Recorded Books Inc. - Dancing in Buenos Aires

Everything I did on that first jet-lagged day in Buenos Aires was a blurthe city was sweltering and half empty, and porteos (literal translation: people from the port; local translation: anyone from or living in Buenos Aires) with means had fled to the coast or to the mountains. Restaurants were closed. Banks, some of whose windows were still cracked from the protests after the peso crash three years before, were closed, too. I stood alone in the tropical heat of the subway platform, blotting the sweat off my forehead and gazing at a TV monitor tuned to the tango channel: a young couple, dark-haired and dressed in close-fitting red and black, was dancing on the screen, legs whirling in sync with the staccato strokes of a violin.

I had been curious about tango long before meeting the taxista who loved Julio Sosa, long before I had been to Buenos Aires. Each year since I was seven, I had watched every round of the World Latin Dance Championships on PBS. I loved the sunlit energy in the salsa and the samba, and the big stomping drama of the paso doble, but the tango was what fascinated me most: I stared at the couples with slicked-back hair, scowling at each other, pulling apart, seizing each other againthey were so fierce, so emphaticand I promised myself that someday, somewhere, I would learn that strange, beautiful dance.

Not long before I left San Francisco, a tango-dancing friend of a friend had told me about La Catedral, one of the most popular underground milongas (tango clubs) in Buenos Aires. On Mondays, he said, with a wistful smile, they teach tango for beginners. Perfect, I thought.

La Catedral was in a middle-class barrio called Almagro, fifteen blocks and a realm apart from the fancy shoe stores and the fresh pasta shop and the organic German bakery near the little studio apartment I was renting on Avenida Santa Fe. As I walked to the tango club, munching on a pair of beef empanadas with sweet paprika, the streetlights thinned out, the cracks in the sidewalk widened, and the smells of dog poop and garbagestrewn over the pavement, spilling into the guttergrew stronger in the muggy night. I put away the empanadas and held my breath for long intervals. When I got to where La Catedral was supposed to be, I found a rusty metal door and no sign. A teenager in a Che Guevara T-shirt opened up when I knocked.

Hola, I said, hoping he wasnt noticing the rings of sweat under my arms. Is there a tango class here tonight?

Arriba, he said, pointing to the concrete staircase behind him.

A headless mannequin in a G-string greeted me at the top of the stairs that led to the ballroom, which looked like a cross between a film noir set and a flea market. The wooden ceiling must have been forty feet high, and the unpainted walls were crowded with used bike tires, empty picture frames, hubcaps, a single dusty tango shoe, and corroding fans that halfheartedly pushed the hot air around the room. Stray cats slept between the mismatched chairs bordering the dance floor, which was lit by a handful of bare bulbs in primary colors. It was dim, it was filthy, and it might have been on the verge of being condemned. I couldnt have conjured up a more romantic place to learn tango.

A tall woman in red stilettos strode to the middle of the dance floor and clapped her hands. Vamos, chicos!

Id been fantasizing about this moment. Id had time for only one tango on my first trip to Buenos Aireswith a dancer on staff at a steak house in La Bocaand it had been more than awkward, but I told myself it was because our tango had lasted all of forty-five seconds. Though I knew I would never be a professional dancerthat hope was dashed when I was four years old, in my first ballet class, when the teacher told me my torso was too long in relation to my legsnothing could stop me from imagining that I might be some kind of tango prodigy, that I might take to the dance quickly, naturally, uncannily. Someday, I thoughtpiggybacking on the fantasies of the lead actress in a film called The Tango LessonI might even tango for an audience at the Teatro Coln (Argentinas Carnegie Hall).

I edged into the circle of students surrounding the profesora. Most of the women were wearing high-heeled dancing shoes. Others wore ballet slippers. The men were dressed in everything from ties to T-shirts. The profesora looked us up and down as she twisted her frizzy chestnut hair into a bun. When she got to me, she fixed her eyes on my feet.

How the hell do you expect to tango in those?

Heads turned. The profesora shifted her weight from one long, slender leg to the other and pointed a long, burgundy fingernail at my flip-flops. The cigarette smoke that had been drifting through the air seemed to hold still.

Im sorry, I said, I dont

The profesoras partner, who was shorter than she was, stepped into the middle of the circle of students, slipping his arm around her waist. He looked at me, and there was pity in his dark eyes. Are those the only shoes you have?

I nodded, my face burning.

He turned to the profesora. Gisela, he said, its her first class. Shell get some shoes.

I was still nodding. Yes! I wanted to tell them. Yes, Ill get some shoes! A pair of Argentine girls in strappy tango sandals started to giggle. I wanted to disappear.

Bueno, said Profesora Gisela, pursing her lips, double-clapping the class to attention again. Vamos, chicos! Time to walk. Look at me!

She slid into line in her red stilettos, her ballet-dancer arches hovering above the soles of her high heels. I watched my classmates glide over the warped wooden floorboards, doing a very good job of mimicking Profesora Giselas feline walk. I struggled to follow them. It took only a few steps to realize that I was most certainly not