance. So, do you save yourself, or do you lower your standards? It sounds so high school, but why settle? You expect the best, so start choosing the best, damn it! If you are uncertain of the level of your perpective partner, ask around. You'll be surprised how the women keep records of how different men dance.

I must add a caveat to this second law, however. Sometimes, one likes to dance with someone out of friendship, because he or she is a gosh-darn nice person. This is so totally cool. I do it, and make no apologies. However, I have deliberately stopped dancing with people because they just weren't good for me any more. I had outgrown them. Think about this in terms of personal relationships. If you've outgrown a relationship, there is no point in staying. You'll be stifled, and you'll stop growing. You need to develop the capacity to let things go so that you can welcome new experiences. I am still pleasant with these people, but some have asked me when why I stopped dancing with them. I casually tell them (because who wants to hurt someone's feelings?) that my feet hurt; or I didn't see them; or I had so many invitations that night. After a few weeks of avoiding their invitation, they usually get the message, and don't bother looking my way.

The third and final law of jungle politics is -- ta-da! -- DANCE!!! But, wait, didn't I just say that the best dancers don't dance often? Why, yes, I did, but I didn't mean be a waste of space. I didn't mean be bump on a log. You worked hard, working your poor feet in those dance classes, so it's time to show people what you've learned. At least start looking at the people with whom you want to share a tanda. Before you know it, you'll be having three guys walking toward your table at the same time thinking you looked at them!

One more caveat: Sometimes, no matter what you do, no matter how bad-ass you are on the dance floor, the dueno (the person running the milonga) just doesn't take to you. There's bad blood or karma between you guys, and you don't get the seat that you want. In the end, it doesn't matter, because a good dancer will always have dance partners. Your partners will seek you out. Of course, you have to make your presence known. Pass by their table on the way to the bathroom, and say, "Hello!" I experimented with this once, and, sure enough, although I was sitting further away from the floor than I would have liked, my "clients", as I like to call them, still sought me out.

So, to recap the laws of the jungle: 1) Dance well; 2) Dance with the best; and 3) Dance. These three rules will help get your booty closer to a prime seat near the dance floor where you belong!

2006-06-09T12:05:00.000-03:00

WHAT'S IN A SAVVY TANGO GODDESS' PURSE?

To "manejar" through a jungle filled with Juans, Marios, and Ricardos (oh, my!), a girl needs to be prepared. Here is what I always stash in my bag:

1. Handwipes! OK, ladies, the ugly truth is that there are some people who don't wash their hands after they do their business...and I mean, men AND women. It's gross. And then these guys wanna get their paws all over my dress. Are you kidding me?!?! At the very least, YOU can be hygenic. I should hand these out like condoms. Hand-sanitizing gel would work, too.

2. Face wash or facial wipes. I like to put in 100% when I'm dancing. I like pressing my cheek against my partner's cheek. It just feels so nice and intimate. Unfortunately, you don't know where that cheek has been. Just think about it. If he's a really popular dancer, imagine how much muck from other women is collecting in his pores? And then there's HIS sweat. That muck and sweat is getting all over YOU. It's worse if he has a 5 o'clock shadow because he's basically scratching up your cheek and imbedding all the "mugre" into your pores. My dermatologist here saw lots of microscopic scratches and clogged pores on my right cheek, and I am RELIGIOUS about my nighttime skin cleansing regimen. Now, I try to wipe down a few times during the milonga.

2. Breath mints. You need them even if you think you don't. If your partner is particularly offensive, share the wealth.

3. Kleenex. Runny noses, little accidents, spare toilet paper.

4. Spare tampons. Because you never know.

5. Hand lotion. Washing your hands can take a toll on your skin. To keep your hands feeling and looking as young as a baby's ass, slather the stuff on. The guys will thank you.

6. Band Aids. I have my share of battle scars from other women's heels. Throw a few in your bag, and you're good to go.

7. Spare change. In case you need to tip the bathroom person for your allotted 2 squares of toilet paper.

8. Extra make-up. To think I use to envy the thin lips of my caucasian classmates in elementary school. Now I'm pouting it up like Angelina Jolie. I'm a Blistex/lip balm addict, and lipstick and lipgloss are really only primping products that I use on a consistent basis.

9. Business cards. I got tired of having to write my info. on napkins, so I picked up some pretty and cheap business cards with my name, e-mail, and (will be adding my) cell phone number. They come in handy if you happen to meet the love of your life or of the moment at a milonga.

10. Meds. Yay for self-medicating! My girlfriend does it by shopping. Another friend does it with vodka. I do it with magnesium. Apparently, it's suppose to help with stress. I also throw in some aspirin or Advil, and I always go prepared with my asthma puffer in case I'm surrounded by nicotine addicts.

Keep in mind that your bag doesn't have to end up looking like the local CVS or Walgreens. Buy travel size items, or empty one of those millions of little bottles of hotel shampoo you've stolen over the years, and go to town!

2006-06-04T21:32:00.000-03:00

A MILONGUERA'S CHOW GUIDE: June 4, 2006

Restaurant: Zadvarie
Address: Uriarte 1423, Palermo
Tel: 4831-2719

My boyfriend, in his attempt to sate my need for culinary variety, took me to the Zadvarie for lunch yesterday afternoon (Saturday). The business card reads,"Concina de Inspiracion Peruana, Sabores del Altiplano." I was expecting a llama (as in the South American animal, not "como se llama.")smorgasbord, but their menu proved to be inventive, a superfresh palate extravaganza.

For their lunch special, they offered a curry vegetable puree soup which warmed the bones, followed by cappeletis stuffed with chicken in a (relatively light) cream sauce. It rocked. The Man (the boyfriend, sidekick, bossman) ordered a salmon gravlax (gravlax=a way of preparing the salmon that involves dehydrating without leaving it completely dry) that came with 2 sides: quinoa with mango and bulgar/couscous. I think I ate half of his dish, too. Then, I ate almost all my mandarin cheesecake, which was just so lovely and light, and another dessert with algarroba (a tree indigenous to Paraguay and Argentina whose seeds are used for cooking) and chocolate drizzled ice cream. Delish. I ended up working out before going to the milonga that night AND doing more aerobics this morning! SO worth it, though.

Atmosphere: Minimal, yet warm. White tables and chairs, raw concrete walls. Funky sixties light fixtures. A clean, simple atmosphere which allowed the fantastic cuisine to shine.

Service: Excellent. Waiters were attentive, even as they were eating their lunch, which lasted all of 10 minutes. They always made sure their eyes were on the kitchen so they delivered our food the minute it came out.

Bathroom: Unfortunately, didn't think about this when I was there. Was too busy eating. (And, hey, this is my first restaurant review.) I will assume, however, that the high standard in the dining room can also be found in the bathrooms, as well. Will update when I return, which will be really soon, I hope.

Total damage: 50 pesos, including 2 non-alcoholic drinks

Overall: GREAT CHOW!

2006-06-02T15:30:00.000-03:00

OPENING REMARKS FOR A BRAND SPANKIN'-NEW BLOG!

Hola, and welcome to my blog, fellow milonguera!

A few months ago, I was talking to an American girlfriend of mine about starting some kind of website or blog to inform women about the milongas and all the funkiness that goes along with being part of this scene. Voila! A few months later, out pops this blog. I'm hoping that it will serve women from all over the world who want an insider's look at the tango scene, an atmosphere that is unlike anything most people have ever experienced.

A little about moi. I'm a former psychotherapist/counselor/struggling actor/successful figure model who grew up in L.A. and lived in Arlington, VA until April 2005. A friend of mine introduced me to Argentine tango in D.C. in the mid-90's (God, doesn't this sound like it was eons ago???), and I've been dancing on and off -- through boyfriends and hairstyles, divorce, and graduate degrees -- since then. At my most fanatic, when I was dancing almost every night, I decided to do my dissertation on the tango (as metaphor for soul...more on this later). Of course, one can't possibly do a dissertation without doing some kind of research, so I bought my ticket to Buenos Aires to experience what it was like to dance in the very birthplace of the tango.

I wish I had known then what I know now. It would have saved me a lot of frustration and embarrassment, and would have probably improved my learning curve in terms of my dancing. Because I didn't know the codes of the milonga and was way too eager to dance to take the time to learn about the idiosyncracies of the tango culture (and, indeed, it is a culture in itself... see how much my BA in international relations degree helped?), I danced with the worst dancers, which marked me as a tourist, an outsider, and "extranjera" only here to hit on another Argentine man. I learned by making a complete dork out of myself (which included slipping in front everyone at a milonga, being groped by a slimey guy as I danced, asking a guy to dance, etc. Oh, yes, and let's not forget not knowing the language well enough to defend myself!).

Now, after having lived and danced here for more than a year, I find that I am now dancing with some of the better old school milongueros, those who, had I not learned to say, "No" to some of the more unsavory characters, would have continued to ignore me, or alternatively, only shown interest in me to do the horizontal mambo, if you dig what I'm saying. Plus, the women are nicer to me, too! So, while I'm still an "extranjera," I am now an informed, educated extranjera who isn't going anywhere for a while. I like to think that I earned my seat in the "primer fila," a subject which will be discussed in a future blog.

But wait, there's more! What?! No, way! More bang for your buck? Yesiree. I'll be including a weekly restaurant review called the Milonguera's Chow Guide, a list of where to get decent clothing and tango shoes, teacher suggestions, what to do if you happen to fall in love with one of these milongueros, and a whole lot more! Ideas are just flying out of my head!

So, I welcome any advice, comments, suggestions, updates, or questions you may have. We, women, have got to stick together because it's a jungle out there!

Cheers, and happy tango-ing!

Tango Goddess