zher kom-pron

The first time I ever recall touching the french language was in Mr. Thompson's Introductory French class in sixth grade.  Firmly believing that I would never use it, I immediately dropped it at the first chance I got [after the final exam, C+, thank you very much], and never considered learning it again.

Unfortunately.

I've learned, over the course of the last two and a half-ish months I've been here, that a) one does not come to Paris to learn French, and b) the best place to learn any language is at the dinner table, in a debate, and in bed.  I have the unfortunate news to report, however, that regardless of the French phrasebook I bought in Buenos Aires, my repertoire of sentences I can [somewhat] confidently say can only get me tickets to the metro, food in a restaurant, and a finger wagging in the direction I want to go...

... usually a highly offended and confused look from the person to whom I'm speaking.

Which, in my case, was enough to get by for two and a half months.

Dedicated with wonderful gratitude to my hosts, dance partners, and complete strangers who spoke with me, I present a list of the most interesting things I've learned to say in French, and their translations.

And, of course, the responses I've received when speaking them.

 -||-

Je m'appelle Joshua.  Je suis enchanté !  or  Enchanté !
My name is Joshua.  I am enchanted!  or  Enchanted!

Interestingly, this is not the first sentence [or second, third, fourth, etc] that I use upon meeting someone.  Maybe after the second or third meeting is when I finally get to introduce my name.  The enchanted part is in response to said stranger introducing themself.  And until then?  I attempt to explain [in English] what it is I am doing in Paris.

-||-

Je suis un étudiant pour le danse.

I am a student of dance.

Not EXACTLY my reason for being in Paris, but at its basic, basic, basic core...  Vaguely close enough.

 -||-

J'habite à Puteaux avec un ami.
I live in Puteaux with a friend.  Not to be confused with I live in dirty whore water with a friend.

Also not absolutely necessary information people need to know, but I like to attempt to impress the Parisians with what I know how to say.  Unfortunately, the only ones who ARE impressed are female and older than thirty-five.

 -||-
 

Je suis désolé, je ne parle pas français.  Parlez-vous anglais ?
I am sorry, I do not speak French.  Do you speak english?

My default phrase when a flurry of French words are thrown in my direction.  Although the person to whom I am speaking normally responds in English [or even Spanish], it's at this point Host 2 will appear out of no where and whisper in my ear, 'You've already said too much.'

-||-

Voulez-vous danser avec moi?
Would you like to dance with me?
 
Voulez-vous guider ?
Would you like to lead?
 
Je voudrais guider.
I would like to lead.

 

À gauche, à droite.
To the left, to the right.

Maintenant.
Now.

Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Pardon !
Sorry!

The dance basics.  For either partner or solo dancing, these have gotten me incredibly far in all the classes I've taken.

-||-

Combien coûte une tablette de chocolat ?
How much is that chocolate bar?

I buy a lot of chocolate here.  A lot.

-||-

Je voudrais ... un vin rouge, un vin blanc, une carte, une baguette, un croissant, peroxyde d'hydrogène, etc.
I would like... red wine, white wine, metro tickets, a baguette, a croissant, hydrogen peroxide, etc.

Je cherche...
I am looking for... 

Being the demanding American I am, I've also gotten considerably good at stating what I want.

-||-

Merci !  Merci beaucoup !

Thank you!  Thank you very much!

Bonjour, bonsoir, bonne soirée, Bonne nuit.

Hello/Good day, good evening, good evening, good night.

However, being the gentlemanly son my parents raised me to be, I've also learned greetings and farewells.  Interestingly, I might not normally speak to things that can respond.  As a mnemonic device, I greet and say farewell to nouns [sheep, macaroons, Paris, stars, plate, cheeses, etc.] as I learn their translations.  Bonjour, mouton!  Bonsoir, fromage!

 -||-

Où est ...?
Where is...?

The problem with learning how to ask something in another language is that you REALLY have to understand the answer.  Unfortunately, whenever I ask for the nearest public toilet, the museum, a particular road, or even a monument, I receive a barrage of French words and a series of hand gestures that I can only assume to be French sign language.  So I simply nod and walk in the direction of their last hand gesture.  This, of course, only gets me more lost and late than I originally intended, but hey, at least I got directions in French.

-||-

C'est beaux/belle.

It is beautiful.

I once wanted to comment on the atmosphere, the ambience, the aura of the dance room I was in, and I thought that this was what one should say in French.  However, as a friend explained to me, 'Yes, that is how you say it.  But no one in Paris would ever say that, because we complain about everything.'

-||-

Je ne regrette rien.
I regret nothing.

La vie en rose.
Life in pink.

Quelqu'un m'a dit…
Someone told me... 

I once was asked by a Parisian to say everything I knew how to say in French, and these came out.  And with each one, he immediately knew to which song I was referring.  'Ah,' he would say, 'Like Edith Piaf,' or, 'Like Carla Bruni.'

-||-

Ah, l'été parisien, c'est romantique.

Ah, the Parisian summer is romantic.  

The same Parisian heard me say this, and responded accordingly:  'That eez, ah, like we say, ah, a cliché.'

-||-

Ah, c'est trop américain, ça.
Ah, it's too American.  

Host 2 noticed that I tend to shut my mouth and look in the other direction when in the presence of other loud Americans.  When I asked how to curse the Americans in French, this is what I got.

-||-

Ah, c'est une autre grosse américaine. 
Ah, it's another fat American.
I learned to say this only because I had crossed paths with a fairly petite American girl who complained LOUDLY at 5 in the afternoon: 'I AM SO HUNGRY I JUST WANT DINNER NOW.'  When I asked how to curse the Americans in response to her complaint, this was the translation I got.

-||-

Le fauteuil m'étend les bras.
The armchair reaches its arms out to me.
 

Possibly my favorite phrase, I wanted to learn how to say, 'I need to sit now,' but a dance partner said that this was the more Parisian thing to say.  Apparently.

-||-

Imagine me.  As she.

[le garçon]

Bonus Round

Before any French adventures are recorded...

BONUS ROUND!!!

Mission Objective:  Complete as many of the tasks on the To Do list provided by friend of a friend and return to the airport on time for your flight.
Location:  Mexico City, Mexico
Time Allotted:  14 hours (arrive 6:30 am, depart 8:30 pm)

TASK I:  Get rid of bags by storing them.

Even though I stood in line for an hour waiting to pick up my luggage, and then another hour in the wrong terminal to check said luggage into my next flight, and then trekked around the correct terminal to find that AirFrance was closed until the afternoon.  I dragged my wheel-less bag until I found the lockers and the cash exchange, leaving the airport at about 9:30 am.

Score:  10/10
Why?  All my luggage weighs about 19 kilos, or about 41.89 pounds.
Try walking around for three hours with that on your back.

TASK II:  Take the Metro out of the airport and into the city.


I like to think that my public transportation navigation skills have improved dramatically since I left the US.  Taking the time to ask the security guards how to get to the metro in Spanish, finding the metro was simple.

Score:  10/10

Why?  Ten months ago, I had to have written directions to use the NY subway.
Or, sometimes call in between changing tracks to have Matrix-like instructions directed to me.
Learning to navigate the subways in Spanish is a HUGE accomplishment.

TASK III:  Head towards ZOCALO.  Coming right into the center of the city, you can see the cathedral, the presidential palace, and the remains of the Aztec palaces.

Looking for the tiny names of the neighborhoods on the metro map unfortunately isn't as easy.  And I found myself having to stare outside the window to look for the station names, and always up to the map posted in the metro itself.

Cathedral?  Check.  Lots of people praying, fancy stone carvings and sculpture, and that religiously stale smell of worship.

Presidential Palace?  Check...  But to be honest, I had no idea that it was the palace until after I took a picture of it and found posters of it later.  Key to doing tourist things: take as many pictures of everything you see, and then find out later if it's culturally significant.

Remains of Aztec Palaces?  This, I'm not so sure about.  I took as many pictures as I could have of old buildings; but none looked particularly Aztecan...  And the instructions made the remains sound so close to the cathedral and the presidential building...

Score:  7/10

Why?  I should've done research into looking for what I should be looking for.

Instead, I just blindly walked around taking pictures of what I assumed were historical monuments.

TASK IV:  Walk towards BELLAS ARTES through one street closed off for pedestrians.  It is a beautiful building that is a museum and an opera house, and you can go in for free to see the murals.


I ended up visiting three museums:  one of modern art where there was an Andy Warhol display of his work for Harper's Bazaar; another was of culture where I saw ancient Egyptian, Roman, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Maorian relics, and of course Bellas Artes.  It must have been a while since my contact had been there, since the entrance fee was beyond free.  To save time, I appreciated the artwork outside, the marble designs inside, and the European-style café.

 So man plus-sized models...

Score:  6/10
Why?  I certainly didn't find the pedestrian street.  Or even really get to see the murals.
Just the cool marble interior.
But I did get to see two other museums, albeit quickly and for free, but two other museums nonetheless.

TASK V:  Walk around ALAMEDA park next to the museum.


Alameda was closed, and therefore outside of my control.  Lots of construction happening, but I did get to snag a picture of Beethoven as an angel.

Score:  3/10
Why?  I only got to see the park from a distance.
And although the instructions said to walk AROUND the park, I only walked down one side.

TASK VI:  Walk towards another metro station called HIDALGO, and take it towards COYOACÀN.


Since I didn't get to walk around the park, I just entered through the nearest station (not Hidalgo), but I did almost fall asleep on the 30 minute ride to Coyoacàn.

Score:  8/10
Why?  I didn't use HIDALGO, but a station much closer and available to the museum.
Additionally, I got to recharge my physical batteries on the metro during rush hour.

Even though technically all day is rush hour in Mexico City.

TASK VII:  Go to Frida Khalo's house.


Check.  Although in looking for it, many locals gave me contradictory directions, most of them beginning with "It's not exactly known where, but it's nearby."  Fortunately, one woman literally took me by the hand and walked me down the street to its exact location.  She called me "mijo," shook my hand warmly, and continued down the road.

 

Score:  10/10
Why?  I was told to GO to Frida's house, not IN it.
I'm also a firm believer in asking for directions, especially in another language.
And when a stranger takes you by the hand to bring you to a stranger's house, I'd say you've done a fantastic job.

TASK VIII:  Go to Trotsky's house where he was killed.

Another time to be honest:  I had no idea who Trotsky was.  I just roamed around, asking if they knew where was "la casa de Trotsky."  Easily found, and painted bright red, it makes one question whether visiting the murder scene of an unfamiliar famous person just to say one did...

Score:  8/10
Why?  For the same reasons as going to Frida's house.
Except this time, instead of being directed by a woman, I got directed by a man selling churros on his bicycle.  Unfortunately, I was only one house away when the churro man pointed to the house.

TASK IX:  If you're there for lunch; go to the market, MERCADO DE COYOACÀN and try tostada.  You'll love it, really, it really is a Mexican experience.

INCREDIBLE.  The colors, the smells, the cost.  Going to one of these sit-in counters is an experience; you just choose one of probably 30 different meat/vegetable cobinations, and the chef will pile it on a tostada with a bunch of cream and cheese.  I had one with a bottle of sangria (unfortunately only a kind of grape soda, but still worth trying) for 35 Mexican pesos (about 2.73 USD), and I felt full.  Top it off with a small quarter-kilo bag of gomas, or gummies, for 15 (about 1.12 USD)Mexican pesos; and you have an apparently Mexican lunch.

 

Score:  10/10
Why?  Once again, I was led by a woman who I didn't know.  Interestingly, life conversations happened, all of which ended in her ultimate piece of advice:  "nunca te pierdas," or, "don't lose yourself."

Additionally, resisting the urge to buy wrestling masks, pinatas, dried fruits, and other foods in hopes of finding the tostadas takes an uncanny amount of discipline.  But when you find it...  

SO WORTH IT.

TASK X:  If you have time/choose not to go to COYOACÀN, take metro towards SEVILLA and look for REFORMA, the most popular street in Mexico City with many memorable statues and buildings.  OR look for EL BOSQUE DE CHPULTEPEC, a beautiful forest/park with lakes and a palace inside.  OR ask for directions for LA CONDENSA, the "cool neighborhood" full of bars; restaurants, and little shops.  OR close by is LA ZONA ROSA, the gay area of the city.

Two things kept me from doing any of these options: 1) running around for so long really take's its toll on a traveller's legs, and 2) general paranoia of missing my plane to Paris convinced me to be back in the airport by 5 pm.  Really, my legs felt a pain I haven't experienced since kalaripayattu classes in India.  I've grown up with the general rule of arriving three hours before an international flight, but looking back at my friend of a friend's message, only two hours would have sufficed in Mexico City.  Ah, le sigh.  What could have happened.

Score:  3/10

Why?  I could actually feel my alternate universe being created as I boarded the metro back to the airport.  Who knows what would have happened there?  Fortunately, I made it back to the airport on time, bought a French phrasebook, and allowed myself to attempt to study the language for about an hour and a half.  Interestingly, the woman sitting next to me in the terminal spoke Spanish, and we discussed being able or not being able to speak French.  Conclusion: worse comes to worse, pretend I'm from South America.

Bonus Bonus Points and Penalties:

+5 for venturing around with a backpack, even though many people highly suggested not doing so.  AND nothing got stolen.

+ 5 for speaking Spanish and using it to ask for directions.  Especially when you don't normally believe in asking for directions.

+ 5 for doing extra things while still sticking to the instructions.  Seeing extra museums, visiting extra shops, and wandering over to look at that pretty display of colors actually didn't take away from the short-lived experience.

+ 5 for getting an extra stamp in the passport.  Unexpected, and makes one look even more cultured.

- 5 for losing 20 pesos/less than two dollars.

- 5 for not drinking any tequila or cerveza while in Mexico.  IN MEXICO.

Overall Bonus Round Score:   85 points.

Passing, but not as much as I'd like to be.  If I've learned anything from this experience, it's to MOVE QUICKLY, cut your losses when you can, and pack even more lightly than you expected.  Even though your instructions are written inside a journal, you don't need to carry all those things with you.  Nevertheless, realize that only a few hours' worth of venturing around a city isn't nearly enough time to actually get to know it.  But at least you took a considerable amount of pictures to pretend otherwise.

[ Mario ]

The Constant

"This," the Nomad said, waving his arm across the milonga, "is what's been keeping me sane here..  To have something so regular, something you can depend on, is what makes traveling so much more bearable."

Here's what I've learned during my time in the milongas of Buenos Aires:  In the grand not-so-linear equation of your life, many things change.  Friends, family, lovers, enemies, schools, homes, beliefs, favorite foods, and even fashion choices.  Few things, if any, stay the same.  But, in the midst of all this fluctuating line that never really seems to have a terminal point, you can pick out patterns that - for some reason - keep appearing.

Rediscovering an idea from a favorite episode of a favorite tv series, I realize how important it is to have a constant, something to which you can anchor yourself, something around which you can make choices, something from which you can plant yourself and grow wildly.  Without this constant, wandering loses meaning and venturing loses purpose.  Everything that changes around you sweeps you off your feet, and not in the romantic sense.  You land facedown on the ground, and the pain that comes with it isn't only physical.

There's a moment when your life brings a sudden change: whether you're going to a new school, a significant other decides to end a reasonably good relationship, you move to another country, or you decide to buy a different/more eco-friendly bottle of laundry soap.  It's in this moment when memories come flooding back and you realize what made your constant.  It's in this moment when you debate on whether or not the change is worthwhile, and if you're making a terrible mistake in allowing it to happen.

You reminisce about the first dance, toes you stepped on, sweaty shirts at three in the morning, learning Latvian polka, smoker's breaths, wine nights, and life conversations you had.  You remember the one time you met someone, and the hundreds of times you sat with the regulars.  Because, hey, now you're a regular.

Some might ask you why you didn't go here or there while you were in said location, and for a fleeting moment you'll feel like the bottom of a spittoon for not making more of your time.  It's not when you sit down and look through pictures and remember the private jokes and the conversations over Argentine beer that you understand it all.  You did make the most of your time.  Not in the way other people would, but you did.  And it wasn't through going to this famous museum or going to this famous part of the country, but it was through the people you met, the friends you made, the fleeting encounters you experienced.

For me, the constant is a temporary family you build in a moment, whether it's one almost-brother, or a whole collection of locals and travelers.  You might not see them everyday, but when you do, a very large part of you is at peace in a considerably restless place.  The beauty of it all is that for whatever little time you have together, you've come together for that one moment because you needed each other.  For that one moment, you depended on each other to be there, to become each other's constant.  Without that, living would be

so

much

more

difficult.

And when the time comes - because it always comes - you'll separate.  You'll have gained what you needed from that experience, and as much as you don't want it to, it'll end.  You'll have that one last round until five in the morning, joking about Disney Princesses and why the hell you want to go to Paris instead of Riga.  You'll impersonate Cher, and then talk about zodiac signs, and then you'll slip into British accents in which you debate on how to pronounce "The Avengers."  And finally, you'll talk about when you'll meet again, and even though you say you'll come back, there's a haunting moment when you don't know if it's true.

You never know what happens.

Earlier this year, I would've said that dance was my constant.  It is, after all, one of two major themes in my year abroad.  Now that I'm coming down to the last two and a half months...  I can't be so sure.  Dance has been my 'vehicle' [in the words of the fellowship] that has carried me around to where I need to go.  Interestingly, it's been the people I meet through dance that have kept me sane this whole time.  Sometimes I wonder whether or not the next site will be the same [absorb the culture, learn some of the language, meet people, dance a lot, walk a lot, etc.], and then I have to remind myself that it almost never will be.  It can't.  That's a factoid of life.  You are the thing that changes the most during your lifetime, a product of the equation made of interactions, culture, education, home, experiences, and even food.  You can hardly ever rely on one element to stay the same, and I believe that your constant at one point in time might not be the same constant at another [yes, a paradox if not a self-negating comment on this entire post].

Constants change too.  You can lose them, and you just as easily gain make them.

The only thing I can hope for is that a new constant will be waiting for me wherever I go.  I just have to look for it.



[ The Variable ]

Aristocratic

Believe it or not, one of the best things to do in Buenos Aires, which is one of the best things to do to get to know Buenos Aires, is one of only free things in Buenos Aires!  A company actually offers free tours, one offered in the morning [11 am] which takes you on a more political/historical experience, and one offered in the evening [5 pm] which takes you on a more cultural experience.  Realizing I still have a lot of BA to live through, I figured I'd give the evening tour - also known as the Aristocratic Tour - a shot.

I apologize for the lack of details I remember.  Names, places, dates, and actual locations defeat me.  So I've taken the liberty to cheat a bit, look up other websites/blogs online, and give you an idea of what I should have learned in two and a half hours.  

Go figure I never was able to enjoy history.

Our tour guide, Sol.

The starting point, el Monumento de San Martin.

According to a random blog, one of the statues had gone missing off of its plinth overnight.  Apparently, it's common for people to dress up as the police/officials and steal things that belong to the city.

Here's a terribly fancy house, el Palacio San Martin, which was built to house 25 children.

TWENTY FIVE.

Once translated, you can learn more about its political purposes here.

Tourist shot in front of Torre Monumental!

Considered the "Big Ben" of South America, this clock tower is actually a gift from the UK.

Falkland Islands War Memorial.

According to Sol, I could've taken a picture with them [similar to the Queen's Guard], but I wouldn't be allowed to hug them.  Fundamentally against not being able to hug military personnel in my photos, I opted out of taking said picture.

Like many statues in BA, I had no idea what this one represents, who it depicts, or who made it.

Either I was too far from Sol to hear it explained, or she just never talked about it in passing.

According to Sol, the buildings/apartments don't look French in Retiro/Recoleta.  They are French.

The materials and furnishings were imported from France [and I guess the designers were too], which would explain why these apartments are going for about $4-6 million USD.

Oh, and Argentine people speak of property in USD because the peso is so unreliable because of inflation.  Everything else is spoken of in pesos.

I had to take a picture of a man who was airing out his jacket in this particular apartment.

Why?  Because this man can afford a $4-6 million USD apartment.

There is a Plaza Cataluna in Barcelona, Spain.  Therefore, Buenos Aires must have one too.

What's wrong with this picture?

The windows are painted on.

It is said that if you drink from this fountain, you will come back to Buenos Aires.

We'll see.

The Four Seasons Hotel.

For $25,000 USD/night, you can rent this entire building where the Rolling Stones, Madonna, and the Jonas Brothers stayed.

Not a particular part of the tour, Sol took a moment to let everyone take a picture of him walking down Avenida Alvear.

Another random statue that Sol did not talk about, or I did not listen to her talk about.

Blurry!  Taken from a distance!

Here is where Sol decided to tell us that this particular street is where the upper upper class decide to shop. Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Burberry...  Whatever's big and expensive, you can find it here.  Additionally, this is where we had the chance to see some real plastic surgery results.

Supposedly, plastic surgery is kind of a benefit on the health care, and you're allowed a certain procedure every so many years.  So it's normal to ask a person, "You haven't gotten implants yet?  Why not?"  There are about 100 breast implants/day.

Interestingly, people openly talk about these appointments, or other appointments, like therapy.  The Argentine people love therapy, and would rather work other appointments [lunches, dates, meetings] around their therapy schedules.

Former mansion, now the Hyatt Hotel.

Another former mansion, now the Vatican Embassy.

THE LAST former mansion that has stayed a mansion.  Actually just looks like a haunted house.

This is truly a terrible quality photo.

Here's the point: people here don't want to show off on the outside of their house that they can afford things they don't need.  Why bother painting or fixing the outside of your house?  Instead, they spend money on clothes and art.  This person, in particular, could not fit the large ceramic bull inside their one-floor apartment, so they decided to leave it outside on the balcony for everyone to see.

It's like we're in Merry Ol' England!

Sol said that it's commonly believed that the Argentine people truly believe in becoming one culture:

"We speak Spanish, we look Italian, we want French things, and we want to be British."

Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar.

The most important element of the evening: having dinner and wine, then sharing Quilmes Stout [my favorite!] with a cancer research pHD student from London, an economics pHD student from Germany, a physics pHD student from Switzerland, and a gastronomist/chef from Ecuador, most of whom I met on the tour.

[a Tourist]

The Storm

About storms [metaphorical and literal]: they happen all the time.

The last time you walked to a milonga during a rain storm you got lost; whoever danced with you later didn’t appreciate your soaked pants legs brushing up against theirs, or your sweaty and rain-drenched shirt they would press their face against during each song.  To avoid that, this time, you’ll find yourself speed walking just to avoid the rain; the day-long shower will clear up for 30 minutes to let you make the 20 minute walk to the milonga.

“Estabas en la Viruta de la noche?” She'll ask, and you’ll realize that it’s not the music in your headphones; it comes from the girl standing next to the ticket collector.  Mistaking being caught off guard and confused, She'll translate: “Weren’t you at la Viruta last night?”

You’ll make small talk – what were you doing at la viruta last night? oh you’re from montreal?  oh you're traveling the world? – and you’re glad to find out she also took the beginner’s class.  While students are waiting for the teacher, She'll actually ask you to dance.  To review what you had learned last night, of course.

Surprisingly, being the only ones on the floor at that moment, it’s not that hard to dance with her.  In fact, her constant reassurance and lighthearted smiles make making mistakes with her so not terrible.

You might be inside, but the storm hasn’t even begun to clear.

You know you have to practice with people who have more experience.  You work with the best, and that’s how you get better.

About more experienced people: good ones also want to get better, so they won’t want to work with you.  As a matter of fact, working with you frustrates them.

They’ll force a smile as they purse their lips, blink frequently with wide eyes and tilted head as you step on their feet, and rub the area over one eyebrow as you continue to apologize for not understanding everything the teacher said and how to do it.  When the teacher says to cambia parejas || change partners, you catch the sigh of relief and rolling of their eyes as they turn to grab onto the next Rico Suave.  After all, this is only your eighth day of classes.  Shouldn’t you be a tango master by now? 

This doesn’t help the fact that the teacher is the kind who thinks you'll understand the material faster if he yells louder.  Understanding every fifth word he says while he jabs the air with his finger and stomps on the wooden floor boards confuses you only more, while your pareja waits with arms crossed, eyes flicking back and forth between you and the teacher as if to catch the information flying from his mouth and into your ears.

The clouds get thicker, darkening the floor around you.  The lightning strikes brighter, blinding you to keep you from seeing where you’re going.  The thunder rolls louder, making it impossible to hear the music.  The rain keeps you frozen from making the next move, dampening your confidence and keeping you from speaking with your body.

"Necesitas más esfuerza del cuerpo. ||  You need more force from the body." One partner will say, and she'll press her head against yours to look for it.

"Necesitas más presencia.  ||  You need more presence." Another will say, and she'll grip the hell out of your hands.

The storm – literal and metaphorical – keeps getting worse.  From within the confines of La Catedral, you can see flashes of lightning, a cold blue, light up the sky and corners of the warm and dark milonga.  Is that rain you hear outside, or the broken fan hovering above your dinner table?

When the class ends – thank god that it finally ended – you turn to pack your frayed Ugandan Converse shoes into your bag and trek back home.  All you want is a pack of crackers and dulce de leche.  Comfort food for such an uncomfortably soggy night.

But She won’t let you.

“Do you want to dance?  I know I’m not supposed to be asking because I’m the girl, but…  I just don’t want to be boring and sit around and just watch people practice.”

You decide not to mention that that’s what you’ve done for a considerable amount of time since you arrived.  As a way of not saying ‘no,’ you quickly warn her that every woman you danced with in class left frustrated with you, and that tonight just isn’t your night.

“That’s alright.  I totally understand; whenever I feel like I danced pretty shittily, I leave in a really crappy mood.  But don’t let it get to you, you’ll be fine.  How about we just teach you how to walk around?”

You can’t deny her that.

She’ll be the one who clears the clouds that night, if not only for a moment.  She’ll calm the lightning and quiet the thunder, and She'll even hold out a flowery red umbrella for you stand under the rain.  She’ll go slow, telling you what your body is or isn’t telling her, something that most dance partners won’t do.  She’ll let you walk her around in circles around the floor, not feeling any shame from the onlookers; who cares if you’re just leading her in a simple walk?  She’s the only one who’ll talk to you instead of smile the mistakes away.

You’ll find yourself there until closing, 2 am Tuesday morning.  You give her your email [because She'll be able to find you on Facebook, because cell phone time costs a shit ton here], and walk her outside, complimenting on how patient She is.

“That’s the only way I learned,” She'll say, “I just kept dancing with people who were patient enough to tell me what did and didn’t work.  I have a friend I met at a club who just wanted to learn to tango, and we’d get together all the time to just play around.  Nothing sexual, just tango.  It’s great.”

Here’s the thing about more experienced people:  the best ones will want to teach you, helping them get better.

You tell her that you need to find one of those, and She smiles.  Worried about how late it is, you offer to walk her to at least the bus stop, but She won’t have any of it.  She can manage on her own.  Upon walking out of the milonga, you notice the rain has cleared up, mostly.  You’ll smile at each other, kiss each other on the cheek [only once, because that’s how it works in Argentina], and go your separate ways.

There’ll be a moment when you look back, and realize that She's already around the corner.  You’ll realize that you hope this ray of sunlight in the middle of the night will find you online, and maybe you’ll even go dancing again.  For a moment, She cleared the storm to let you breathe.

On the walk home, the rain will suddenly start again.  There’ll even be a crash of lightning, and an incredibly loud clap of thunder that actually makes you almost fall into the late-night flower shop’s bucket of roses.  But you’re not in a hurry, not this time.  You’ll let the rain fall, soak your shirt and your pants.

Getting wet won’t be so bad.  Not when you've been warmed by the sun.

[Sun-Kissed & Rain-Soaked]

How Queer

Fact:  He had never asked another man to dance before this year.  This did not mean, however, that He had never danced with another man; He, of course, just graduated from college.  Same-sex dancing, from what he remembered, was taken light-heartedly between friends at most Galas, house parties, concerts, and other social venues.

But passionately?  He had never seen nor experienced that.  He expected it to be a big deal, a kind of revolutionary way to dance that would amaze performers and audience members.

Before we get there, however...

Taking the advice of his host, He decided to head to one of the more popular milongas in Buenos Aires, La Confiteria Ideal.  One of the more noticeable characteristics of this milonga was the expensive entry price: 45 pesos|10.47 U$D, a whole four dollars more than most of the other classes he attended.  Another noticeable characteristic was the massive space covered in marble floors and pillars.  But what had caught his attention were the glass cases sprinkled throughout the main floor.  Each case displayed fancy sweets, chocolates.  Tonight, He would tango in a [terribly fancy] candy shop.

"If you can walk, you can tango." Leonardo, whose slicked back black hair and relaxed demeanor did nothing to contradict the tango dancer stereotype, explained in English.  This would be the only thing Leonardo explained in English, but it was more than He could comprehend in one class.  For the next hour, He was led by Leonardo around and around the small square designated for the six person class to learn how to walk normally.  He was surprised at how difficult it was to just walk, especially with a tango teacher.

"Why are you so tense?  Relax." Leonardo asked.  He shrugged.  He thought he was keeping the tension required to tango.

After attempting to just walk with a Venezuelan woman and a sixty year old grandmother, He left the class in incredibly low spirits.  It seemed to be the more classes He took, the worse He became.

-||-

He found his way to Tango Queer that same night; this was the actual part of his fellowship project.  He did two things upon entering the milonga: the first was to reapply deodorant, as the sweat from running from La Confiteria to Tango Queer decided to make itself apparent, and the second was to sit grumpily far from the dance space and let the previous lesson's reality sink in [What the hell am I doing here?  I can't tango.  I couldn't even lead an elderly woman!].  Two women stepped onto the floor, music began, and it wasn't until they finished their tango and waved the students sitting around the floor when He thought to himself, Oh crap.  Another class to humiliate myself.

The students divided into principiantes y intermedios || beginners and intermediates, most of which piled into the principiantes group.  One of the two female tango dancers said something in Spanish, waved her hands around, pulled a girl from the circle of beginners, shifted her weight from foot to foot, continued saying things in Spanish, and waved her hands to the rest of the beginners to follow.  He reached out to take the hand opened in his direction, and found himself in the follower's role.  He looked up into the face of a forty-five year old man, Andrew, who he learned was taking a vacation from work for two weeks to learn Spanish and tango.  Their feet stepped on each other, their shoulders collided with that of others, and heels dug their way into Achilles' tendons.

Aside from the beginner's inexperience that led to these [often] painful mistakes, He found that dancing with Andrew

so

strangely

normal.

And so was dancing with Emilio, Tony, Christoff, and Emily.  Sometimes he would lead || conducir, and sometimes he would follow || seguir.  The class consisted of only this: changing roles, shifting weight, learning to walk, and learning to pivot on the balls of the feet.

The milonga [in this context: open dance] afterwards, also proved to be normal.  Men danced with men, women danced with women, and there was even the occasional man who did dance with a woman.  In these instances, sometimes the woman would lead.  Hand positions traded places to indicate who lead and who followed.  Everything the dancers did was beautiful, graceful, sensual...

... anticlimactic.

"Why aren't you out there now?" Emilio asked, and He shrugged.

"I don't know enough yet." He, Emilio, Tony, and Julia sat at the edge of the dance floor, watching the slow turns and leg brushes of nearby dancers.  "Just the basic step.  I can't go up there yet, not when everyone up there is an expert.  I need to take more classes first."

-||-

A few days later, at La Viruta, He met two newcomers to tango [so very behind his five days of classes]:  Diana, a woman from Holland who was in Buenos Aires because her boss was making her sell products in a way that she 'didn't agree with,' leading her to quit her job and take very much needed vacation, and Martin, a man from England who also was forced to sell products in a manner he didn't agree with, leading him to quit his job and want to eventually work for a more worthwhile company [UNICEF].

Both were in their mid-forties, had left their terrible jobs, and were looking for themselves in Buenos Aires.

How many people would He meet during his travels who so dearly resembled the Eat, Pray, Love woman?

-||-

Christopher, a Canadian-born man raised in Italy and who lived all over the world [Madrid, Paris, San Francisco, etc., currently in Florence] was currently taking a 50th birthday vacation from his sports equipment managing position.

"I manage 38 sports equipment stores in Italy.  I set my own schedule, I work the hours I want to, and I come in when I want.  My job allows me to travel because we need to find partners all around the world.  My job's great.  But I just needed a vacation."

The teacher at La Marshall had assigned them partners half an hour into class; although both spoke English and understood a considerable amount of Spanish, neither really benefited from this pairing.  Christopher had arrived that morning in Argentina, and He had taken only a week's worth of beginner's classes.  Christopher was decidedly the leader of the pair, and He wanted to learn what it felt like to follow [how else would He understand the body signals required to tell his partner what to do?].  After class, both found themselves sitting with a glass of white wine, watching the experienced dancers.

As in Tango Queer, same-sex partners and opposite-sex partners switched roles between every song.  Occasionally, a folklore song would play and a kind of tap-dance combined with waltz and bar-mitzvah circle dancing would be performed.  And sometimes a dance involving handkerchiefs being twirled in the air and drawn around necks would be performed as well.

He and Christopher would discuss who was particularly good, and what made said person a good tango partner.

Fact:  A good tango partner can lead.  A great tango partner can lead and follow.  An amazing tango partner can do both without facing their partner.  The best can do everything with their eyes closed.

Tony, from Tango Queer, walked over and asked if He remembered what He learned in class.  He shrugged, took another sip of wine, and almost dropped the glass when Tony nodded his head in the direction of the dance floor.

"Normally, in tango, the leaders never ask to dance.  We just look across the room, and if we find a partner we are interested in, we nod.  If the partner nods back, they both meet each other on the dance floor.  No talking is done.  But since you do nothing but look at the dance floor, I have to ask you.  So let's practice."

He laughed, nodded, and stood up and made his way through the tables and chairs.  He warned Tony that all he remembered was the basics, to which Tony replied, "Just relax. Follow.  Don't be nervous."

Two songs passed in what felt like ten seconds.  If that was what it was like to tango outside of class, He could easily understand how Argentinians did it until six in the morning.

"Now you can say you've danced milonga in Argentina." Tony said, packing his belongings.  He said that He wouldn't be able to say that confidently until he lead a milonga in Argentina, which would certainly take some time.  He went to sit back down with Christopher.

"I wasn't watching you the entire time," Christopher said, "But when I looked over, it looked like you knew what you were doing.  It looked great.  Shall we?"

He asked if Christopher was serious.

"Why not?  I'm here for only ten days, and I'm not going to be an expert before I leave.  I won't look like that," he said, nodding to the other dancers on the floor, "but that doesn't mean I can't have fun.  So what if it's not perfect?  Perfect is boring."  And with that, He and Christopher went onto the floor.  Yes, all the basics that they had both learned went flying out the window, and they weren't so skilled at avoiding bumping into the other partners.  But it was fun.

-||-

He went to bed at 5:30 that morning, surprised that he could stay in a milonga for that much time.  But Christopher was right; He shouldn't be so worried about looking perfect or knowing what to do.  As long as it was all fun, He'd learn eventually.  But learning only came with practice, and sitting on the sidelines and watching dancers didn't count.  He'd had enough being the fly on the wall, the shadow, the benchsquatter, the fart in a hurricane.  Of course He might not get noticed, but who cared?  He was a stranger in a strange land, and in this situation, that came as an advantage to not knowing.  Tango didn't run in his blood, not yet.

He had learned more than He thought He would from going to queer milongas, more than in the non-queer ones like La Viruta, La Catedral, La Confiteria, and El Gricel.  Considerably more important than the hand positions, the amount of force required to push a partner from the chest and arms instead of with force from the feet, he had learned to relax.  To be in the moment, to enjoy where he was, regardless of who or what was in it.

Wasn't this what Philip was telling him earlier?

Considering He realized this in the first week of being in Argentina, He could say that He was doing alright.  Nine more weeks of this?  Who knew how far He'd go, how much more He'd learn?

[In The Moment]