It Takes Two to Tango

Today I added another class to my schedule. It was after the Stanford add deadline, but I’m sure the university won’t care. I am now officially enrolled in tango classes.

Tango, as you may know, is not actually Chilean, but Argentine. It originally started as a lower-class phenomenon that only later achieved acceptance in the Argentine upper class after it came into fashion in Paris in the 1920s and 1930s. The Argentines, never to be caught without the latest fashions, quickly reappraised their view of the dance.

Incidentally, the Chilean national dance is the cueca, a very traditional dance where the partners bow, draw close, and twist away. In the cueca each partner dances with a handkerchief in their hands, accentuating their movements and in general adding an air of humble elegance to the movements. Nowadays the cueca is danced mainly at festivals and ceremonial occasions and in the more rural areas. In other words, if you walk into a Santiago discotheque and whip out your handkerchief you’re going to draw some strange looks. In these establishments you are much more likely to hear American pop, European techno, or South American salsa. My host mother, by the way, has solemnly sworn that she will teach me how to dance salsa,

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find a place to learn la cueca, so tango it is. The classes are held at El Cachafaz, a small but festively decorated bar with colorful Argentine memorabilia on the walls and a modest dance floor. The proprietor of the establishment is short, pudgy old Argentine named Jorge who wears his shirt unbuttoned to just above his bellybutton, proudly displaying his graying chest-hairs. I’ve taken to calling him “Don Jorge” out of respect, for the man can still tango with the best of them. “You did great today,” he told us. “Really, you’re picking it up very fast. I’m not just saying that. I really mean it.” I’m not so sure. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

My partner Colleen and I spent the first class learning the pase basica, the basic footwork for the tango. The beginning class lasts about an hour, and we needed at least that long to master it. There are certain things in life that are easier than they look, like riding a bike. Sadly, tango is not one of these. And of course, when you have no rhythm to begin with it, that doesn’t help at all.

We stuck around to practice while the intermediate class did their thing. At about 10PM the instructor for the advanced class arrived and we suck around to watch some of it. It was like a scene out of a movie. The instructor himself spoke in a melodious Argentine accent. He was breathtakingly handsome in his tight maroon shirt and green pants, and he knew it.

“Okay, today we will work on a new set of steps,” he declared confidently. “Start with the pase basica.”

“Then move one, two, BAP!” he said with emphasis, thrusting his hips out to the side.

“One, two, BAP!”

“One, two… then look away, cross legs. Look away… cross! Look away… cross! NOW,” he paused breathlessly. Then speaking slowly, secretly…

“Your eyes meet.”

He cast a sultry gaze into the eyes of his partner and held it for a second.

“Okay!” he barked. “Good. Let’s try it.”

I rubbed my ankle, still sore from the rhythmless strain of learning the pase basica and leaned over towards Colleen. “All I want to do right now,” I said jealously, “is kick him in the shins.” We exchanged a knowing glance.