It’s 96 degrees Fahrenheit right now in the city of Buenos Aires, but feels like 100 with the 39% humidity. That sounds insufferable, and the direct sun is brutal, but on the shady, breezy streets of Palermo where my “tango loft” is situated, it’s not bad.
I slept well last night after leaving the Parakultural Milonga at Club Marabu, an event I was excited about, but left discouraged. I probably didn’t hang in there long enough, but I was literally falling asleep at my table. I was under-slept from binge-watching Netflix’s amazing series Griselda the night before and didn’t manage to get a nap in, and now here I was at a milonga that started at 10:30 p.m. (and ran till 4 a.m. the next morning—not unusual here).
I was asked to dance a “warm-up” during the very first tanda by man from New York with a strong Chinese accent. He was telling me about a table full of folks from Pittsburg, and I kept saying, “Peace Corps?” “No, Pittsburg!” he kept exclaiming. Our dance was like that too. He was not very experienced, and I was stumbling on the dance floor, and we were all alone, with viewers at tables on all sides of us. I’m sure that didn’t help me to get cabaceos (invitations to dance) later.
I did get two other dances before I threw in the towel. One was with a man from Sicily. He spoke no English or Spanish, and I spoke no Italian. I tried to speak Spanish with him thinking there might be some slight overlap (Romance languages), but no luck. So, we just smiled amiably at one another and enjoyed a tanda together. He wasn’t bad, but his lead wasn’t distinct or exciting.
My last dance at Parakultural before I fled was with an older Argentine gentleman. He was the best dance of the night. His lead was crisp and clear, he had good musicality, and he kept playfully touching the side of my foot, which was fun.
After that, zilch. No one even looked my way for the next three tandas. I stood up, grabbed my tennis shoes and socks from under the table, and dipped. I changed my shoes at the top of the stairs and found myself on the sidewalk at midnight, just as the milonga was getting started.
I thought I could hail a cab quickly and easily, as that’s been my experience here, but something was different last night, and I had to walk several blocks alone looking for one. I was jumpy, scared, and upset, and walking very fast because, well, I’ve been robbed twice in two weeks.
You heard that right. I’ve been mugged twice in Centro (downtown Buenos Aires). I blame myself, but my friends here and in the U.S. whom I’ve confided in all say, “Don’t blame yourself.” Still, it wouldn’t have happened if I had listened. If I hadn’t been arrogant and thought I knew better. Everyone said, “Don’t take your phone out on the street.” Everyone said, “Don’t wear valuable jewelry.” Everyone said, “It’s the worst in Centro.”
The first time I was accosted, I had just left my friend Yvonne at her travel agent’s office and was making my way on foot out of Centro toward Palermo. I took my phone out of my bag to check the map. Suddenly, a youth was all over me. It felt like he had eight arms. They were everywhere, grabbing at me. He pulled on my phone, I gripped hard, and managed to keep it by some minor miracle. He had both hands briefly around my neck. I screamed and kicked out my right leg. I don’t think the kick really landed, but he was off and running, a youth of about 15, pudgy, pale, with short, fair hair.
I was shaking. A doorman of a building invited me into the lobby to rest, but I waved him off and got into the next cab. I was shaking for hours, but grateful I had managed to keep my things.
The second time was the day before yesterday—Monday. I went to Centro to buy tango shoes. I had bought one pair at a shop called Darcos and was making my way to another called NeoTango. I paused at a corner to get my bearings. It was a quiet intersection, especially for Centro. I did not take out my phone. Suddenly, from an oblique angle, a street kid was behind me, and before I knew what was happening, he’d plucked the necklace that was underneath the green cotton scarf I’d worn to hide it right off of my neck. His fingers were so deft.
I yelped, my hands flew to my neck, and he was off like a shade, loping away at an easy pace like a young antelope. I watched him jog almost casually across and up the street and around the corner. A woman heard me scream. She came to my side and put an arm around me. She said in Spanish, “I’m so sorry. It’s such a shame. This is how Argentina is now.”
I’m deeply embarrassed to tell you about the necklace, but as it’s part of the story, I must. The kid got off with a good piece. It was a heavy, 18 kt. gold chain that my dad bought my mom at the gold souk in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia in 1979. He took it off my mother’s neck after she died on May 5, 1995, and clasped it around mine, and I’ve basically… or, I’d basically… worn it ever since. I always felt it was safest around my neck. I felt I wouldn’t lose it that way. I felt it was good luck, and even that it had healthful properties. That’s why I was wearing such a thing in such a place, against all advice. Yes, I’d covered it with a scarf, but the kid must have seen a glint, and boy did he have a good eye. Real gold looks like what it is. The real deal.
Now, it’s gone. I was, and remain, stricken, obviously. Upset with myself, obviously. More unusual, I found myself anthropomorphizing the necklace. I felt sorry, as if I’d betrayed her. I felt she must be scared. I wondered whose pocket she was in, who was holding her, how many times she would change hands that day, what part of the pavement she was on, what gold shop, what smelter. I thought about how no one knew her provenance. I felt I’d betrayed her.
It’s been two days, and I’m trying to move on. As my son said, I was not physically attacked, not injured, not in a coma, not knifed, not shot, not dead or beaten. Not in hospital, not in morgue, etc., etc. The kid was almost elegant, almost tender, almost intimate in the way he removed it from my neck in a flash, just like that.
So, Buenos Aires. My time here.
My second day, I stubbed my toe so hard in my flat that I actually heard and felt a small bone snap in the top of my big toe. I couldn’t dance for five days, but it healed quickly, and I can dance now. That is a small mercy, or even a big one.
I ran into a friend from the Bay Area here. He took me out for lunch. I thought he was handsome at home, but wasn’t sure how bright he was. During our lunch, I was completely disabused of that notion. He was smart, elegant, interesting, and debonair. He ordered us a bottle of Cabernet Franc, and we shared a huge slab of skirt steak and talked for three hours about retirement strategies, money, and living outside the U.S.
He’s quite passionate about tango and extremely committed to getting good as quickly as possible, and he’s progressing amazingly fast. He’s a very good dancer. He told me at lunch that up until six months ago, he was lonely, depressed, and watching TV every night after a traumatic divorce. His cousin coaxed him to a tango class, and it changed his life. You hear stories like this a good deal.
Anyway, I was crushy after the lunch, and weirdly my toe felt completely cured, which is hilarious. I was marveling at how love, or amorous feelings, can cure us of physical ailments, as can—and does—the tango embrace. I’ve noticed this multiple times. My back, shoulder, or hip may be bothering me, but in the dance—I’m as smooth and lithe as a teenage girl, or at least I feel so, and I tell you, I feel no pain.
Alas, it’s not to be with this man for a number of reasons we needn’t go into, not least of which is that he’s highly drawn by beautiful young things (I observed at the party I invited him to), and who wouldn’t be? I don’t blame him in the least.
I came to Buenos Aires to get out of the U.S. I’ve been stuck in a rut for a while, and depressed. I wanted to change things up. Also, having been laid off in November, I’ve been wrestling with feelings of shame and fear. My friend E. says, “You’re always afraid of something.” I don’t want that to be true. I don’t think of myself as a fearful person. I don’t shrink away from things or situations. But I also don’t have what my son calls an abundance mentality, that’s for sure. In fact, I have what he calls “scarcity mindset.”
The idea of being in Buenos Aires where my severance money will go much further appealed on many levels. In fact, I went to my tango class in Berkeley, CA, the very day I got laid off, and my teacher sanguinely said, “Now you can go to Buenos Aires.” I left on a one-way ticket on January 16th. I thought I may stay a couple of months. I thought I may even take a remote job and see if I could make it work from here.
It was open-ended, you see, and then, a few days after my arrival, I received a text from my cousin that his mom, my aunt, my mother’s sister, had suddenly died. I spent about two days wondering if I should return for the funeral. My friend E. said, “You’re not rich. You can’t just fly in and out and then back like that.” I knew she was right, and that I could perhaps pay my respects some other way, but when I received a second text from my cousin a few days later with the date and time of the funeral and the Irish wake (!) the night before, I knew I’d return home for it.
So, I have a ticket home for the evening of February 6th. The wake is the 7th, the funeral is the 8th. My sister and brother are flying in from Hawaii and Maryland, respectively, to stay with me.
I have six days left in Argentina. My friend E. asked, “So, do you see yourself living there? Could you retire there?” I don’t know the definitive answer to that. Lots of Americans and Europeans are here, many working remotely. It’s a great way to save money, if you can get the formula right. And I know that once I was in with a cool expat crowd, I’d be fine. I’d know the best places to go. I’d know where to buy olive oil and good bread. I’d develop my routines.
Buenos Aires has a lot to offer. Tango, certainly. It’s all tango, all the time. There are 15 or 16 milongas a day. A private one-hour class is about $35 (compared to $125 in the U.S.). A taxi ride across town is $2.50 - $3. A milonga is $2 to $3 (compared to $20 - $25 in the Bay Area). You can really go whole hog here and learn a lot, fast. People come from all over the world to immerse themselves in these fabulous old tango parlors. I’ve already met some very cool people, one of whom I’m meeting for coffee in an hour.
But, it’s also grimy here. It’s a huge city that never sleeps. It’s like New York, or maybe the New York of the 80s. It’s dusty, polluted, raw, cacophonous. It’s also vibrant as hell. And people know how to relax and live here. The parks are full of families and young people picnicking. The buses are full, the subways are crammed to bursting. Life abounds here. Cafes are full. Coffee culture is alive and well. I feel like I can’t even afford a cup of coffee in the San Francisco Bay Area now. With a latte now $7, it’s become laughably expensive. I feel repressed there. And scared.
The fear is different here. Yes, I got mugged twice and am jumpy on the streets now, but it’s not violent crime like we’re experiencing in Oakland, where my home in California is now. Suffice to say, the jury’s out.
I’m going to wrap this up now. Next time, I’ll tell you about my tango teacher and my taxi dancer experience. And Ravi and his tango guide. And the amazing party I attended across from the Palacio Barolo, with the live tango orchestra. And maybe my tourist adventures with my new friend Yvonne. Stay tuned.
Keep writing!
I can't wait for more!