milonga | Nancy Learns the Tango

It Takes Way More Than Two

Last Tango in Chelsea. A tribute to Triangulo: New York City’s only studio dedicated to the Argentine tango—closes. For now. We await its transformation to a new location.

I’ve never been much of a party girl. Or if I had been, I have no memory of it. I hated bars. And a barstool doesn’t have any back support. I failed substance abuse, and the only altered state I could manage was a sugar induced one. But intoxication took on a whole new dimension, and all my head-spinning attempts at inebriation vanished the moment I took my first steps of the Argentine tango.

It was on pure whim, some amount of guts, a free Monday night, and close proximity to the PATH Train that first led me to Triangulo. As soon as I walked into this dance studio, I knew I’d entered another realm. The room was warm and inviting and evoked another century, with its burgundy colored walls, its gold accents, and crowned with a collection of ornate, mismatched chandeliers. And all of this against the backdrop of the lavish, Bruegel-like mural of tango dancers—in full swing. Dancers that I’d eventually come to learn were real people —the luminaries of tango past and present.

So with one foot in, I signed up for my first beginner-class package, and followed the well-worn path of tangueras before me—the dancing odyssey of intelligent women—who were once level headed.

Though after my first class of stepping on, and being stepped on, I wondered why in the hell I’d want to obey, and follow any man around a dance floor, engaging in something that set women back decades—backwards and in heels.

But, it only took until the second class to understand that my role was as important as his. For without me, there’d be no dance. And if I ever got past the awkward, jostling beginner stage, and avoided shoulder dislocation from over-enthusiastic leads, I might actually learn.

So one class per week became two, and two became three, and in no time I’d developed a pretty healthy tango habit. I became a willing participant in the twelve steps of tango addiction. I danced almost every night of the week. I planned my life around classes and milongas. I made excuses for, and bowed out of social events that interfered with my tango schedule. And if this were even possible, I found seven nights a week to love shoes that much more. My work suffered. My feet hurt. I laughed more. I talked about tango so much that my friends and family were either becoming very concerned—or entirely bored.

But nothing could stop me. How could I turn my back on so much joy? For the first couple of years, I took every level of every class with my beloved first teachers—the talented triumvirate of Carina, Laure and Dante. And if that weren’t enough of an embarrassment of riches, along came two powerhouse couples in the form of Carolina and Andres, and Ana and Diego. Triangulo’s teachers were determined to make dancers of us all—and they used everything they had to get it done. With their passion, dedication, creativity, generosity, and a whole lot of laughing, we became tango dancers.

But Triangulo and the Argentine tango turned out to be more than I’d expected. Aside from learning the dance and having a cult-like, nifty, portable skill, I made friends. Good friends. People shared their lives with me—in between dances. I met someone who told me that he had nothing until he’d found tango. Another told me that after a bitter divorce, tango had prevented him for walking into oncoming traffic. And since then he’s met and married the love of his life—a tanguera he’d met at the Union Square milonga. A dear friend recently told me that tango allowed him to enter (with another) into a world without words. I saw how tango changed lives, and in some cases, it even saved lives.

I met people from all over the world, and though we spoke different languages, we danced in only one.

On a lighter note, I’ve never laughed as hard as I have on this dance floor. Whether it was cracking up mid-dance over some of the best jokes I’ve ever heard, or whether the hilarity was due to Dante’s Always-Keep‘em-Laughing School of Dance. At times, it’s been near impossible to maintain a serious tango face.

And all of that happened here, at Triangulo—our dancing living room.

These days though, Triangulo is much more than a dance studio—it has become a refuge. As I witness the decimation of social, economic and environmental justice, and when I can’t take another piece of breaking news, or one more obscene tweet, I always had Triangulo. And because of tango’s own constitution—its respected rules of etiquette, I knew that when I entered this studio of friends, or potential new friends, I could expect to enjoy an evening of vibrant, joyful, equitable, civil, and consensual dancing.

Tonight, when I leave for the last time, I’ll be accompanied by tango music as it tumbles out of the third floor window and onto 20^th Street. There were times, that if I listened very closely, I’ve been able to hear the music almost all the way to 6th Avenue.

Carina, thank you for creating the warm, welcoming and vibrant place that we’ve come to love, and to depend on.

Whenever and wherever Triangulo’s transformation turns out to be—when you build it, we will come.

See what Triangulo is up to now.

6 Comments

November 16, 2015

Have Dance Floor, Will Travel

It’s early November and all but one* of New York City’s outdoor milongas (tango social dances) have closed up shop for the season. Our gracious hosts have filed away their NYC Parks Department permits, packed up their transportable sound systems and disassembled their portable dance floors, all of it stowed and in hibernation until spring.

I had a wonderful time of it this summer and early fall, dancing around the Shakespeare statue in Central Park, tangoing to live music at Lincoln Center’s Midsummer Night’s Swing and watching the sun set, reflecting orange on the Hudson as I gazed over my partner’s shoulder. But what really made this outdoor tango season wonderful was the addition of “Riverside Gypsy Tango” to my dance card.

The Argentine tango can have an all-embracing effect on people. It tiptoed into my life by infiltrating my daydreams, co-opting my conversation and compelling me to go out dancing every night of the week. It altered my posture (in a good way), expanded my musical tastes and wardrobe, and it continues to fuel my creativity.

It affects others in different ways. In the case of my friend Dirk, tango led him to buy 800 pounds of portable parquet dance flooring.

Dirk, an enterprising tanguero (male tango dancer) set out to realize his dream of an egalitarian, come-as-you-are milonga. He wanted to create a space where anyone could ask anyone to dance, regardless of gender, age, ethnicity, previous experience, what you’re wearing or the amount of leg you choose to show. And most importantly, he wanted to stage the dance in an outdoor public space. “Tango is a dance of the street,” he says. “Whether people come by to dance, or they chance upon it, maybe while walking their dog and sit and stay to watch for a while. Each person shares and contributes to its energy and so I’d like each person to feel equally involved and welcome.” He joked that his ultimate goal really was to create a place where he could dance tango in his pajamas.

So with an initial 200 pounds of DanceDeck Deluxe simulated oak parquet modular flooring (which he kept stacked against a wall in his fifth-floor walk-up) and a dream, Dirk scouted the length of Riverside Park for ideal locations to stage his equal opportunity milonga. He eventually secured Parks Department permits for three Hudson River locations; Locomotive Lawn at 62^nd Street, Pier I at 70^th Street, and the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument at 89^th Street. Dirk also convinced the department to let him store the flooring at the 79^th Street Boat Basin. Then he enlisted our friend and now resident DJ, Jun Kim, and the nomadic “Riverside Gypsy Tango” was born.

Locomotive Lawn is aptly named, for it features retired locomotive No. 25 and was once part of the Penn Central freight rail yard. It’s a quirky spot: The lawn portion, which runs between Trump Towers and the Hudson River is a patch of Astroturf that seems more like a mini-golf course than a meadow. But still, it’s a wonderful place to set up a dance floor with its stunning river views.

Pier I was also once part of the rail yard. It was built on the remains of the original wooden shipping pier, jutting 795 feet into the Hudson. Dancing at the tip of the pier, practically on the water, in the middle of the river, is nothing short of miraculous.

But of the three locations, my favorite, is the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument. Built atop a promontory, at the north side of the marble-columned structure and down the grand staircase is a charming formal terrace. The balustraded balcony with its arcing granite benches sits high in a crown of trees. It’s a perfect place for contemplation, Shakespeare re-runs and Argentine tango.

On a warm Friday evening at the end of May, with Metro card and dance shoes in hand, I crossed the Hudson and made my way to the Upper West Side to participate in Dirk’s humble, egalitarian milonga experiment, and to scuff up and help inaugurate his parquet floor.

I was expecting Dirk to make an announcement, but there was no mention made of setting aside the long-established protocol where men invite women to dance. So I followed tango etiquette and sat patiently (sort of) for an invitation. I made a mental note to add the Upper West Side to my repertoire of places where I’ve waited to be asked to dance. Which felt strikingly similar to waiting to be asked downtown.

Eventually I was invited to dance by one of the founding fathers of social tango in New York. After two songs, he “thanked” me (ended the dance) mid-set, but he was so kind about it that I hardly had the chance to feel terrible. He escorted me back to my granite plinth, sat down and proceeded to put on a down jacket and a wool cap. I questioned him about his expedition gear on such a warm spring night, the kind of night we’d waited for all winter. He told me he became cold and tired easily because he was anemic. I wished him well…but…what a relief! Our abbreviated dance had nothing to do with me–or my dancing.

As it turned out, and as Dirk had hoped, dancing was only part of the evening. The tango music, artfully arranged by Jun, with its melodic tone that is sometimes mournful and at other times playful, was made even more so by the acoustics of our semicircular granite tree house. I talked with friends and watched the dancers gliding across the floor under a canopy of green. I took a stroll around the patio, petted dogs and chatted with people who had happened upon us and were curious about tango.

At the end of the evening, I asked Dirk why he hadn’t announced a waiver of the time-honored code of who-asks-who-to-dance. “As my understanding of tango and its protocols have evolved” he said, “I’ve come to feel that each person approaches the dance along their own path, so in order to give people latitude to explore their feeling towards tango I wanted to leave my own expectations out.” So in lieu of a group agreement to do otherwise, 125 years of tango etiquette and its codes prevailed.

His generous, open spirit, love of tango as well as the stunning Riverside Park locations is why Dirk and Jun’s Riverside Gypsy Tango became a resounding success. So much so, that they eventually had to quadruple the dance floor to 40 square yards, weighing in at a hefty 800 pounds.

At the end of that first night back in May, we passed the hat in appreciation of a magnificent evening of tango and perhaps to help offset the cost of the chiropractic care that Dirk and Jun would surely need after packing up and hauling the laminated flooring back to the 79^th Street Boat Basin. Fortunately, all ten blocks are downhill.

*Note: For the most intrepid of tangueros, the milonga on the mighty Hudson at the end of Christopher Street Pier is still going strong. So put on your base, insulating and windproof layers, and if you’ve got shearling-lined tango shoes–wear them. This milonga runs until the first snow.

Dirk

me & charles hiro 2

http://www.nejat.com/

6 Comments

April 29, 2014

Apparently And Ultimately…It Takes Two

In my efforts to sharpen my focus, continue to evolve, and enjoy the Argentine tango, I made the counterintuitive decision to reduce the amount of weekly dance classes by 80 percent. For almost two years I’d religiously attended almost every class that was offered at Triangulo—my dance studio.

I’m not such a great dancer that I’m past the need of instruction, for I will always be learning, re-learning and refining the fundamentals of tango: walking, posture, balance and the embrace. But as I’ve become a better dancer, I‘m now able to recognize what good tango feels like and as a result, I prefer to learn and dance with men who can, well, dance.

Lately at milongas (social dances) I’ve been surprised that while dancing with some of the same men that only a year ago I once thought terrific, I now find myself hoping that the tanda (tango dance set) is a group of three songs instead of five.

So, it was time to say adios to many of the earnest, fledgling dancers and bid fare-thee-well to the ones who were in need of remedial tango. In order to continue to learn, I needed to dance with better leads. So perhaps as they evolve, we shall meet again. Goodbye to the beginner, advanced beginner, pre-intermediate and intermediate classes and hello to a six-week advanced class taught by our beloved teachers Ana and Diego.

But there was a catch. Did I mention that the advanced class was a partnered class? In other words, I had to have a pre-designated dance partner in order to participate–unlike every other class I had taken up to this point where we rotated and changed partners after every dance. This advanced class required that I show up with my very own leading man, to have and to hold. We would remain as a couple for the entire six-week session.

Off the dance floor, one of the things that has eluded and confounded me the most is couple-hood. While I’ve not been without love and I’ve not been without intimacy–and sometimes they’ve even managed to show up at the same time, longevity in an intimate partnership still remains a mystery to me.

Being uncoupled is also at odds with much of society. It does not fit the domestic norm, and is seen as an aberration. Just try being a middle-aged, never-been-married, non-mother and step outside of your cosmopolitan city. I met a married Midwestern mother of a couple of young children who chatted me up about her kids and her husband and then kindly asked about me. When I told her that I had never been married and had no children, she exclaimed with horror (or sympathy or envy or perhaps all three), “Good for you!” Well yes, it is good for me because that is how I’ve chosen to live my life up until now.

That’s enough about the hackneyed plight of single womanhood. I was on a mission to procure a dance partner for a six-week limited engagement!

I made a mental scan of all the classmates I’ve known, and truly loved dancing with and without hesitation, I chose Charles. We adore Charles. He is an equal opportunity flirt of the best kind. He loves women—all women. Charles has the rare ability to make each and everyone one of us feel like the only goddess on the dance floor. He’s kind, gentle, beyond muscular and muy sexy. And just when I thought chivalry had left the building and didn’t hold the door open for me, Charles appears at the doorway beckoning me to step over the threshold. Oh, and did I mention that he’s a superb dancer? I invited Charles to be my partner and he readily accepted.

The theme of this advanced class was musicality. Simply stated by Merriam- Webster, musicality means sensitivity to, knowledge of, or talent for music. In tango, being able to comprehend the music is everything. During first year we learn steps and patterns, which are plenty complicated enough to lead and to follow. But as we progress, we discover that in order to make these sequences look and more importantly feel like tango we must interpret and improvise these patterns with individuality and feeling. All to the rhythms, melodies, phrases and the silences in tango music.

I arrived at the first musicality class and I was all set to face the music except for one small detail. My partner did not show up. My dashing lead Charles, due to unforeseen work complications, missed the class. Fortunately I was able to participate for there was an extra lead whose partner had also failed to turn up.

But as it turned out Charles missed half of the classes. I was relegated to the bench as I watched the class dance on without me—where I sat visibly distraught and feeling humiliated at being stood up and made publicly partner-less. I may as well have been wearing a scarlet letter emblazoned on my chest: “S” for Single (or for Shame).

I was crushingly disappointed as I was so looking forward to dancing with this lovely young man (by young I mean 33). For often when I despair of being single, one enraptured dance is a reminder that I’m beautiful and that there are wonderful men out there—and I ought to stay in the game. Dancing with Charles is that kind of experience.

To the uninitiated, the tango can look like an intimate conversation that once started, is best finished off the dance floor. But for those of us inside the tango embrace, which may (and often does not) include sexual attraction, the language is that of deep, mesmeric connection. Our goal is to dance as one to tango’s time-honored steps and to be so attuned that we’ve abandoned our separate selves. When the song is over, and we’ve parted, I sometimes feel as if I’ve awoken from a trance-like state. And that is what makes dancing the Argentine tango so intoxicating.

I’ve often wondered how a wife or girlfriend can stomach watching her partner in the embrace of another woman and then another—all night long. As an outsider I can only guess as to how married and other exclusive couples manage all this extra-marital dancing. Perhaps it’s no surprise that some tangoists leave their significant others at home. Of course there are couples where both are tango dancers. I’ve noticed that they often dance mostly or only with each other.

All conjecture aside, I owe a debt of gratitude to the couples that recognize their partner’s passion for the tango. I directly benefit from the pairs that believe that one cannot own another and happily send their spouses and boyfriends out the door, with dance shoes in hand. For without their generosity of spirit, the dance floors would be half empty and I would not be able to learn this marvelous dance.

One of my classmates had been given a list by his wife of women she preferred he did not dance with—presumably the prettiest and most flirtatious. I discovered that I was not on that list. I don’t know whether I was pleased or insulted.

Whether on or off the dance floor, at times I’ve been cognizant that my simply being man-less may be seen as a threat to some partnered women as they stand guard. I have no intention of upsetting twosomes and absconding with someone’s husband. I don’t want someone else’s husband. I’m very respectful of monogamous relationships. For instance, when engaged in conversation with one of these duos, I behave accordingly–I apportion at least 75 percent of my attention to the female of the pair bond.

But back on the dance floor all bets are off. If I want to participate in this intimate art form, the Argentine tango, then 100 percent of my attention must be paid to my partner.

Though I remain uncoupled as I write this–much to my bewilderment and that of my friends, (and especially my mother). But an evening of dancing tango allows me to change partners every 15 minutes—and love the one I’m with.

14 Comments

February 4, 2014

When The Thrill Is Gone…?

Tango and I recently celebrated our Second Year Anniversary. This momentous occasion neatly coincided with bringing in the New Year and turning a page of my own calendar, my 56^thbirthday.

That gave me three excellent reasons to celebrate and literally kick up my heels. Not too high a kick though, so as to not injure others on the dance floor with a potentially poorly timed boleo (a whip-like swinging of the leg).

To celebrate my auspicious day, a dear friend and fellow tanguera Shawne, treated me to evening of tango on both Upper Sides of Manhattan.

We began on the Upper East at The Museum of the City of New York. The museum was hosting an Argentine tango themed event inspired by a painting exhibition depicting the tango dancers in Central Park. At times, I too have been seen in the park dancing around the Shakespeare statue on a midsummer’s night. The viewing was followed by a dance performance with Maria Blanco and Jorge Torres, who were accompanied by a tango orchestra, all of which was flawlessly performed under the spiral of a gleaming, white marble staircase. Though lovely and wonderful to watch, by the end of the show we’d had our fill of tango as spectator sport and so with a wink and a nod, we grabbed our tango shoes (never leave home without them) and set out to find the nearest dance floor.

We taxied our way across town to the Upper West. Headed to a milonga (tango social) hosted by the flaming-red-headed, rhinestone-encrusted, peace-sign-wearing, irrepressible Lucille. It was there that I was honored with my very first birthday dance. For the uninitiated, this is tango’s way of saying Happy Birthday. The lucky celebrant stands in the middle of the dance floor and for the length of one tango, leads (usually men) or follows (usually women) take their turn dancing with the honoree, aka me. That night as I passed the halfway point of my 50s (never to return), I celebrated with good friends and took part in the tango rite of passage as I was spun around the dance floor by a revolving door of dashing leads.

While this all sounds lively and fun and engaging–and it was–I never in a million tandas (tango dance sets) thought I’d be saying this: Sadly, some of the thrill is gone. I seem to have reached what may be an inevitable plateau. Now I’m not talking about a high plateau of dancing excellence. I would characterize this as more of a low mesa, at an intermediate level. The novelty has worn off and some of the passion has begun to lag.

How could this possibly happen? The tango and I were madly in love for the better part of two years, to the detriment of all other relationships. Even my dog was wondering where the heck I had up and gone off to. I couldn’t wait until the end of my workday so that I could put together that night’s outfit, apply my mascara, grab my tango shoes and head into the city. All dressed up with someplace to go. At one point, I was taking two or three classes a night and a couple on a Saturday afternoon, plus three or even four milongas and practicas weekly. I was gliding (when I wasn’t sitting and waiting to be asked) across one dance floor or another at least 20 hours a week. Lest you think that sounds a tad excessive, I was in very good company. The classes were well attended and the social dances were packed with plenty of other familiar dancing fools.

This may come as a shock but…10-plus tango classes a week is now too much. Two and three classes a night began to feel like a run-on sentence in need of punctuation. Not surprisingly, dance class fatigue has set in and I’m not having quite a much fun as I used to.

One of the reasons may be that, as I’ve progressed, it’s become apparent that we are not all advancing at the same rate, and the skill level at times is uneven. In deference to my classmates, most of them have become great dancers and are as nuts about the tango as I. Then there are the others that ought to repeat a grade. In the beginning, it was much easier to dance with everyone. I knew nothing, they knew nothing—it was a match! But after two years of dedicated (if not obsessive) practice, simply put, it’s easier and more enjoyable to learn with the leads who can lead and frustrating to learn with those who can’t.

At the risk of sounding like a late night infomercial that addresses loss of desire, how then do I put the spark back into my relationship with tango?

When I told my friend Melissa how I was feeling, she sent me a terrific article titled “The Psychology of Getting Unstuck: How to Overcome The OK Plateau.” It describes the three stages that we pass through when acquiring new skills, the last one being the comfort zone of autopilot, when one is satisfied with their skill level and improvement slows to a halt.

Whether I’m on an OK plateau or a complacent mesa, it’s time to revaluate and come up with a strategy to continue to challenge myself and ultimately free up some more joy. I talked with my teachers and a few longtime tango-dancing friends and they had a few ideas. One of my teachers recommended that for now, I take fewer classes and attend more milongas. At her suggestion, I’ve reduced the number of classes by 80 percent and am now taking only two classes a week. I’ve also made it a point to ask my instructors for more targeted feedback so that my practice can be more focused, whether in class or when budget allows, a private lesson or at a social dance.

When I was dancing with my friend Daniel the other day, he remarked that I had not posted anything new to Nancy Learns The Tango since November and that its absence had not gone unnoticed. “Nancy, your fans await you,” he said. I told him that I was working on an essay titled “When The Thrill Is Gone.” He stopped mid-ocho (pivoting to form a figure-eight) and said, “You may not want to mention that to your dance partners, especially while dancing with them.”

We cracked up, laughing so hard that we could not continue dancing, causing a traffic jam on the dance floor. I agreed with him and let him know that present company was excluded. As we rejoined the line of dance, Daniel noted that since I am no longer a beginner, having traveled way past the stage of causing injury to myself or to others, I now have the opportunity to experience and enjoy tango from a contemplative and inward perspective. A dancing meditation if you will.

Tango demands that I pay attention, to be present so that I can respond to and interpret my partner’s improvised steps. That’s right…improvised. He may have no idea what he’s going to do next until he does it! Therefore, anticipation on my part can really mess up the works and will inhibit my connecting with him and consequently, even though I am in his arms, it may cause me miss out on the dance. It’s essential that I check all outside distractions at the door, for if a thought comes in, I often stumble, and my partner, if he’s tune with me, will know that I’ve “left the room.”

Later that evening, I asked Daniel what tango meant to him. He thought for a moment, shrugged and said, “Sometimes when I ask myself why I on earth do I keep doing this, the only thing that I can come up with is that…I simply love to dance!”

Tango is a dance of communication, passion and partnership. The irony is that since we change partners after each set, we are in and out of a new relationship every 15 minutes. The one constant, the one partnership that I can count on is ultimately and thankfully the one I have with myself.

So maybe the thrill doesn’t have to go. Perhaps approaching tango from the inside out can be my new tactic. As our relationship matures and we dance on into our third year, the tango and I will adjust to each other’s rhythms. And as I continue to search for deeper meaning, perhaps the answer was always right there at my feet–I simply love to dance the Argentine tango.

20 Comments

August 15, 2013

The Night I Cheated On Tango With ………… The Salsa King Of Siberia

Since it’s apparent that the tango and I are not splitting up anytime soon, my friends and family have gotten used to the idea that we are an item. But prior to their approval, somewhere between curiosity and acceptance, a particular family member (okay…my mother), had some ideas as to how I could augment my new found passion for the Argentine tango.

My beloved mom, in her not-so-subtle way of coaxing me to mingle with singles, (Jewish and eventually otherwise), has often suggested alternatives to my extracurricular activities, proposing other amusements and venues that she thought were more likely to result in pair bonding.

“Have you ever considered Club Med?” she asked as I was almost out the door with my boat, paddle and helmet to kayak the Chattooga, Ocoee and Rogue Rivers of Georgia, Tennessee and Oregon.

“How about a singles trip to Israel?” she suggested as I packed my hiking boots, ice axe and antibiotics for a three-week trek to the Himalayan foothills of Nepal, India, Tibet and Bhutan.

“What about learning to play bridge?” she asked as I grabbed my tango shoes, a back up pair of tango shoes and breath mints as I was running into New York headed for a milonga (tango social dance) at the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant.

Well… I am happy to report that recently she has changed her tune, gotten in step and has reconsidered her approach. Now she is recommending that I learn other dance styles!

As coincidence would have it, a dear friend, recognizing my love for tango and assuming I had a free night and room enough in my heart for another type of dance, gave me a gift certificate to the Piel Canela Dance School of Latin Arts.

And so, armed with beginner’s-mind and my tango shoes that I hoped could double as Latin shoes, I set out to learn salsa.

I’d grown used to Triangulo’s studio, an inviting room that evokes another century with its collection of mismatched chandeliers and lavish mural of tango dancers. Piel Canela, however, felt like Adult Continuing Ed of Latin Dances. Room after mirrored room filled with the music and students of Salsa, Samba, Merengue and Zouk.

The teacher was terrific and by the end of the second class she had us shimmying our shoulders and shaking our hips. The music made me want to…well…dance, unlike the music of tango that makes me want to put a knife through my heart right after I pulled it out of someone else’s.

After a few classes and an understanding of the basic step, I was asked to a salsa social by–of all people–a tango friend, Igor. Or is that Eye-Gor?

I first glimpsed Igor at a milonga, with his shiny black ponytail and almond-shaped eyes. Wonderful! A Native American dancing tango! And then he spoke…with a Russian accent as he offered me some of the beet and sour cream concoction that he’d brought as his contribution to the festivities. Igor, who dances salsa in Siberia, was visiting New York City for a few months with the express purpose of learning the Argentine tango.

He was intriguing, with brooding Inuit good looks that could give way to eruptions of laughter at anytime, without warning. And around his neck he wore an amulet that looked as if it held the key to the enigmatic Russian soul and could have been purchased from the Dan Brown gift shop.

When I told him I had been taking salsa classes, he grabbed my hand, pulled me into the hallway and invited me to dance and show him what I had learned. Afterward he looked at me with disgust. “You did 17 things wrong” he said. Which I found amusing since salsa is an 8-count step, two of which are silent. Do the math.

On the dance floor he had an unconventional way of combining the giddy flirtiness of salsa with the serious sensuality of tango. Though off the dance floor, his social skills needed some tending to. Nevertheless, on a Friday night, off we went to dance salsa with a stop for a cup of tea at his favorite eatery, the 7-Eleven.

When we arrived at the social and one-two-buckled my shoes, I was asked to dance by Roberto. So what if he came up to my elbow, even with his Cuban heels and a fedora. I rarely turn down an invitation to dance, but felt obligated to advise him of my beginner status. He held out his hand and said, “I cannot in all good conscience let a women with red shoes sit.” Which is, by the way, exactly why I wear red shoes.

Over the evening, Igor and I danced a few dances though I could see he was eager to shine. So I cut him loose so that he could shake it and shimmy with other more experienced partners.

I found the men to be delightfully gregarious and generous, a sharp contrast to some of the men I‘ve observed dancing tango that can be arrogant and selective. I’m developing a theory that each dance style may attract a different male subspecies. In salsa, couples have the option to change partners after every song, which greatly increases the number of dance partners per evening. And women can ask men. In tango, couples dance a tanda, a set of three to five songs and men exclusively do the asking. This results in fewer dance partners for everyone and encourages more calculated and selective choices by men. I’ve noticed some men at a milonga scanning the room, perhaps plotting a mental spreadsheet for that night’s potential dance card. It’s a numbers game.

In real terms, that leaves many of us tango-dancing ladies sitting and watching the lovely dancing of others, giving us ample time to contemplate our obsession with the Argentine tango.

Over the semester, I missed some salsa classes, enough that I felt I would never be able to catch up with all the hip shaking and shoulder rolling and I returned to my true love, tango.

Within the first year of learning this marvelous dance, I met a young woman who remarked that dancing tango would be a great way to meet a husband. To which I replied, “Yes, tango is a wonderful way to meet a husband. Why, I have met and danced with many husbands, other people’s husbands, but husbands just the same.”

Which brings me back to my mother and her well-intentioned campaign. Here is what I know for sure.

If my goal had been strictly to settle down, I never would have paddled a whitewater kayak through the roiling rapids of creeks and rivers, sometimes upside down.

If my plan had been to get hitched and walk down the aisle, I never would have followed a yak herder and his yaks up and down rocky Himalayan trails, coming up for air at 18,000 feet.

And if I had thought for an instant that learning the Argentine tango or salsa was a way to meet a life partner, I never would have been relaxed enough to become a dance partner.

And now after a year and a half of moving in synchrony with so many lovely partners and a lifetime of embracing the joy of new experiences, I welcome friends and relationships whether they are clad in wet-suit booties, hiking boots or dancing shoes. It matters not.

Oh, and there is tango in Kathmandu. I checked.

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October 15, 2012

Follow (Interpret) The Leader

When I first began to learn the Argentine tango, a few of my girlfriends bristled at the idea of giving up the lead and of having to take direction from men. And worst of all, of having to wait to be asked to dance. “Nancy, how can you do it?”

I listened to stories of couples that decided to learn a social dance right before they got married. About how he wanted to lead and she wouldn’t let him. About weddings almost being called off.

I have one good friend who decided to take up tap because she didn’t have to depend on a man to learn the dance.

And I must admit after my very first tango class I left thinking that the dance sets women back decades. He initiates, he decides which steps and when and he determines the pace. I am to obey, going backwards, in heels.

Though it only took the second class for me to understand that my role is as important as his. For without me, there is no dance.

And while it may appear as if I’ve canceled my membership to NOW, I do have a lot of say as to how this dance is danced.

I am the one that determines the closeness (or not) of the embrace. I am the one that interprets (as opposed to follows) his steps. If I do not feel his lead, I simply don’t take it. And when asked to dance and choose not to, I always have the option to say, “No thank you.“

Oh, and have I told you that tango law states that if a step is missed, it is always the lead’s fault? Liberating.

And so in giving up the lead, I’ve come to enjoy and to expect men to…well…lead.

I danced with a man at the Union Square milonga who was so timid and limp in his affect that I’m not even sure a dance had taken place. Though I knew something must have happened, for when the music stopped, we were at the other end of the pavilion. I had to stop myself from saying: “So lead already.”

I want to clarify that I am not talking about physical strength here. While I do appreciate the beauty and thrill of being in the arms of a strong man, it is his intention that gets me to take the first step.

He starts the conversation with the invitation of the embrace. And no matter how simple the steps are, he is able to communicate movement clearly. I answer by interpreting his movement so that we may remain in motion.

And that is our shared goal.

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August 4, 2012

Dance Floor Psychoanalysts

At the milonga in Union Square Park, I danced with a handsome Indian gent. During which he asked if he could give me a few pointers. I said–and always say–yes.

Perhaps I should rethink that.

“Don’t look at the ground. Keep your head turned this way, not that way. Focus on my chest. Wait for my indication to move, do not anticipate. Take a deep breath and for god’s sake, relax.”

Well who could relax at that point?

He then asked if I was an unhappy person. And that he could tell by the way I danced that I was a depressive. Also that I was backleading and therefore must be in a “bossy job.”

I burst out laughing.

Backleading can be likened to back seat driving. When the Follow executes steps contrary to the Lead’s lead. A major faux pas.

I believe I had been misdiagnosed. After all of his scrutiny and adjustments, I had become quite nervous. I did my best to keep up and to not disappoint. This resulted in my anticipating his every step. Incorrectly. How very bossy of me.

I asked if he were a therapist or philosopher by trade. “My dear, we are all philosophers.”

Oy vey.

After the therapy session ended I sat down next to a man who was deeply, deeply involved with his phone. He looked up for a moment just as a woman danced by in her follower role, that is to say backwards. Without a partner.

He turned to me and said “Only in New York.” Okay, granted she had a distinct air of…sanatorium about her. But content.

I said that the up side to dancing a partner dance without a partner is that you are never in need of one. He said “The danger of dancing alone is…”and I interrupted and suggested that perhaps one can appear a little nutty? He said no, that wasn’t it at all. That by dancing solo, one can run the risk of ending up lonely and remaining alone.

Another dance floor analyst.

Just then a man came over and asked me to dance. I left my seated neighbor with his phone, alone.

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Nancy Learns the Tango

Tag: milonga

December 27, 2017