Flying Carpet

The Taming of Sharene

“Don’t rush.” “Stay there.” “I will carry you.”

This is what the men say as I learn to tango. It is a machista dance of a machista culture, to be sure. And yet I find myself wanting to learn to follow even as every ounce of my feminist self rebels at the idea of being told where to go and what to do. The tango is not like other dances, such as the waltz or salsa, in which both partners execute a repetitive series of steps embellished by turns or changes in direction. In tango, the steps themselves may take more or less time to execute, the turns are taken together, and the changes in direction might take you all the way across the floor.

There is a moment in which the women is suspended, held against the man’s body with her weight on one foot, twisting until he decides to release her. In some ways, it is her moment, and she can employ her grace and skill. In other ways, it is his moment, because if he lets go she might fall. And yet she is responsible for keeping her balance while she leans into his embrace. A paradox, perhaps, one I am trying to figure out.

At my last practice session I prepared to dance with a teacher I hadn’t met before.
    “I have to think of…” I started to say, thinking of how my weight should be forward, my torso turned in, the pressure light in my right hand, the backward steps long, my head tilted slightly to his, and, above all, my movements as slow as my partner and the music allow.
    “Don’t think,” the teacher said.

Right, just follow what the man marks for you (when have I ever done that?). Be carried. Float backwards around the room, never knowing where you will go next, or what you will be asked to do. Don’t anticipate, don’t direct, don’t hurry. Just be here. And here. Now and now and now.

A word about the shoes
After ducking into an alley and climbing up a flight of stairs, I rang the bell on the black door of "Comme Il Faut," one of the city's premier shops for tango shoes. There are virtually no samples on display because the saleswomen bring out what they think would work well for you. I tried on several pairs, but the first ones the woman brought turned out to be the best. Handcrafted of black suede, with a tall but solid heel and a pliable leather bottom, they encourage you to shift your weight to the ball of the foot. Of course they make me tower over most Argentine men who barely reach my chin when I'm not wearing heels. I left the shop with the shoes enveloped in a white silk sack and a little black canvas carrying bag--not-quite-ready to look like I know what I'm doing.

Women in Politics

Argentina holds elections on Sunday, and among the most-watched battles is one between three women in the province of Buenos Aires : current Senator Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner (wife of current Pres. Nestor Kirchner), Hilda Gonzalez de Duhalde (wife of ex-Pres. Eduardo Duhalde), and Marta Maffei, an educator. Cristina and "Chiche" (as Hilda is called) are both Peronists, but the Duhaldes hold the right to use the official party name, the Justicialist Party, so the Kirchners have created their own group called the Victory Front. Maffei is part of the opposition ARI party. The leader of ARI, Elisa Carrio, is running for the lower house of Congress. As such, she has been the target of attacks by the administration, which is running one of its ministers, Rafael Bielsa, for the same position.

For some background on the role of women in Argentine politics, see my article in Women's E-News.

Top 10 ways in which BA is like NYC

10.  Nearly every block has a pizza place.
9.    During the day the subway is the fastest way to get around.
8.    Chinese restaurants deliver to your door.
7.    People take waiting on line very seriously.
6.    On long weekends and in the summer, everyone with money heads to the country.
5.    Nail and hair salons abound in residential areas.
4.    Newspaper readers are divided between the broadsheet (La Nacion) and the tabloid (Clarin).
3.    Sports fans root for one of two city teams (soccer, not baseball).
2.    The populace is heavily caffeinated.
1.    You can hail a taxi on the street at 4 a.m.
Now that's my kind of town!

Polo, not by Ralph Lauren

...although many of the families at the Tortugas country club looked like they walked out of a Ralph Lauren ad. The wives slim and long-haired, the children beautifully blonde and barefoot, the husbands smiling in their khakis and sunglasses. Saturday was the second tournament of the spring polo season,  played by a team of four brothers against a team of two pairs of brothers. Who knew that polo was such a family affair? The reigning champs lost, but it was an exciting match, although we wondered whether the stunning athletes (the thoroughbreds) were enjoying themselves or forever wondering why they were made to run back and forth and get knocked in the ankles by a small, hard white ball (which as you see I got quite close to myself).

The Tango Lesson

I took my fourth tango lesson yesterday and then stayed for the "practica," which I danced with one of the teachers and with a Frenchman who has been taking a lot of classes.  People here say that if you learn about the dance you learn about Argentine culture and about the relationship between men and women. I am sure that I am going to write much more about the tango, but for now I'll just say, "Oh." I am beginning to understand what is so seductive about it. It will take a long time, I see now, to be able to go to a milonga and dance with anyone. But I have learned enough steps to be able to follow someone who knows that I am a beginner. And yesterday they had me lean in, so that my chest was against the man's chest, forming a slight triangle. The idea is to always be facing each other. It's not like other dances where the man sends the woman off on a twirl. You are continuously seeking your partner's core, and following closely his subtle suggestions of when to move backward, when forward, when to cross front, cross back, step over his leg, pivot in place on one leg, or even let yourself be dragged. It requires trust and, for the woman, a cessation of will, which for someone like me is very challenging. That was my first real tango lesson.

Viva El Gaucho

Just 120 kilometers outside the city of Buenos Aires and still within BA province lies La Estancia El Ombu, a working cattle ranch that was built in 1880 and has been owned by the same family since the 1930s. While the true, solitary, gaucho has become a character of legends, the tradition of using horses to manage beef cows over acres and acres of flatlands, or pampas, is still part of the Argentine economy.

At El Ombu, named for a sprawling tree of the same name, a handful of staff make you feel as if you are visiting the private house of some wealthy folk, which in a sense you are. They bring you drinks on the veranda, prepare morning coffee in the comedor, and in the afternoon serve a whopping lunch from the outdoor parrilla, which consists of an assortment of grilled meats--chorizo, sweatbreads, blood sausage, ribs, and, of course, lomo, the fine cut of steak.

I visited El Ombu last weekend with two other 30-something women, Helen from Zambia/UK and Shela from DC, who just happen to be taking the kind of break-from-regular-life that I am. As shown in the photo, we rode horses across the plains. When given the opportunity, even though I had only been on a couple of trail rides in my life, I followed the gaucho's invitation and sent my beautiful horse galloping across an open field. As anyone who knows how to ride can attest, to go from the pain-in-the-ass of trotting to the synchronous movement of galloping, in which you seem to breathe with the animal, is a revelation. It is a real thrill to go that fast with nothing holding you in place but the pressure of your own two legs and a grip on the reins.