The table, I shall report, was quite well behaved all evening. Didn't try to leave or make a fuss once. The people were another story... naw, they were mostly within the confines of basic human decency. No chants of "kill the pig, kill the pig, spill its blood" erupted... no fires (aside from conflagrations in the soul upon a transcendent tango fully realized) were ignited, and any "roughing up" between milonguero and nuevo enthusiasts must have at least waited until a convenient dark alley way had been located. My only complaint was the inevitable impossibility of getting anyone to leave when the evening was officially completed. The cumparsita played, the fat lady sang. but the revelers lingered on chattering about tango and life and all manner of things. It's charming that people enjoyed such swells of bonhomie in our venue, but my bed may have been calling to me and - as I am the key master - their intransigence stood between me and that lovely heated mattress pad and sweet pre-connubial embrace of my dear fiance who had sat guard with me most of the evening. I danced sparingly, given my fealty to desk-duty, but occasionally. Mostly with Mr. (W)right who is valiantly endeavoring to study tango in Seattle to actually maybe some day enjoy being my tango plus-one. Limited dancing aside, it was fun to see people swirl about, swap greetings, and listen to some good tunes tinged with teehees and glittering giggles from attendees. Tango should be fun. It was fun. Mission: Accomplished (featuring Tom Cruise dropping from the ceiling mid-vals and stealing a particularly fancy pair of green comme il fauts off a follow's feet).
On Saturday night, strapped on the same neotangos, but compromised a bit between my contrary yens for warmth and prettiness, settling on tight pants and a shirt that didn't look like I'd thrown it on after a one-night-fling with a co-ed to prepare for my walk of shame. Oh and new socks of course.
They say "Tango," which is unfortunately obfuscated by the T (T for TANGO!!) strap. And really, as it turns out, they were quite tangoable. Fortunate, since aside from those bruited codigas of tango - cortinas, cabeceos and all other things sponsored by the letter C - there is also a fast and hard rule of tango: The person you most want to dance with will only be free and ask you to dance just after you have changed out of your shoes. I've learned to roll with it and take that most coveted dance in socks. Besocked tango always felt more intimate anyways (just so long as the partner is trustworthy enough not to need those spiky heels on my shoes to keep in check, of course). And it adds a level of novelty insofar as I immediately shrink down four inches absent my heels, allowing my partner and I to experience each other at a whole 'nother level (har har). In this case the partner was my HPL, just back from a quarter in Buenos Aires, and the tanda happened to be a milonga tanda. Of all things to have very slipper soles and little foot protection, milonga - a rapidly danced cousin of tango known for small quick steps and several short stops and intentional staggers. Catastrophe lingered at foot, but my toes remain only as blackened and battered as they have been since that epic quest to Tahoe.
The quirk of this milonga was its focus on the Chacarera, an Argentine folk dance occasionally danced at milongas and festivals in between tandas. It was entertaining to watch our local dancers bluff their way through it with increasing pomp by the end of the lesson. I suppose it looked fun enough, but I'd just as soon have a drawn out swing or salsa mix between tandas for my non-tango dancing. Or, hell, just some alternative sets that allow a bit of blues fusion. It's far too cold in that studio to wear a properly swishy skirt! My toes already get numb enough.
I did manage a few lovely tandas with some of my frequent flier club members, and also had a very nice gentleman approach me with quivering timidity and ask if I might think it safe to dance with him. He appeared to be concerned by my apparent status as a "pro" to his "amateur" by which he appeared to mean that I do in fact teach lessons for various forms of remuneration (although, perhaps more interesting rumours are flourishing just abaft of my well toed tango socks). I told him that if he would promise not to punch me in the face or kick me in the shin, I would retract my stilettos appropriately. He readily obliged. With all the lead up, I feared not only for my toes, but for my life. As it would turn out he's more than well accomplished, if quite tentative at times, and became quite possibly one of my favorite dances of the evening. We chaffed a smidge over images of bloodied knees and tango holocausts and then exchanged suggestions for remembering each other's names. He connected best with the "Dude, you're getting Adell...uh" line, although since his name was Glen, I rather liked the combining of Glenns and Dells.
At any rate, there was a new outbreak of chacarera slated for an hour and a half into the event, and I'd promised Andrew we could leave at that time. He would willingly stay the entire evening, but I know he'd rather not. And/or that if we stay longer than a specific time he'll just fall asleep in a corner somewhere.
So of course the chacarera occured, my HPL found me just afterwards bundled and booted. I shied said boots in preference for socks and had that utterly delightful milonga that hit my musical G-Spot, before we rushed home and I collapsed in a pile of jelly and slightly cramping calves. As such, I didn't dance all that much last night either. Meaning, that really between two back to back events, I danced probably less than I usually would in a night of dancing under usual circumstances. And since I'm physically incapable of sleeping in, I managed a sparing pittance of sleep and am rather drowsy today despite the early departure.
I still rather wish that somebody made tango events for old fogeys like me. Preferably ones that ended before 8:00 p.m. and started, well, any time before that. Of course there are tango teas - traditionally on Sunday - that can fit that bill, but then they are traditionally on Sunday and Sunday is my evening of solitude to prepare for the week. Andrew suggested perhaps tango brunch on Saturday should be a new tradition. I'm certainly behind it. I still like my idea for an early bird tango event that bridges those just off late night dancing and those just rising as rosy-fingered dawn does her morning sky things.
But I'm glad that occasionally I can pull my heels out of bed at 9:00 p.m. and exchange my comfy robe for an intimate abrazo. Now for a nap and happy fantasies about my next tango... a ways down the road no doubt.
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