Slow Dance

I've been staying up way past my bedtime, and my bedtime is always late. In Buenos Aires, the night begins around 2am -- just after dinner, which is around midnight. We went to a party of a bunch of ex-pats and a few pan-Latin children-of-diplomat types the other night and -- among other things -- found out about a 'happening' near the planetarium the following evening. Apparently there are groups of strangers who connect through the internet and all converge in a location for some kind of event on a regular basis -- last week it was a pillow fight. Am I retarded or is this new and unusual? So Thursday night's event was a slow dance. In keeping with the tradition of dances, there was bad American pop from the '80's and not a lot of dancing, but teen spirit in abundance.

Once buzzed on second-hand smoke, we continued on to a popular tango milonga at Nino Bien -- a huge old-fashioned ballroom playing recordings of old tango orchestras -- and had our first experience of the tango scene, though only as observers. I wore flip-flops so as to not mistakenly lead anyone to believe that I would know what to do if they asked me to dance. It's a little hard to get inside of the tango; salsa and cumbia are easy to understand because they're all about a pretty overt rhythm, but tango is full of affect and mystery. I still want to try it out, if for no other reason than the shoes are hot. In the course of the two hours we were there, the room filled up completely and the women draped their arms over the mens' shoulders, leaning into them and closing their eyes.