Tango

Plotnik has stepped on his dance partner's feet many times in his long career as a klutz, but last night was the first time he ever stepped on his own feet. You have to do these cross over steps without really going anywhere, and your partner has to know what you're doing so she can back up a little bit since she's doing the same cross over steps at the same time. It goes one-two-three-cross-re-cross-re-cross-three-four. One and two, both threes and the four are a snap and so is the first cross, but the two re-crosses, where you step right back where you were before, except you've already swiveled your hips and so you've got to swivel them back, and then there's that last wiggle which would normally be just like the first cross -- if you were dancing by yourself or just dreaming about it -- but your balance is already off -- and there's only one way to stop without falling and you end up stepping on your own feet.

Whaever. Learning to do the tango with fifty other people, of all ages, arranged in a huge circle inside the old fashioned milonga (dance hall) around the teacher in his black t-shirt, gray pants and soft gray shoes, and his dance partner, wearing a pink dress over pedal-pusher length black pants and very red, very high heels, was a hoot and a holler.



Duck and Plot were not the very worst. They sort of kept doing what they could without getting too fancy. The idea was to survive without bringing shame to America, and it is safe to say this was accomplished, because Plotnik checked the headline in the Buenos Aires News this morning and our two countries are not at war.

Plot has always had a problem when he dances, He hunches over like he's bowling, when he ought to be upright and gliding. The Great Plotnik loves to dance but he has never been able to glide. He would love to glide. Really. This man can glide.



He also has never had anyone, any man that is, point out to him that you put your arm here and your hip there and the idea is to keep your center of balance right here and for Christ's sake wipe that shit eating grin off your face just because you pulled off one freaking cross re-cross re-cross without singing Yankee Doodle Dandy.

The teacher said don't grab her, just hug her, lightly, like you've just met a good friend, and then start to dance.



The teacher said you hold your left hand like you're balancing a tray,

The teacher would show Plotnik something and then stop and address the entire group and show them how not to do it.



Plotnik really learned a lot. Ducknik had not been looking forward to this lesson, due to a lot of things but probably most ominous of all was that she didn't bring any high heels with her. But none of the learners really wore them, except for a few ladies who obviously knew what they were doing already. The lady in the yellow beret, tight yellow pants and yellow high heels was really good. It's in the hips, man, it's in the hips. These Latinas get it.

It cost twenty pesos to get in (around $5) and you could buy a beer for eight pesos.

When the first group sat down, the more advance dancers took their place and the instructor started in on some very complicated giros (spins), volteos (twirls) and different combinations of abiertos and cierros (open and closes). Talk about the impossible dream.

At midnight Plot and Duck and Jim from Boulder, Colorado, and John from London, England, both of whom are staying at the hostel, went out for some pasta. The Plotniks appear to be adapting.

The previous night, Plot took Duck to see the Homero Manzi tango spectacular, in a night club not too far from the hostel. It was a costumed affair with a five piece band of piano, violin, bass, nylon stringed guitar (amplified) and bandoneon (accordion).



The band was great. The dancers changed costumes all night long (Plotnik can verify that each female costume change included panties of the same color as her dress. That's a lot of panties, but, trust Plottie on this one, after a bunch of those high twirls it was probably best that there were no costume malfunctions.

The show was all very 1920s, which was when Homero Manzi wrote the lyrics to these songs. Formal waiters brought Irish coffees and petit fours The walls looked like Toots Shore's or the Palm Steakhouse in Beverly Hills, with old fashioned caricatures on the walls of the great tango dancers of the day. It was fabulous for the first twenty minutes.



The last hour and a half was pure agony, with Plotnik and Ducknik both fighting sleep and twitching from time to time, a leg flying out in one direction or another, head jerking backwards, uneaten petit fours scattered. The show just wouldn't quit. Every song sounded the same and after awhile it doesn't really matter, blue underpants or red underpants or cream underpants or black underpants.

But now it's Sunday morning and Anastasia (yes, Great FiveHead, this is her name), who runs the hostel here and is a fountain of information on tango, on Argentina and especially her beloved Buenos Aires) has just finished going over her lunfardo, which is the specialized language of tango. If you don't speak lunfardo you can't understand a word of these tangos, and Plot and Duck now know exactly one song. But it's a good one, a cebollera (tear jerker). They're all tear jerkers.

Anyway, when Plot and Duck were dancing in the milonga, learning the steps by themselves, it was really fun. Tango is complex and you've got to have two people who know what they're doing. It doesn't seem possible just to allow yourself to be led, without figuring out first what you're gonna do about stepping all over your own shoes, whether it's high heels or travel clodhoppers. But you can do it. If Plot and Duck can do it, you can.