Classes de Salsa

Why did I dream that my back hurt so much I felt the need to stretch it only to wake up and find that I really did need to stretch it (kind of like those dreams about needing to pee that I always have)? Read on to find out!!
My friend and companiera de casa (house mate) Jessica, who has been making regular appearances on this blog in varied posts from masked partier at Carnival to narrator extraordinaire for the empanada video brought me to my first salsa class at Azucar two weeks ago. Of course we were late, but jumped into it. For 10 pesos you get an hour and a half of salsa, an hour and a half of rock and roll, and then ANOTHER hour and a half more of salsa if you have the ganas (a word you should get used to: there is no direct translation, its somewhere between desire and ability and something else, its stronger and different from to want...its a great word - ex. Ulise - do you have want to dance tonight? me - hmmm, no tengo ganas depues 3 horas de bilando - i don't have ganas after dancing for three hours). Oh and did I mention the free coat check?
Well last time we had to leave because Zach and Evelyn had arrived and I had a dinner to attend, but this week we brought Ted and his friend Rebecca who was visiting and Jessica and I stayed for Rock and Roll as well. Salsa was a little bit easier this time. Again we were late, but tried to pick up the steps we had missed. First you stand in lines and practice the steps, and then you get into a circle of boys and girls. You dance for a few minutes, practice a few steps and then the girls rotate around in a circle. Its a bit like speed dating. A bit too much like speed dating. Anyway, lucky for me I eventually ended up with a guy who was actually a little bit worse than me (he lacked the strong arm that tells a woman what to do during the dance) and instead of making me turn he would tell me to turn...kinda lame, BUT he had the ganas to practice a lot so instead of standing aorund and watching I got to practice with him for a while. I was one behind Jessica, and everytime I moved to a new partner they would say to me, "Oh, you are Jessica's friend?" "Si" I would respond, and then the salsa would begin.
After Salsa was over, Jess and I decided to stay for Rock and Roll even though Ted and Rebecca dipped out. So what is Rock and Roll exactly? I was wondering myself. Its essentially Swing dancing. After a short intro dance off type thing led by this crazy guy we split off into beginner and intermediate while expert couples stayed on the floor. I, dripping with sweat, picked up quickly what I have been kind of doing anyway for years at dances. It occurred to me as I danced and twirled with an older man with longish dark curly hair, a tight grey t-shirt, large pectorals, and an annoyed look on his face aimed at the number of times he had to turn me, that I had come to Argentina to learn not one, but two dances not native to the country and one which was actually from my own. You may want to know why I am not taking Tango classes. Let's just say Tango is not what the kids are into these days. I felt increasingly silly learning how to Swing dance in the country of Tango as a Christmas song came on and I think Jess and I were the only one's who knew we were dancing to a US Christmas song in March. We left early again so we could sprint to the GIANT Coto supermarket near the class and spent way to long there wandering around, and getting yelled at of course.
At this amazing Coto there is a large table of empanadas and yummy stuff. The empandas are only $AR 1.99. We had to have one, and we couldn't wait. We went to the woman who weighs empanadas and puts the price sticker on it and we asked her if we could eat it right away. She said that once the sticker goes on we could do what we wanted! Gleefully we skipped over to the microwave and heated our prospective treats. They were tasty.
Afterwards were were wandering around wondering where in tarnation the canned good section was, and a security guard motioned to Jessica to follow him. We tried to explain that a woman told us we could eat it and that we were going to pay for everything. He would not speak a word, and every word we spoke would cause him to turn around and motion at us again with his hand. I honestly thought Jess was going to get kicked out. But no, he simply insisted that we pay for our eagerly eaten empanadas immediately. Afterwards he dragged us somewhere else and at this point I was sure we were both being kicked out. But no, he just wanted to hand us our empty Styrofoam (yes Styrofoam is still all the rage here) plates in a plastic bag so we wouldn't miss out on having them. Oh Argentina, me encantas.

Visitors Arrive

As all of you loyal readers know, my mother, younger brother, and sister arrived in Buenos Aires two Thursdays ago. For me, the anticipation was both nerve wrecking and exciting, more so the latter, of course. Yet, hosting family members in a foreign city is quite the task. If they had come here on their own without any connections, their stay would depend on their own volition to explore the city and expand their horizons, or maybe the weather. But the fact that I was here as their host and resident tour guide added some pressure in that I felt partially responsible for the success of their trip. And even more, whereas I had nearly three months in Madrid to prepare for their arrival, I had just about half that time to do that same in Buenos Aires. Still, I was more excited than anything else, especially since it was around Thanksgiving. I requested my mom bring some Thanksgiving provisions (along with peanut butter and hot sauce) for a planned Turkey Day feast with our friends from the States, so there was little doubt that we would in fact be having Thanksgiving in Buenos Aires.
But Thanksgiving was to be just the proverbial icing on the cake of their incredible week here, and sure enough it unfolded perfectly. I need not recount all the details, seeing as Julia has already done so (which is why this post as not as long as it should be), but it goes without saying that they had a spectacular time. From their first meal at Des Nivel on that initial Thursday night to a week later when close to 20 people happily crammed into our apartment for a Thanksgiving feast, Mom, Hannah, and Jacob got a great taste of the city. We explored the rich Jewish histort of Buenos Aires (including a riveting service in Belgrano), our fair San Telmo, and the Recoleta fair, even though it was oppressively hot (which led us to take advantage of their pool one afternoon after walking around La Boca). They witnessed a Cadillac victory, superior Tango in an equally grand venue, and mulitple near car crashes that are so familiar to those of us who live in this fine city. Hannah and Jacob each got to spend a night alone with us, the former involving plenty of backgammon, the latter ending as the sun rose. My family met our friends here who have made these first two months so much fun, and those friends got to spend a memorable Thanksgiving with my family and me. And appropirately enough, I'm incredibly thankful for them both.

Definition: Tango

Remember when I openly ridiculed the phrase ”a certain unexpressed sensual sadness” when describing San Telmo in my second blog post? It shouldn’t be a very hard to recall, our archives are shallow. Well, I haven’t changed my mind on the melodramatic language and still would never use such words to describe my adopted neighborhood, but I better understand it now than I did when I first wrote the post. Even more, it becomes redundant when taken within the context of the entire description (“If you think of tango, romance, and…), for it is that ornate phrase that most completely embodies tango itself.

Tango is everywhere in Buenos Aires, and we always intended on checking out a show. We happened upon this show by accident, originally wanting to simply eat at the restaurant that overlooks Plaza Dorrego on my birthday, but when they asked us if we wanted to make a reservation for the tango show, we could not resist the chance to witness one of Argentina’s gifts to the world. Just as America claims jazz as one of its national treasures, Argentina, and Buenos Aires in particular, projects itself as the home of tango dance and music. And just as jazz finds its origins in blues music that was born out of the struggles of African-Americans, tango holds a similar history as an artistic expression of the lower class in Buenos Aires (and, it must be noted, in Montevideo, Uruguay). The dance and music that accompanies it come from the slums of Buenos Aires, where poor immigrants searched for an outlet to express the hardships after relocating from Europe (like many American cities, Buenos Aires was a popular destination for impoverished western Europeans looking to escape the squalor of their continental cities during the nineteenth century. It still remains a confluence of various European cultures, namely Spanish and Italian, but architecturally French, which is a big reason why some refer to BsAs as the Paris of South America) The downtrodden immigrants borrowed elements of European dances (primarily the Spanish habanera) to create something distinctly porteño, a sensual manifestation of their sad plight.

I do not claim to be a tango expert, especially since our first and only tango experience took place at a somewhat touristy restaurant, not at one of many milongas (tango dance halls) that litter the neighborhood and city as a whole. Not only do I have nothing to compare this show to, but I acknowledge that it wasn’t the most authentic locale, which could render my comments applicable to our show and others like it, but not to tango in general.

Still, what I did see was a dance saturated with sensuality and sadness. The two dancers, a male and a female (it takes two to tango), who alternated between very traditional and roaring twenties garb, would dance for one song at a time. Indeed, some of these songs were more upbeat and lighthearted, with both sporting subtle smiles; but the majority of their tango vignettes were set to slow paced songs and accompanied by long, sweeping movements with occasional flurries of staccato leg waving and foot tapping. These beautiful, controlled outbursts, reminded me of two birds ruffling their feathers and shuffling their feat in an attempt to court the other, which emitted a palpable sensuality to the affair. The sadness, for me, comes primarily from the music, which sounds like a voice crying out for someone to listen to its heartbreaking story. When there is vocal accompaniment, the voices often sound desperate in their struggle. In addition, the male dancer inspired sadness in me. For much of the dance (with the picture to the left not an example), the woman wore the previously mentioned subtle smile, whereas the male’s face looked focused with stoic, unfulfilled desire, unsure if whether or not the woman’s smile stemmed from dancing with him or just the dance itself. Their faces would nearly touch, even appearing to approach a kiss, only to separate once more and continue the steps. But the male never let on that he was frustrated by these close encounters that failed to come to fruition, at times looking as though he had come to accept this sad fate. I’m not sure if this was an intended effect or if I was reading too far into the performance, but coupled with the music (and maybe the wine), I couldn’t help but envision the man’s despair as the sadness of a possibly unrequited love. Or, more likely, it was merely a reflection of the general sadness in his life as a poor immigrant being oppressed by the powers that be. Either one works for me. I’m thinking another show is in order for further research into the matter.
The show and delicious lomo we dined on made for a great and unique birthday celebration. Thanks again to all emails, Facebook messages, and the like wishing me a happy birthday, I appreciate the love. And if you didn’t send along anything, I won’t hold it against you...for too long. Here are some additional pictures from the evening.