Mad about Tango

Peter wakes me at about 6am to bid adieu and continue his travels, that leaves Jenn the mystery roomie and myself. I have a brief moment of neurosis about how to handle the morning routine with a strange woman in the same room. Buck up, I tell myself, worry about that later I drift off to sleep. It is cool in the room, no central heating so I pull the covers up and restore the ear plugs. It is not recommended to travel without them and definitely not when you're hosteling.

My fears quickly disipate as I hear Jenn get up and leave the room, I assume she has gone to the females only shower down the hall. I quickly bolt out of bed, race to the loo, do my thing and dive back under the covers. I feel like a schoolboy and I am not sure why. Jenn returns and I cover my head on alert for another all clear. I listen as she cleans her teeth and take a chance that she is dressed, all is good. We chat for a few moments, she is a nice young gal a lit grad student on a research grant travelling the island. I invite her to join me for the tango exhibition in the afternoon. She's very interested as she is involved with ballroom dancing back home, I promise to leave her a note with the time and location of the dance. Off she goes and up I get. I am just pulling on my boxers when the door opens I dive back into bed red faced. She retrieves something she obviously forgot, the door closes again, this time I wait a beat or two and hop out of bed.

I wander Cuba Street it is a wonderful mix of street performers, pubs, sushi restaurants and small funky shops. I am to meet Jane of the Tango at the Italiano Cafe. I arrive early and start with a green tea wondering how the hell I will know who Jane is. A woman arrives and sits at a table next to me. Is this Jane who is mad about Tango? I wait for whats seems to be an eternity before I lean over and ask the obvious question. "No" is the frosty answer as the woman looks slightly paranoid moving further away from me. I didn't realize I was such a scary guy. I settle back and wait, Jane is late but from what I understand she has a rather hectic sked. The door opens and a blonde attractive woman wearing black leggings and a skirt wanders in. Could this be Jane the self annointed tango queen. No, it can't be as she stops to say hello to a distinguished gent sitting over by the door. I will later find out he is an Oscar winning filmmaker and a tango affectionado, a regular dance partner of Janes.

She turns and walks my way "Steve?" She smiles. "Yes" I rather awkwardly respond struggling to get up having sunk deep into the worn out settee. The table wobbles and my tea spills over the rim of my cup. I give up and stay seated, Jane drops effortlessly into the seat beside me apologises and orders a tea. We chat, exchange pleasantries, compare journeys in life and then I'm invited to the afternoon Tango. I profess to know little about the dance, however I am curious as to whether there might be a small documentary project in the making. We agree to rendezvous later and I ask if Jenn can join us. "No worries" she replies and we part ways to meet up later.

I wander back down Cuba Street, musicians and buskers work the early afternoon crowds. A guy rolls around on an enormous hoop, another strums a guitar, a meditation group chant on a small platform and a young artist peddles her wares. It is lightly raining but that does little to deter those that hustle passersby for a few dollars. At the dorm Jenn is perched on her bed reading, we chat, and I confirm our Tango experience. I have been warned that there will be no dancing for guests as true Tango addicts want partners that can lead appropriately. No problem I'll be quite happy to take some picts and enjoy a glass of wine while learning about this fascinating dance.

At the appointed hour we met up with Jane and the trio of us troop off to the dance. Jane is deeply disappointed with the turnout, a spotty few couples move slowly across the floor. I meet instructors Vio and Sergee. Suzanne another friend and Tango mate of Janes sweeps into the room looking like she stepped off the front page of Vogue Magazine. The dress is natty and high end, I sit and watch from a corner, the footwork is amazing, the music lovely and the decor elegant. There is an obvious gender imbalance as more women sit around and wait to be asked for a dance. Competition is always keen for the few males who are deemed good enough to lead. In the Tango the male leads, the female adds the flourishes and colour to the dance.

The room slowly starts to fill and dancers take to the floor. Delicate footwork abounds, legs bent couples lean in to each other, toes point drawing circles only to travel up their partners leg. Skirts swirl, faces frozen in concentrated gazes absent of smiles. A flashy couple trace patterns on each others legs, he turns her sideways, she clamps her leg on his thigh, they stare into each others eyes. A foot drawn back thrusts into the air, suddenly they are off across the floor in one flowing rhythmic embrace.

Jane bemoans the fact that there is a serious dearth of males willing and able to dance. She has been dancing for less than a year, at times up to three dances a week with a lesson thrown in for good measure. I reply that perhaps if the females were less critical and more open to new partners on the dance floor that issue may be put to rest. She smiles and acknowledges my point.

After a couple of hours I grow tired of sitting and watching, Jenn picks up on the opportunity to depart and we head back to the hostel. She thanks me for inviting her, we part company. I collect my wash and get ready for my departure. I feel settled having had a few days of city life it is time to depart in the morning for my Martinborough flat at the Potters. The rain has finally stopped and I wander the darkened streets taking picts.