1980  Milonga at La Trastienda

Date: Tue, 11 Nov 2003 11:38:52 -0800
From: randy cook <randycook95476@YAHOO.COM>
Subject: Milonga at La Trastienda

La Trastienda, 460 Balcarce, Buenos Aires, Ar. (Mon.)

We arrive after the show and change our shoes in the
sepulchral basement bathrooms. There is a cafe in the
front, and a tiny record shop, now closed, that has a
good selection of Latin Cd's. We go through a black
curtained doorway to a dark, split-level theater with
small round tables and a bar at the back. The ticket
taker sends us back outside to buy our entradas at the
ticket booth in the cafe ($5 pesos).

The evening show, Guillermina Zuiroga and Los Tangos
de la Cabral, is over, and the milonga has begun on
the stage-lit floor in front of the escenario. We see
ghastly pre-beginners wiggling around and imitating
the flashiest moves they had seen in the show: lunges
and drags accompanied by silly grins. A few good
dancers wend their way through the carnage. Two
members of our group leave for Canning in disgust.
Two others return to the cafe for dinner.

Donna and I sip our water and wait. Within a
half-hour, the drunken pre-beginners stagger off the
floor and new dancers arrive. I recognize Roberto,
who performs with Mimi Santapa. I go to his table and
introduce Donna. Such a warm, courteous man. He
introduces us around the table: a sensuous-looking
Mexican woman, an exotic raven-haired beauty with a
stud in her nostril, and somebody4s grandmother. A
certain Pibe--a distinctive Latin face, a dark suit,
not young. The others call him "maestro". I have the
feeling he may be famous. He offers us a slice from
the cake on the table. Roberto tells us that Pibe
teaches at Dancesport in New York City. I ask the men
for permission to photograph them while they are
dancing.

Now Donna and I are afraid to venture onto the floor
with such distinguished eyes upon us. We return to
our table and wipe the sticky cake off our fingers and
my camera. We watch. There are only good dancers now.
We see a young man in dreadlocks, another in tennis
shoes. Some "negros"--a rare sight in Buenos Aires.
Some girls who stick out their bottoms deliberately,
but move their legs with consummate skill. My camera
is flashing like a strobe light.

Pibe and Roberto take the floor with the sensuous
Mexican and the morena with the studded nose. I
change the roll of film hurriedly and continue
snapping.

Since the table of the maestros is now empty, Donna
and I finally dare to venture into the shark infested
waters of the pista del baile. We surprise ourselves
by dancing rather well, or at least it feels that way
to us. The sharks aren4t biting. Perhaps it was the
lessons with Carlos and Carina during the afternoon,
or perhaps the inspiration of Roberto and Pibe, who
dance tango as it should be danced socially--not like
a performance, but with passion and total
self-assurance. Between tangos, Roberto gives us a
thumbs up. Such a gentleman. Apparently, we didn4t
escape his eye after all.

There is one dancer I really don4t like. She is a
very tall young woman with a wasp-waisted figure and
deep decolletage. Even in low heels she towers like
the goddess Aphrodite over the soft blond head of her
partner, who looks like a nice young man caught with
nose inside the doorway of a bordello. They are
joined at the waist, but the woman leans her upper
torso backwards and constantly readjusts her embrace,
moving arms and fingers like tentacles. She tilts her
head forward, letting her hair fall like a curtain all
around the nice young man4s face. How can he see
where he4s going? With his nose just above the level
of her decolletage, he must feel as if he were
standing over an open wine vat. How can he focus on
his dancing?

But Donna points out that the woman does virtually
nothing with her feet. All her attention is on
perfecting that constantly shifting embrace. She is a
caricature of seductiveness.

The two diners in our party return to the theater with
their third glasses of red wine. They rave about the
pizza in the cafe. An Argentine asks one of the girls
to dance. I ask the other. I embarrass her by
leading a chain of very fast ochos during a milonga.
One shouldn4t do that with a slightly tipsy woman. We
mess up and get some laughs from a nearby table. But
it is late enough and relaxed enough that we laugh too
and start again, more simply this time. "Tango on,"
as Robert DeNiro says in Scent of a Woman.

Back at the table, the other Californian says that her
Argentine partner complained constantly about her
dancing. She told him that if he wanted to complain,
he should dance with Donna, who might at least be able
to understand his Castellano. I pointed out that he
had danced the entire tanda with her. If he had
really thought she was bad, he would have guided her
back to her table without a word after the first
dance.

Suddenly it is 1:00 AM. They flash the lights and the
dance floor clears. I call a radio taxi from the bar
and wait by the front door. Lightning and thunder.
Rain pours onto the cobblestone street like a warm
black shower. Summer has arrived in Buenos Aires. We
are happy.

That4s all for now.
Randy

Date: Tue, 11 Nov 2003 11:58:37 -0800
From: randy cook <randycook95476@YAHOO.COM>
Subject: Milonga at La Trastienda

La Trastienda, 460 Balcarce, Buenos Aires, Ar. (Mon.)

We arrive after the show and change our shoes in the
sepulcral basement bathrooms. There is a cafe in the
front, and a tiny record shop, now closed, that has a
good selection of latin CDs. We go through a black
curtained doorway to a dark, split-level theater with
small round tables and a bar at the back. The ticket
taker sends us back outside to buy our entradas at the
ticket booth in the cafe ($5 pesos).

The evening show, Guillermina Zuiroga and Los Tangos
de la Cabral, is over, and the milonga has begun on
the stage-lit floor in front of the escenario. We see
ghastly pre-beginners wiggl8ing around and imitating
the flashiest moves they had seen in the show: lunges
and drags accompanied by silly grins. A few good
dancers wend their way through the carnage. two
members of our group leave for Canning in disgust.
Two others return to the cafe for dinner.

Donna and I sip our water and wait. Within a
half-hour, the drunken pre-beginners stagger off lthe
floor and new dancers arrive. I recognize Roberto,
who performs with Mimi Santapa. I go to his table and
introduce Donna. Such a warm, courteous man. He
introduces us around the table: a sensuous-looking
Mexican woman, an exotic raven-haired beauty with a
stud in her nostril, and somebody4s grandmother. A
certain Pibe--a distinctive latin face, a dark suit,
not young. The others call him "maestro". I have the
feeling he may be famous. He offers us a slice from
the cake on the table. Roberto tells us that he
teaches at Dancesport in New York City. I ask the men
for permission to photograph them when they are
dancing.

Now Donna and I are afraid to venture onto the floor
with such distinguished eyes upon us. We return to
our table and wipe the sticky cake off our fingers and
my camera. We watch. There are only good dancers now.
We see a young man in dreadlocks, another in tennis
shoes. Some "negros"--a rare sight in Buenos Aires.
Some girls who stick out their bottoms deliberately,
but move their legs with consummate skill. My camera
is flashing like a strobe light.

Pibe and Roberto take the floor with the sensous
Mexican and the morena with the studded nose. i
change the roll of film hurriedly and continue
snapping.

Since the table of the maestros is now empty, Donna
and I finally dare to venture into the shark infested
waters of the pista del baile. We surprise ourselves
by dancing rather well, or at least it feels that way
to us. The sharks aren4t biting. Perhaps it was the
lessons with Carlos and Carina during the afternoon,
or lperhaps the inspiration of Roberton and Pibe, who
dance tango as it should be danced socially--not like
a performance, but with passion and total
self-aswsurance4. Between tangos, Roberot gives us a
thumbs up. Such a gentleman. Apparently, we didn4t
escaqpe his eye after all.

There is one dancer I really don4t like. She is a
very tall young woman with a wasp-waisted figure and
deep decolletage. Even in low heels she towers like
the goddess Aphrodite over the soft blonde head of her
partner, who looks like a nice young man caught with
nose inside the doorway of a bordello. They are
joined at the waist, but the woman leans her upper
torso backwatrds and constantly readjusts her embrace,
moving arms and fingers like tentacles. She is a
caricature of seduction. She tilts her head forward,
letting her hair fall like a curtain all around the
nice young man4s face. How can he see where he4s
going? With his nose just above the level of her
decolletage, he must feel as if he were standing over
an open wine vat. How can he focus on his dancing?

But Donna points out that the woman does virtually
nothing with her feet. All her attention is on
perfecting that constantly shifting embrace. She is a
caricature of seductiveness.

The two diners in our party return to the theater with
their third glasses of red wine. They rave about the
pizza in the cafe. An Argentine asks one of the girls
to dance. I ask the other. I embarrass her by
leading a chain of very fast ochos during a milonga.
One shouldn4t do that with a slightly tipsy woman. We
mess up and get some laughs from a nearby table. But
it is late enough and relaxed enough that we laugh too
and start again, more simply this time. "Tango on,"
as Robert DeNiro says in Scent of a Woman.

Back at the table, the other Californian says that her
Argentine partner complained constantly about her
dancing. She told him that if he wanted to complain,
he should dance with Donna, who might at least be able
to understand his Castellano. I pointed out that he
had danced the entire tanda with her. If he had
really thought she was bad, he would have guided her
back to her table without a word after the first
dance.

Suddenly it is 1:00 AM. They flash the lights and the
dance floor clears. I call a radio taxi from the bar
and wait by the front door. Lightning and thunder.
Rain pours onto thle cobblestone street like a warm
black shower. Summer has arrived in Buenos Aires. We
are happy.

That4s all for now.
Randy