It Takes Three to Tango

I place one hand solidly around the small of her back, and take her hand with the other. We stand inches apart as I move, my chest pushing her forward. Our feet glide as one, step by step across the smooth wooden floor. Her long legs anticipate my movements, the scent of flowers drifts off her hair, and her milky soft hands lay firm in mine. The tango is a dance of passion, firmly connecting the instinctual roles of feminine and masculine; and had this woman been fifty years younger, I might have sensed some of that.

This was my first class of tango in Buenos Aires and it was already an experience. Although I had come to class with a stunning, radiant girl from Oregon, I soon found myself in the firm grasp of my long lost Argentine grandmother. She gave a polite smile as I attempted maneuvering her around the several other couples in the small dance studio with the “basic steps” I had learned. These basic steps being successive quick and slow movements, depending on the beat of the music. I didn't even hear the music at that point, my only goal was not to crush her ancient toes. In order for two to tango, a third is necessary: the teacher.

Hypatia had arrived earlier in the week on a twenty-five hour trip from Oregon to Argentina with no other goals in mind than to dance the tango, drink wine, and relax. Somehow, I couldn't argue with that and we quickly signed up for an eight-day tango package at the local dance school. Other than the place being peculiarly hard to find (before crossing through the art gallery, you make a left at the picture of a midget sumo wrestler holding a birdcage), it was perfect. There were two rooms, one slightly bigger than the other, and classes were held all day, nearly every day. This excited Hypatia; she considered dropping nursing school to live in Argentina and dance the tango. I agreed to be her partner as long as she learned to be as graceful as my new tango grandma.

Over several weeks, different teachers taught us posture, walking posture, the eight-count (with the right posture), “ochos” and “crusadas”, and they did mention a thing or two about posture. Machismo is almost the foundation of the tango posture. The teacher repeated, “Chest up and out, shoulders relaxed.” Inevitably, every two minutes he repeated it directly to me. Finally he took things into his own hands. What I mean is, he took me into his own hands, and placed me in the exact position, opposite his. Holding his hand and wrapping my arm around his back, my mind had conflicting signals. I wasn't sure I wanted to feel manly right now.

After the first day, I had muscles in my lower back ache that I didn't even know existed. I found myself sticking my chest out at the grocery store, in restaurants, and while inexplicably helping old ladies cross the street. I made sure to remind Hypatia to stick her chest and butt out too... for the respect of the tradition. She reminded me, in turn, men lead the dance, so if she makes any mistakes, it's my fault. So I lead her into the kitchen to make me a sandwich.

When we had gotten a very basic idea of moving around a dance floor, we decided to attend a Milonga, which is a local dance hall, playing all sorts of music, mainly tango. We had found a girl on my favorite travel social network, www.couchsurfing.org, who knew about tango and invited us out with a couple of her friends.

The first thing I learned about Milonga versus a dance studio is space. There is none. Dozens of couples filled the floor for each song, leaving pockets of air between the quick and graceful professionals and the skittish and hesitant amateurs. It was like I had learned to swim the backstroke, then I was thrown into a bathtub. When I took Hypatia out for a dance, I found I not only had to watch out for stepping on her feet, but also all the other surrounding women. Luckily, as a kid I mastered "Minesweeper" on the computer.

I came to notice that the intensity and technicality of the dance is the man's responsibility. Women taking a first class tripped over the men they were with, but once in the hands of the teacher, they looked like they had been raised in three-inch tango heels. On our third class, the teacher took Hypatia to show a few moves. She whipped around him with youthful grace, her legs gliding through the air, following his every move. When she was done, I said, “wow, way to show off.” She laughed, “I have no idea what I did. Did that look okay?”

It's nice to know eventually I'll be able to take all the credit for the dance. Right now, though, I am only taking credit for my macho posture.