Hold Me Tight and Tango Me Home (20 page)

For several springs since I had moved to New York, I had worked for landscapers installing gardens on rooftops and in backyards of brownstones around the city. It was tough work physically, as we often had to haul bags of soil and saplings up several flights of stairs, not to mention the stress of parking trucks and battling traffic on the city streets. But I loved the transformation. A bare, abandoned space could be almost instantly turned into a little oasis. Clients were thrilled and regularly hugged us when we finished. And the constant tug to be around nature that I’d felt since leaving Alaska was sated somewhat.

One morning I woke up and looked at the tango pictures hanging on my walls and then out the window at the giant condominium being built across the street. Right then I knew what I wanted: to garden during the day and, of course, tango at night. The problem for me in running a business was not pulling together the skills that would be needed but learning to charge clients money. Somewhere along the line, I had internalized the idea that this is rude and unfeminine: A woman should always
put others and their feelings and wants ahead of herself. How could I run a business that way?

After the arrastrada class I went to the practica, feeling a little wobbly in my new Comme Il Faut stilettos but overall more confident from my trip to Buenos Aires. I watched Claire and Allen dancing. Claire was a few inches taller than Allen, but they held each other in close embrace. This, too, was a sign of our advancement: We had all stopped fearing close embrace, no longer holding each other at arm’s length.

I knew that Claire and Allen were looking for very different things from tango. Claire needed to learn to trust men, to take time out of her stressful life, close her eyes, and let someone else lead. She already knew how to say no to people she didn’t want to dance with. “Just do it nicely,” she had told me. “Tell them you’re resting.” Allen wanted to learn how to meet women, to be bolder with them when he did, and he now comfortably approached women standing on the sidelines and invited them to dance.

Some men understood that lack of eye contact means “please don’t ask me.” I noticed Ear Licker across the room, and he seemed to know to stay away from me; on occasion, I still danced with Sugar Daddy. Some men were absolutely not going to ask me to dance. Tango Whisperer only danced with his long-legged partner. Once, Claire asked the Dominatrix’s partner to dance. He curtly said no. She shrugged it off. And there were advanced men who asked me and other beginners to dance. Martial Artist prided himself on his democracy; Hipster
mostly danced with advanced women, but he believed a good leader should be able to dance with anyone. Marcel believed in building community by dancing with a wide range of levels. I admired and appreciated these men. Still, I felt I shouldn’t have to dance with everyone who asked me — but saying no was so hard.

A short man wearing a triangular veteran’s cap asked me to dance. I had been trying to avoid eye contact with him, but he caught me, circling from behind and appearing right next to me. He was about the same age as my beloved grandfather, and I just couldn’t say no. He wasn’t a student and didn’t dance regular tango steps. When I missed a few of his turns, he corrected me. He wasn’t even dancing tango, just kind of bouncing along and making sudden turns here and there. After the first song ended he clutched my hand and pulled me into close embrace for the second song. Our feet bumped and he smiled widely at me. I couldn’t help but feel angry and a little confused. On the one hand, I should show kindness to this old guy in his little WWII uniform; on the other, why is his experience more important than mine? After the second song I pulled my hand away from his, excused myself, and hurried to the water fountain.

Then Dario turned off the music to make an announcement, and everyone at the practica stopped dancing. A few students protested.

“Will all the beginners here please raise their hands,” he yelled. People scattered around the room slowly put their hands in the air. “So now you know who they are.”

A man from my class yelled, “And can avoid them.”

Everyone laughed.

“No, this is a social dance. A community,” Dario said. “You were all beginners once. Dance with them.”

This seemed like the decent, right thing to do. It is, however, an issue that hits everyone differently, and it is one that I believed was at the core of the gender struggle.

Josh and I had been having an ongoing e-mail discussion about this. It had started with an offhand comment that he had intended to be humorous. “I sure enjoyed dancing with you, but I got the impression that at times you wanted to lead,” he wrote.

Why, when he didn’t know the embrace, couldn’t hear a beat, and crab-walked around the floor slamming me into people, should he unequivocally be the leader just because he was a man? I couldn’t think of an appropriate response, so I didn’t reply right away. When he e-mailed me again (“I sense some anger, what’s up?”), I replied.

Hi, Josh,

I wasn’t angry. It’s just odd that men get to lead regardless of their dancing level. I danced with a beginner today, which was fine, but I do wonder why he didn’t ask someone from his own class, as there were many women at his experience level sitting on the sideline waiting to be asked. But I guess that’s the man’s prerogative. Why is it that men still ask women to dance and women have to wait? Just like
dating—regardless of the changes in society, it’s mostly men who do the asking. As for leaders I don’t want to dance with, I just have a hard time saying “no” to them. And for other reasons in my life, I need to start saying “no” more
.

I am starting my own business designing and installing gardens. I know that the hardest thing for me will be to charge enough money so that it’s worth my time and effort and, in the end, I don’t lose money. Can I learn this from tango — to not be a martyr to men or to clients?

Take care,

Maria

Dear Maria,

Your new business sounds interesting. When you write up a business proposal I’d be happy to take a look at it
.

I have been to many practicas where I danced with old ladies who were just beginning. When I dance with one old lady, whom no one else wants to dance with, two things happen. First, she usually clings to me and wants to keep dancing. Second, other old ladies see this and realize I am “friendly” and do the same thing. There have been many, many, many lessons where I have scarcely danced with the lovely girls that are better dancers. Sometimes, I walk out frustrated, because there were lots of attractive girls and I danced with the sweaty grandmas (remember, it is summer down here). But upon further reflection, my experience was exactly what it was supposed to be and I gave the greatest amount of myself to help others
.

From a selfish perspective, my experience was not what I wanted. But from a spiritual perspective, my experience was fulfilling and right. I thought of other people who, due to age, appearance, or ability, were not as desirable to dance with. Hopefully I helped them feel accepted and derive a few moments of pleasure. That is all the good I can do in one day: help someone else feel a few moments of pleasure. This said, I am actually planning on leaving Buenos Aires to travel. This was my original intent, but I became too comfortable. Instead of following the regular, beaten path, I think I may hitchhike to Chile. Many of my friends have told me that I’m crazy, but as my travel adviser, I wanted to see what you thought
.

Besos,

Josh

Dear Josh,

As your adventure adviser, I think you should definitely hitchhike. I hitchhiked all over Alaska and with friends through a long stretch in Mexico. You really get to meet people and come to know places. As for the rumors of murders, sexual advances, etc., statistically, you’re more likely to get struck by lightning than murdered under any circumstances, and I’m sure you can handle the sexual advances. Usually you get the most rides from truck drivers who want some company — and they will talk your ear off.

As for the tango . . . I admire your selflessness. At this point in my dancing, I like to dance with men who make
me feel good. There are certain people I have chemistry with, and we physically match, and I like how they dance. And usually these men enjoy dancing with me. That is the goal — that it’s a mutually beneficial and enjoyable exchange. I don’t want to be a martyr of the tango scene, and I don’t need to be a diva. This is what I want to take out into the world with me. That I am getting back from an experience in equal proportion to what I am putting into it
.

Tango on.

Maria

In the subtext of our e-mails maybe we were talking about “us.” We had made no plans for the future; it remained unspoken that we would make no effort to see each other. But we both valued the connection we had made. What I wasn’t saying, couldn’t ever say to him, was that dancing with him was an extremely unpleasant experience and it puzzled me because he was such a great person and very self-aware in other ways. Yet his bravery astounded me — a total beginner, he went out and asked women to dance in the tango Mecca of the world. He overcame his fear of rejection again and again.

Dear Maria,

Here is an interesting observation: We have shared a lot, and for the most part, it was all brought about by tango. This conversation also was initiated by our shared enjoyment of tango. Another observation: you have always been more
advanced than me and as a result, we have never danced tango together connectedly. Yet in the greater realm of life, we have danced a tango for a few months now, sometimes very connectedly, other times out of step. Where our tango goes now depends on our next steps. Fascinating, huh? Have you written a business proposal yet?

BTW: I’m making my way to climb a mountain in the southern Andes.

XO, Josh

A few days later at another practica Claire came over and stood next to me. We chatted about business, or rather, I tried to get information from her.

“At first you always undercharge,” she said. “But you learn. Just try not to lose money in the beginning.”

While talking we spotted a man circling us. Claire nudged me and said, “Don’t do it. Say no to him.” Our body language could not have been more discouraging. Both Claire and I had our arms folded over our chests, and we looked away from him. But there is this moment when everything changes to slow motion. From the corner of my eye, he came into closer focus and I saw a hopeful facial expression as he walked a direct path toward us. I geared myself up but didn’t want to turn the guy down, so in a rather underhanded move I slipped to the other side of Claire so that he asked her to dance instead.

She said, “No, thank you.” The veteran businesswoman was better at this than I was.

“I danced with him last time, and it was horrible,” she said. “He told me that he had taken one lesson five years ago. But with an expert tango dancer.”

We chuckled a little, and then I whispered, “Oh, no. He found someone.” We watched as he led a young woman onto the dance floor. Clearly she was new here. He bumped her feet when he stepped, walked to no discernable rhythm, and then rammed her into another couple.

“It’s a train wreck,” Claire said. She shaded her eyes with a hand. “I can’t watch.” We both felt for the woman, as I imagined she was struggling with not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings but also really, really hoping for the nightmare to end. “I’ve noticed,” Claire said, “that Irish Guy hardly ever dances. And lately it seems like he does so less and less.”

Since my overall experience had improved, I hadn’t noticed him as much. But Claire was right. He seemed to prefer to sit in a corner rather than dance. Maybe he was very selective, or maybe he just liked to watch.

“Perhaps he’s got a social disorder,” I said to Claire. “I’m wondering about some of these people who dance seven nights a week. Don’t they have friends? Dates? Family crises?

“That reminds me, any luck finding that guy you were interested in?” I asked her.

“No,” she said. “I keep dropping hints to our mutual friend, but nothing.”

“I’m going to have a birthday party,” I told her. “A big one.
I’m going to break out the wine and the jar of dulce de leche I brought back from Argentina. Why don’t you invite him?”

“We could send the invitation to my friend and specifically ask him to bring Xavier,” she said.

“Peter agreed to teach a tango class at the party,” I told her. “That’s what I want for my birthday — my friends to all dance a tango.” I spotted Peter across the room and we danced. Osvaldo Pugliese’s onomatopoetically titled song “La Yumba” started to play. The beat was crisp and steady, almost military; Peter stepped in short, sharp motions, then from a back ocho he trapped my foot. I started nudging one of his feet until he let me back-lead and sweep it.

In this song the plucking of strings creates a come-hither effect, but then the strong beat returns and you must follow it, relentlessly, until the piano interrupts with a classical riff and everything dissolves, melting into sheer ardor. Peter dropped me into a volcada, and as I swept my leg through the empty space, he righted me onto my axis. Then the clipped beat started up again.

As we danced the basic, Peter whispered to me, “I hope this is okay to say — you’ve really improved.”

“Thanks,” I told him. “It’s Argentina and my super-sexy new shoes.”

“I miss Buenos Aires,” Peter said. “I think I have to go back to live there for a while.”

“You could revise your screenplay there,” I said. “But there’s not much paid work because of the crisis.”

I didn’t want Peter to leave. He wasn’t just my friend but also my safeguard. I could show up at a milonga or practica and dance with him for most of the night. On the other hand, when he wasn’t there, I was more open to chance; the next man who approached me could be terrible or good. Peter kept me from both. If I was encouraging Josh to ride in the trucks of strangers and hike up mountains, then I should at least be able to brave dance events without Peter.