Mariella was performing at La Boca milonga, so I promised I'd go ... I've never been to a milonga alone. I am a bit shy that way - I could just see myself balancing my way through the door in my heels and falling on my face right at the entrance.
I also don't like the subconscious feeling of anyone thinking that I am there to be picked up (even if I was there to be picked up)... imagine a lonely girl in her mini skirt and Saturday night make-up alone by the bar ... already suspicious, right? Well, that's society for ya, because no-one would ever notice a guy by himself sitting on a bar stool. On the other hand a girl alone raises question marks and curious looks, which I wasn't in the mood for.
I did not want to be “her”, however desperate times call for desperate measures ... I really wanted to see Mariella the Portena (a person from Buenos Aires) kick her legs high into the air so that I can look up to her like a student to a master and dream about me one day being just like her! I don't even want to be as good as she is, I just have a need to fulfill another one of my dreams, which is being a street performer dancing tango at least one time in my life. The fascination obviously comes from my exhibitionist personality or/and the need to be admired, as any other self-respecting LEO does …
(That reminds me! It's myyyy B-day on Tuesday and you bet I'll be celebrating it like never before ... how often do you get to be 1 again?)
So, having decided that I don't care about anyone else but myself and my need to see Mariella, I ran through the closet again and again and again until I picked out an outfit that clearly indicates some sort of tango connection, yet it definitely is not the “PRO” outfit, such as a sleek little black dress, fishnets and uede tango shoes on heels. I definitely do not want to LOOK the part if I can not DO the part, so this way the men will know immediately that I am there to dance, yet if I get to the dance floor and won't be able to follow my partner even with my best efforts I'll have the option of saying:
"Oh, I am so sorry,
(always apologize, like it's my fault)
I've only danced tango once before.
(never admit that I've been taking tango classes 6 times a week for the past 3 months and I am still struggling with basics)
I was just walking past
(Randomize like it was God's will or faith!)
and saw all these people dancing so wonderfully
(indirect compliment to lift the men's ego ... it should pay of at the end)
I decided to check it out!
("I am so spontaneous" - shower yourself also with non-tango positives)
As a matter of fact, I will have to run soon because I am meeting a friend.."
(Hopefully he'll want to become my teacher and ask me to stay a little longer so that he can show off his dancing skills and teach me a few tricks .. "
With this plan under my belt and a little purse carrying all the essentials such as breath savers and a perfume I took the subway to Penn Station.
Here I go .. 31th street, the restaurant is called Il Campanello. I just arrived after the beginner's class (I am not a beginner by no means) and so I try to put a confident smile on while watching the beginners awkwardly navigate each other across the wooden floor.
Tango events in the city are frequented by similar faces and I immediately recognize my classmate - the clean cut, blue shirt, khaki pants Russian .. he is not Russian but I always think of him as one. I try to catch his glimpse to see if he recognized me or whether he wants to play the "pretend we never met" game.
This game however miniscule, has a huge impact on my upcoming two to three hours spent here. My entire evening may depend on this single gesture - just by one smile or a nod I will deduce whether he thinks of me as someone “Hello” worthy or in translation "Am I pretty?" "Uggly?" or "Am I a good dancer?" or a bad one? ...
I pay the entrance fee, and catch his glimpse the following second ... I am glowing with a huge smile all over my face just to realize that he does not even bother keeping his eyes focused on my person a second, let alone come up to me and whisk me away from this awkward situation of waiting on the side of the dance floor ... Arrrggghhhhhhhh!
(You Ahole!!")
The lady at the circle makes the announcement to come up for the intermediate class and I go trying to get as far as I can from the latino papi (another acquintance) who left me mid dance on the dance floor just a few weeks ago at the Ukrainian Restaurant ... I see that the feeling of “URGH” is mutual and I try to juggle my way through the available men, strategically positioning myself next to someone whom I believe I can tango with at least a tidbit when I hear "Please find a partner" ... I turn right and there he is stretching his arms towards me - Papi!
He is a type who dresses the part - black pants, silver shirt and white shoes blind my sight and THINKS he can do the part. I worry as soon as mumbles in Spanglish “SHaullWeDance?”
Least confidently I lean against him and repeat to myself what I've learned the fastest "It's the leader's fault 90%!!!" ...
As the music starts we rock like a boat on high seas from right to left a few seconds and I stretch my legs elegantly walking to the back ...he attempts a few figures .. I twirl, I even get to do a boleo (high kick to the back) and then there is a pause, I completely loose the connection ... Like a nightmare emerges from my mind the embarassment of the time when he just walked away … I feel him dragging me across the floor like a rag doll. I am in no shape to transform to a dancer Barbie, so we become two forces against each other ... He is not moving me with a gentle touch - he is pushing me with force and me (instead of giving in to his inner and outside Macho) I get pissed off and push back ... He rolls his eyes!!!
(What was that???!!!)
Can you imagine?
He rolls his eyes every time I get lost in between his thighs! Papi looks at me strictly "YOu No Followin My lead!" ...
I know many tango teachers claim that dancing tango is like a three minute love affairs ... ours just happened to be a divorce instead ....
At the end of every song we rotate ... by now I've turned to self-pitying and I am glad when Mr. LOnGuyland takes my hand while systematically chewing on his wringley spearmint. He is a head shorter and is the over confident type who does whatever he does, so I better just take the ride and hold on while attempting to keep my feet apart so they don't entangle in one of his body parts. We start, we stop ... again, we start, we stop, we start, we stop ... he lists about 50 mistakes I made, I profoundly apologize … we dance, we stop, he talks, I listen, and then he announces "Too Much Talking!"
The only thing by now that consoles my poor lost tango soul is that I am still one of the youngest tangueras here, as the average age of tango dancers (not counting the teachers) is 75? (See why Geoff is not jealous?). And so I arrive to my new dancer - the old kind ... He is about 80 years old, wearing a checkered shirt and the past two days menu on it including some bread crumbs and marinara sauce ...
As a pioneer in Communist Czechoslovakia I learned that I should be nice to "my" elders and so I do put on a warm smile when he squeezes my chest against his frail frame and makes a few steps ... Suddenly he starts coughing (like old people do) and he knows somewhere in his brain, that he should cough to his hands, but forgets to realize that his hand is stuck with my hand indeed and YUCK .. urrghhh... I almost faint ... I feel the warm air hitting my hand and imagine cartoon bacteria crawling all around my wrist through the fingers having a bloody field day … I keep dancing in disbelief and sour face, yet I really want to run to the bathroom and let boiling water stream on my skin till they all get killed ... I stop my mind raising away... I learned to be nice to elders and I am not about to hurt this poor old man … maybe I'll be like him one day ... so I wait till the end of the three minutes - another unsuccessful love affair and run for the bathroom carrying my hand like it was some foreign object, that just happened to be attached to my body ... I let out a sight of relief as the bacteria washes away and return to dance.
The class is over and I am so glad! The milonga - the real fun can start one would think, however Mariella is still not there (no wonder she is always late being a true Argentinian!) and I am alone stuck at this over heated by men's egos place ...
I go to the bar and timidly secure a coke even though I really deserve at least a tequila shot ... There is no place by the bar, so I am forced to stand around. At first it's ok, however with passing time I become more and more uncomfortable ... I really want to dance but I am in some stranger's hands to be asked to the floor and so I wait ... I look around ... Papi passes by. Not acknowledging me he asks the lady sitting next to me, LOnGUylandGuy is also dancing with a certain lady, The Russian is talking to some friends ... I am drinking my coke, non-stop sipping on the straw and checking my watch by a second. Not that I am a wallflower, I am just thirsty ... I only stopped by for a drink!
I drink a lot! 4 glasses of coke and still no-one to dance with ... My ego is letting me down today ... "Am I Uggly?" "Am I too pretty?" "Am I such a good dancer that I threaten?" "Am I a terrible dancer?" .... I wonder ...
I toss a couple of dollar bills to the bar, hang my tango shoes bag on my shoulders and leave ... Mariella arrived late and I admit, I had no self-confidence to stay.
Learning to dance takes a skin as thick as on a Louis Vutton bag, not only strong will power!
