Archive for the ‘Tangazos’ Category

Winds of change   Leave a comment

Winds of change

By Alberto Paz
March 1998

The Argentine tango has always been a reflection of the people who created it. This is not to say that the music and the way we dance today has any resemblance with the typical inhabitant of Buenos Aires during the last decade of the 19th century. Every time we spend a couple of hours at a milonga, we are moving back and forth in time, according to the mood and inspiration of the volunteer with the laptop and the time to run the music. As Pugliese is mixed with Canaro, D’Arienzo, De Caro, Troilo and Tanturi, we are unaware that we are zapping through a rich history of the music, the dance, the social values and the idiosyncrasies of several generations of porteños, the people of Buenos Aires, who as they undergo generation changes, reflect those changes in the tango.

The longevity of the tango and its resilience are founded in the respect and veneration with which Argentinos see aging. As children, they love and are loved by their parents and grandparents. As teenagers they learn to love and be loved by their parents and peers. As adults they love their children and their parents and each other. As they reach their senior years they love life and everything it brings to them every day.

That love is balanced by respect, tolerance, generosity and patience. They let life run its course as they first crawl, then walk and finally run. There is a lot of philosophy behind all this and most of it is reflected in the music, lyrics and dance of the Argentine tango.

The backbone of the Argentine tango is the connection that exists between generations, adults and children living in the same world, basking in the same sun and quivering in the cold of the same night. Staying involved forever, and greeting the presence of those who sit around the table every day and mourning the absence of those who have departed. Children don’t get kicked out when they begin to turn into young men and women. In turn, when they become adults, they don’t get rid of aging parents and grandparents. It is a very profound commitment that enhances the quality of life and as a side benefit it allows an orderly transition between generations.

This may clash against the beliefs of the politically correct crowd that fears to utter words like man and woman. Instead they neutralize the human connection required in the tango by calling each other “leads” and “follows.” They desensitize the intense passion that men and women bring into life and that are the key ingredients for the ritual of the dance. This attracts wolves wearing lamb overcoats, who aim to divide in order to satisfy their egos. Our communities suffer.

We are now well into the beginning of a new 40 year cycle for the Argentine tango. Where it will take us, we don’t know. What the renovation brings us, we don’t know. How we’ll dance the tango in the years ahead, we don’t know. Luckily, we are living the process instead of recanting it.

The tip of the iceberg   Leave a comment

The tip of the iceberg

By Alberto Paz
February 1998

Like an unsinkable gigantic vessel steaming across the waters of an inexorable destiny, some people’s lives proceed night after night with a certain degree of complacency, trusting that the sun will rise again and another day will soon be past.

Suddenly those lives unexpectedly take a hit and a flood of shivering emotions begins to inundate their innermost feelings. Dumbfounded by the experience, they begin to sink into a gorge of sounds and silence. The next day someone may notice that these people have been hit by the tango and have sunk into a deep ocean, their bodies held in close embrace, sort of a dancing ritual done to the sound of wailing instruments. And that tango was just the tip of an iceberg, the visual experience projected perhaps from a stage or from a movie screen.

Below the surface, the Argentine tango’s massive structure widens into an enormous density of musical, poetic and traditional values that only those, who sink deeper below the surface than the dance presents, can appreciate and enjoy.

Take for example the tango lyrics. They have chronicled periods of time along the base line of evolution of a city and its inhabitants. In general, the Tango lyrics as a whole, have roots in a medieval Christian concept where the female of the species is seen as a demon-sent emissary whose purpose is to incite the men to sin in sexual ways. This resulted in an antagonistic conception of the human roles where the immoral female disdained and disregarded the male efforts and betrayed him through infidelity.

After 1910, the lyrics began to show some tolerance, comprehension and even justification for the shortcomings of the females. Gradually, as the medieval roots began to disappear, the males began to accept the sexual activities of the females as a result of their need to participate in them on demand, especially if their need was strictly physiological.

By 1920, the male writers and singers were reflecting a certain lack of interest in spiritual and material self-improvement as a result of an economical, social and political set of conditions established by a capitalistic society where the distribution of wealth was limited to a privileged few, who in the Tango sense, used their power to lure decent women from their humble abodes into a life of sin and excesses.

Along the way, the tango lyrics have casually been labeled sad and summarily dismissed as interfering with our dancing joy. Perhaps, remembering that one can only see the tip of an iceberg, we could acknowledge what most historians have said, and that is, that the tango lyrics as a whole, are a condemnation by the working class, of the ethical, judicial, religious, cultural and political norms and canons of a bourgeoisie society.

Fortunately, a renewed effort is underway to disseminate and publicize the contents of tango lyrics as a way to understand more and more that flood of shivering emotions that inundates our innermost feelings when we dance a tango.

The three little pigs   Leave a comment

The three little pigs

By Alberto Paz
January 1998

One night Larry ran into Michael and Jay at a suburban milonga and as it always happens, their tango experiences immediately took center stage in the realm of their self indulgent conversation. The subject of boleos, always an advanced topic among P-types was brought up and Jay, who’s never figured out why he has one mouth and two ears proclaimed his disregard for ganchos as a “show only” figure. He had seen many gentle ganchos with the feet staying on the ground, the swerving foot quite close to the standing foot, and even some very energetic ones where the two legs stay together from top to toe during the entire gancho. Pausing just enough to grasp some air Jay winked at the other two and shared that the latter gancho can hardly be said to be dangerous, and it consumes zero floor space but the most noticeable thing for the audience is the smile on the follower’s face when done well.

Visibly uncomfortable with facing the embarrassing task to having to correct Jay, Michael chose to tell Larry that it was great to see him at their recent milonga. Yes, Larry had a great time and he wanted to emphasize how impressed he was with the dancing level of the followers up there. One could only imagine the musical crescendo in Michael’s imaginative, almost cinema verite mind as he saw himself being the carrier of good tidings to the gentle followers of his community. You know gang, he would write, you know how Larry has very discriminating tastes because he does not ask many women to dance other than his steady partner. Michael was sure that the tangueras would really appreciate this remark. Gee weez, for Larry to say this, by George, it is a great compliment to our tangueras.

Mary Ann would shut down her successful law practice for the day; Mary Belle would forgo taking advantage of the market volatility in the Asian financial markets and she would also join the rest of the tangueras leaving their successful daytime careers to go party at Stinky’s, the fashionable espresso bar and once a week tango’ s center of the universe. Perrier would flow freely that night, and as each one would take turns to re-read the news sent by Michael, they would cheer, give themselves high fives and pat each other on the back. Michael’s imagination went on the blink when the eclectic deejay attacked with Sally Potter’s rendition of Milonga Triste. The three little pigs dashed onto the dance floor and proceeded to outdo each other with extraordinary maneuvers and elaborated gestures.

The music ended and for a moment the ensuing of ecstasy seemed to suspend the progression of time. Flor de Mina, who had been listening to the entire exchange, walked up to the guys with the humble strut of a beginner. Excuse me, she said, being a beginner as I am, I could not help but listening to what you folks had to say. That was quite a dance, wasn’t it? she offered provoking a smug look on their faces. But I have a question though, aren’t you guys suppose to dance with a partner?

The gift of tango   Leave a comment

Summer vocation

By Alberto Paz
October/November 1999

Standing in the living room, we formed a circle and held hands. One by one we introduced ourselves. Some came from Texas, others from Chicago. Then there were the hosts, the family who owned the farm surrounding the home where the ritual was taking place. We were from California, and the words “traveling tango teachers” sounded awkward and somehow out of context with the spirit of the moment. Suddenly, and all at once, they began to sing a harmonious hymn that filled the room with sounds of purity, love and a heartfelt appreciation for the joy of being alive, surrounded by friends and family. Then, we sat down at the dinner table and celebrated Thanksgiving in the heartland of America.

We’ve been traveling quite a lot embracing our chosen vocation of preserving and fostering the development of new and established Argentine tango communities. We bring along our passionate love and dedication for the music, poetry and dance, empowering the force of knowledge to free the minds, to encourage the bodies to accept the closeness of other bodies for engaging in enjoyment of the music and joyful sharing of the dance. Returning to places we have been, where the Argentine tango already has a established presence, we have also discovered new fledgling hamlets. There, the desire to dance the tango is only surpassed by the energy and passion with which the people go out of their way to reach out, grasping as much tango as is humanly possible.

In retrospect, our intuition, our confidence and our faith in people has allowed us to establish a presence for the tango as far north as the city of Anchorage in Alaska, and as deep in the south as the city of New Orleans. Along the way, we met great people in Winnipeg, Canada, and found ourselves a family in the heartland of America. So, when Thanksgiving caught us wandering through the prairie, we never felt away from home. We never paused to question what does a traveling tango teacher do when the moan of the bandoneon and the whine of the violin, are replaced by the call of the turkey on Thanksgiving day .

We found ourselves holding hands with our new friends and their families, saying grace and feeling thankful that our lives are so blessed with the gift of tango. We are thankful for the possibility of sharing that gift with warm, gentle, generous and caring human beings who had morphed from total strangers to affectionate friends in the brief time it takes to embrace and walk a few times around the dance floor.

This is the kind of rewarding experience that reminds us about the quality of life that Argentine tango can bring to those who dare to be close. There is nothing like the shared intimacy of a sound, a scent, a gesture, a look, a smile, a tear. Intense moments that soothe the soul, energize the heart and make us feel alive, vibrant, inspired, and above all thankful. We have connected, we have made an everlasting impression, and there is a part of us that forever will be special. Step by step we keep navigating the dance floor of life. As we go around, there is always something or somebody who reminds us how important it is to be at peace with ourselves, to give each other the gift of tango, to hold hands, to embrace, to love the music, to absorb the culture, to teach by learning and to learn by teaching.

Summer vocation   Leave a comment

Summer vocation

By Alberto Paz
August/September 1999

I grew up at a time when it was believed that the world was going to the end in the year 2000. This was part of a religious upbringing. I remember calculating what age I would be when “el fin del mundo” would occur. As I grew up, I paid less attention to the possibility of doomsday actually happening, in spite of witnessing the antics of a long list of lunatics from a variety of countries who throughout the years have brought the world to the verge of self destruction. Yet, the Earth has kept on turning (on its axis).

So, here we are, enjoying the last summer of the century, celebrating the joy of Argentine tango surrounded by a continuously growing number of friends. We happen to share the exhilaration and excitement that the commitment to the dance brings to those who love it. If the world were to end in about three months, who could take away all we’ve danced so far?

As a kid, summer vacations used to be long, dreary, full of idle time and long hot afternoons and balmy nights. Buenos Aires in the 50’s was still considered part of the Third World. For a while, after Hungary trashed the Argentine National team in Sweden, I believed that they were talking about soccer.

For us, summer camp meant to wander through the forests near the airport, eating berries and oranges from the nearby backyards. Letting our imaginations fly, we would exchange roles playing John Wayne and Buffalo Bill. During the early teenage years, we would clumsily attempt to play Don Juan Tenorio with the neighborhood girls. The image of an angry father with his fists and feet ready to protect the honor of their daughters, would serve as a natural deterrent to the urges of the flesh.

One summer ago, I lost my mother unexpectedly and far away. Part of my childhood also died. For her I was still the little kid that never grew up. Because of her, I was still trying to live up to some irrational expectations. I’m sure she couldn’t understand that nearing the “end of the world,” her son had gone nuts. I had done the unthinkable, I had let myself be lured by the “temptations of the night and sexy women.” I had become a tango dancer.

I wish now, that she could have been to our milongas this summer. That she would have come along across the country to see the love, respect and affection that I have received from so many tango friends. Somehow, I know I’ve seen her standing by the door the night we celebrated La Mariposa’s big Five-O. I felt her presence. She looked so pleased and proud. Maybe she was also in Honolulu, Boston and Providence. Certainly she must have laughed as we played like children with the silly old farts her age in Harriman. Her angel definitely was in Reno, and positively she is in my heart.

I write this off the cuff as I relish the memories of the great last summer of tango of this century on this planet we call Tango. I hope you’ll understand the indulgence. I wish that you’ll share the happiness, the joy, the generosity of so many people. They make possible the celebration of the Argentine tango as it prepares to turn another leaf into a new century. New faces, new smiles, new friends will take our places as we gradually become memories of a great and joyful past.

Posted December 29, 2011 by Alberto & Valorie in Tangazos

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A Very Good Year   Leave a comment

A Very Good Year

By Alberto Paz
December 1998

We have completed another year of our lives. It has been a great one and we can’t wait to start the new year so we can continue enjoying the many experiences that the tango keeps bringing to us.

This was the year when doors were kindly and generously opened for us to allow us to meet flesh to flesh with hundreds of tango lovers across the country. For that, we are very grateful to have had the opportunity to teach, practice and dance the Argentine tango all over the fruited land. From the paradisaical islands of Hawaii to the heartland of America, the essence and nuances of the music of Buenos Aires resounded in halls, ballrooms, living rooms and converted garages. More faces and names occupy our thoughts as we rejoice in the blessings that the tango keeps bringing.

This has been a year of flattering (and some not so flattering) imitations of the style, look and feel of El Firulete, the publication that you have helped forge into a fresh, original and contemporaneous sounding board for all tango happenings around the nation. As we roam around month after month sharing our dance with people all over, each monthly issue is conceived on the fly. In spite of the accolades that we have received and the recognition that El Firulete has obtained all over the world, it continues to be a friendly way to keep in touch with our friends, a hard copy reminder not to take ourselves too seriously, and above all a necessary quota of good humor, a relaxing way to have some quality time to stop and smell the roses.

It is also comforting to return time after time to places where we have been and rekindle the good times we spent living the life of the tango. One of the great destinations turned out to be Reno in Nevada during the Labor Day weekend. We are already focused on 1999 and as many of you have asked us, we will not wait until everybody has had their tango weeks to pass the word. We want you to make your plans now. As it has been in the past, it will be the best getaway to celebrate your dedication and devotion to the Argentine tango. We are also itching to go back to Buenos Aires. They tell me that the scene has changed over the past two years. There are some friends who want to go together as a group. It looks like it may just happen this way. The curious thing is that now we will have to work around a busy teaching schedule that gets underway right after the new year when we first fly to the extreme cold of Alaska and then to the sunny shores of Florida.

All along, we continue to manage to be in the Bay Area most Monday nights to greet people from all over the world atop the nineteenth floor of the Mark Hopkins Hotel for a very special evening of tango.

Indeed, it has been a very good year thanks to the appreciation and support of a great many tango lovers like you. That’s why as it comes to an end, we will have you in our thoughts and our hearts when the strike of midnight on December 31 finds us negotiating the sounds of Carlos Di Sarli around a dance floor somewhere on the Planet.

To all of you, our warmest and sincere wish for a wonderful Holiday Season and a Happy New Year!.

The loss of innocence   Leave a comment

A fictional vignette in the tango key of life
To the memory of don Osvaldo Pugliese, who died on July 25, 1995

By Alberto Paz
July 1999

At age twenty seven he had already planted a garden, but the thorns had bled his heart. He had written a book, but the pages were blank. It seemed so far back as he wandered on the road of life surrounded by weeds and the alluring webs of black widow spiders.

On that hot July evening the sun had sunk for its daily bath into the Pacific ocean. The bougainvillea fluttered with the westerly breeze. From the humanoid shaped boughs, a white winged butterfly took to the air and for three minutes danced with the lift that the hot air created under its wings. Then after a graceful glide it landed on his chest.

His eyes opened and the vision of dark clouds in the sky stiffened his spine with the icy feeling of an ominous presage. His eyes focused on the dancing butterfly resting on his chest. “Pugliese is dead,” she said, “we have to dance forever and make his death the meaning of our lives.”

The notes of Recuerdo ripped through the silence of the night and riding on the wings of the white winged dancing butterfly he saw the world from high above for the first time.

“Promise me that you’ll play Recuerdo at my funeral,” she whispered. “Yes,” he couldn’t hold a sob, “and La mariposa too.” How fatalist is to plan for the unavoidable at the pinnacle of happiness and joy. Pugliese had transformed Celedonio Flores’s bitterly poignant lyrics into the philharmonic masterpiece that Pedro Maffia meant to write. “I don’t regret to have loved you so much.”

The flight of fancy and innocence continued and one day she met a man she said was going to be good. She said, “We must open our hearts and our lives to welcome all the tango men and women from Argentina and help them succeed and open doors so their craft and skills can be shown.”

For an instant, the blank pages of his book filled with words of wisdom and caution, but there was something compelling and remarkable about the notion of giving without asking, and so he agreed to give.

The man was good and he succeeded. The communities where he traveled loved him and admired him, and he was generous in recognizing the friendship and respect he had been given.

But as tango stories go, there was also a dark side to this man. At first, the back door visits to the man’s bedroom were handled with the discretion that personal matters should be handled. After all, it also takes two or at least two per indiscretion to do the horizontal tango.

He realized that the denial of the addiction bred a nauseating sense of impotence. The need for an ever constant feeding of the addiction blurred the boundaries between personal and public image, bringing to life Discepolo’s allegoric view of life from the windows of a cambalache, a surreal pawn shop where bibles lay next to water heaters, and wives, daughters, friends and lovers pile up on the shelves of moral decay.

He gave the man the best possible advice a friend and business partner could give. The reaction was hostile and it reached a point of no return when angry and vindictive, the man reached to crush the wings of the dancing butterfly.

The landing was perilous but safe. He pointed to the door and the man, with tears in his eyes, slowly walked away. Suddenly, he realized that he was standing tall on the road of life, far from the spider infected alleys. Pugliese’s right hand fell on the center of the keyboard, his left hand tapped the keys next to his right hand on one beat, and dug deeply on the farthest keys to the left on the next beat. Yum-bah, yum-bah, yum-bah, yum-bah!

He embraced the butterfly and bringing his head next to her face, began to dance.

Copyright (c) 1999-2011, Planet Tango. All Rights Reserved

Posted December 5, 2011 by Alberto & Valorie in Tangazos

Friends and “enemies”   Leave a comment

Friends and “enemies”

By Alberto Paz
June 1999

The waiting was becoming uncomfortable. For days I had been dealing with mixed emotions about a revelation that came via e-mail. While I laughed and feared back and forth at the evidence that somebody was calling me a Tangofascist, accusing me of being somebody else and proposing that I be banned from an Internet’s Tango discussion mailing list, I also wondered what kind of coward would hide behind an anonymous username and send a defamatory message, full of hate and venom to sixteen subscribers of the list. A few names crossed my mind, but I’m not in the habit of falsely accusing anybody.

It all started when I posted the interview with Fabian Salas featured in this issue. As it is typical of the discussions on that Tango mailing list, two factions formed to attack and defend the three more visible representatives of the latest Tango dancing fad some call New Tango. One subscriber in particular, using an anonymous handle, painted a rather bleak and unflattering picture of the three “gorditos” as s/he called them. It was shortly after that a friend forwarded me a message he and fifteen others had received. He asked, “I don’t see you on the recipient’s list. If I were going to send such a poison pen letter, I’d want the subject of my venom to get it. Isn’t his (her) anonymity enough to hide behind?”

My theory is that the coward is not interested in letting me have his venom. He is betting on an universal human flaw that makes some individuals want to believe in gossip and innuendos for whatever reasons they may have.

You see, we are very visible. Valorie and I travel and communicate with many people around the world. We are open, direct, sincere, and honest in what we have to offer. For every one who welcomes our friendship and affection, we really don’t know how many feel threatened or uncomfortable because of their feeble tenure as gatekeepers of good nature and well intentioned Tango communities. Unfortunately they do exist, and sometimes their character assassination tactics and their harmful gossiping make people wonder and change their attitudes because of that human flaw I mentioned before, the lack of moral fortitude to come forward and face the person being vilified by the hate mongers.

At this stage of my life, I can’t plead ignorance nor I can try to pass for naive. I just came back from Buenos Aires where friends confirmed that “illustrious masters” who have slept and eaten in our house, and who have made money and a name for themselves in this country through our professional efforts, have been trashing my name and questioning my motives for being in the Tango business. I wear that as a badge of honor. You know you have made it when you regularly are part of conversations thousands of miles away and your name gets trashed by the elite of Tango masters.

But the uncomfortable feeling that I mentioned at the beginning, is what really breaks my heart. Out of the sixteen people who received the poison pen e-mail, seven know me personally, some have done business with us, some have taken classes from us, all have read El Firulete on a regular basis, some have had free Internet space on our website. Only one was thoughtful enough to make me aware of the situation. Only one had the courage to confront me, to implicitly ask me if I was a “Tangofascist using an assumed name,” by simply doing what I wouldn’t hesitate one minute to do with people I respect and call my friends. He let me know about the anonymous defamatory e-mail being circulated. He gave me a chance. The rest so far have chosen to let me walk around with the stigma of a calumny hanging around my neck.

Copyright (c) 1999-2011, Planet Tango. All Rights Reserved

Posted December 5, 2011 by Alberto & Valorie in Tangazos

Living la vida loca   Leave a comment

Living la vida loca

By Alberto Paz
May 1999

He could tell what time it was by the sudden stop of the music. It was midnight in the USA, the time for “fantasias milongueras” to go beddy bye. Another night, another ocho. Tomorrow the sun would rise again.

The Cuban lady at the Aerolineas Argentinas counter at Miami airport asked, “Fumar o no fumar?” The voice of Argentino Ledesma seemed to pipe into his brain and he began to sing, “fumar es un placer, genial, sensual,” from the 1950s Tango hit, “Fumando espero.” “No fumar,” he chose. To chose is such a pleasure, genial, sensual. He stepped outside for one last genial and sensual smoke.

Ten minutes up in the air, an Argentine flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, “Now you may begin to smoke.” He smiled to his friend across the aisle. She proudly commented, “I didn’t know you quit smoking.” “I didn’t”, he said. “I just do it when it pleases me to.” After a three hour nap, he got up and went for a stroll to the tail end of the jumbo jet. He sat in an empty seat and lit up. It seemed paradoxical that the farther he was from the land of the free and the home of the brave, the braver he felt about making his own decisions with a new found sense of liberty. Was this what they meant by living the crazy life of an Argentine tanguero?

“Do you mind if I smoke,” he asked the first cab driver he met in Buenos Aires. The “tachero” gave him the look he probably had been saving for the first Martian he’d pick up right out of an Horacio Ferrer poem.

The next day he had a date with destiny. He was going to teach El Chanta a lesson he would never forget. The snake charmer shoemaker was known worldwide for his unfulfilled promises; the variety of his excuses; the originality of his lies; the sugar coated con job he had played on thousands of Tango dancers; the aromatic coffee and the ice cold beer he served to his customers. El Chanta saw him come in through the door and got up very slowly without saying a word. His little chihuahua, a gift somebody brought him from Chicago, made a shrieking noise and hightailed it downstairs to the cavernous basement.

The shoe store had become the set for a Scorcese movie. The two men locked eyes and walked towards each other as only porteños can walk. His hands rose to shoulder height, his eyes flaming with years of frustrations and emptiness that excuses and lies had built over time. On this day justice was about to be served. Less than a foot away he noticed El Chanta’s fingers touching his chest. That’s when he lost total control of himself. Rushes of blood thickened his veins. He recognized the loud tie he had given El Chanta a couple of years ago. In a sudden move his arms closed around El Chanta’s neck pressing his bosom against his chest. Puckering his lips he gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “how’ve you been, Chanta?” “Do you want coffee or beer,” El Chanta asked. “How about a beer with no head,” he said, “I’m living la vida loca.”

Copyright (c) 1999-2011, Planet Tango. All Rights Reserved

Posted December 5, 2011 by Alberto & Valorie in Tangazos

Star struck in tangolandia   Leave a comment

Star struck in tangolandia

By Alberto Paz
March/April 1999

It was a muggy evening. Shiny pearls of perspiration reflected the spot lights hanging above the bottles on the back wall of the bar. The scent of a hundred hot bodies seemed to take on colors of their own as they floated over the frantic pace attempting to keep up with Rodolfo Biagi’s oxymoron tango El rapido. Resting on one of the bar stools, he had an unobstructed view of the dance floor several feet away. Next to him, she was in a voluptuous love affair with a glass of cheap Chardonay. Her eyes took her deep below the surface of the blond liquid and into another dimension which only she could describe.

There was something odd about the way he kept time with the music with his tapping foot. At first it seemed that he accentuated the second beat with a singular syncopation, but then he appeared to lag behind Biagi’s almost obscene fingering of the high notes by holding the full rotation of his foot around his ankle for two whole notes.

Actually, he was thinking back two Tangos ago when he was carefully bringing his partner around into a half a turn. The later version of Osvaldo Pugliese’s tango Recuerdo was being played. They were at the point where a bandoneon and Pugliese’s single high note flirt with each other for almost an eternity. It was then that he had been struck on the left foot by a flying shoe attached to a frightening mass of muscle set on a gyroscopic trajectory. The shocking pain and the oblivious attitude of the couple, that continued bumping their way around the dance floor enthralled in their own selfishness, had left him pondering about the evolution of his Tango dancing experience. He had logged a few years under his feet after that first evening at the theater. Unconsciously he had been nursing his sore foot hoping the pain would go away so he could accept the overt invitation that was being glanced by a pair of gorgeous blue eyes from the table on his left.

The reverent platitude of their meditation was suddenly shattered by the crashing sound of the stool next to him as it went flying. It was struck by a fishnet clad, shapely and muscular leg. As in a slow motion dramatic scene, his eyes tried to focus on the fallen stool; the stiletto heels of the black shoe; the elongated calf muscles. A milky white thigh flirtatiously dissapeared into the long slit of a sexy black skirt. Unmistakable Argentine round hips, sensuously shaped at an early age by a steady diet of steak, ended in a slender waistline that resulted from years of training. Her long black hair partially covered the muscular embracing arm of her partner. At the moment, he could not place the familiar body.

He connected his thoughts and he began to remember. A few years back he had sat on the edge of his seat mesmerized and star struck by the intricate tangling of legs and bodies on stage that inspired him to learn to Tango. His companion at the bar slowly took another sip of her Chardonay, held the libation for an instant between her tongue and cheek and while deliberately swallowing whispered in his ear, “when you wish upon a star, also wish that you don’t get struck.

Copyright (c) 1999-2011, Planet Tango. All Rights Reserved

Posted December 5, 2011 by Alberto & Valorie in Tangazos