Saturday, November 6, 2010
No, This is Not the End
We're old-fashioned people, and tricked the blog so that it reads top to bottom, not the other way around as younger people tell us blogs are supposed to read. If you want to get the whole story in sequence then go read from top to bottom, or pick up where you left off and read on down.
The End of Civilization
Trouble started early, on the flight from Houston to Buenos Aires.
The seats were fine, the neighbors agreeable, the announcements minimal, and the food nigh edible. But, and this is one huge "but" for one of our travelers, in its effort to test the extent to which services can be cut or charged for without mass insurrection, Continental no longer serves beer or wine at no charge on this overseas flight.
Now, to Marcos this is one more annoyance added to the list of things that really bug him, a list, by the way, whose lengthening has been accelerating as he's getting on in years. But to Melody this is a sign that things have really gotten out of hand, that corporations are dangerously close to subjugatin' the whole lot of us, and that the revolution better not be long in coming; it's pretty much the end of civilization.
Alas, no signs of solidarity in the cause on behalf of our fellow travelers; it appears that we'll have to cool our heels as far as the uprising is concerned. Seeking an outlet for her umbrage, but being a mild mannered person, Melody scribbled her opinions on Continental's policy in the margins of the refreshment pages of the in-flight magazine. Propriety does not permit one to publish those comments on these pages.
Marcos' only beef with the flight (other than the rather unsavory beef) was that the navy blue blanket Continental furnished left numerous tiny flecks of navy blue lint on his yellow shirt. Not the end of the world, but here's the irony: Marcos also owns the exact same shirt in the exact same Continental blanket navy blue. If he had known he'd have worn one of those, and packed one for the return trip, and the lint would have matched perfectly. Oh well.
The seats were fine, the neighbors agreeable, the announcements minimal, and the food nigh edible. But, and this is one huge "but" for one of our travelers, in its effort to test the extent to which services can be cut or charged for without mass insurrection, Continental no longer serves beer or wine at no charge on this overseas flight.
Now, to Marcos this is one more annoyance added to the list of things that really bug him, a list, by the way, whose lengthening has been accelerating as he's getting on in years. But to Melody this is a sign that things have really gotten out of hand, that corporations are dangerously close to subjugatin' the whole lot of us, and that the revolution better not be long in coming; it's pretty much the end of civilization.
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| Delicious dude, but no pairing? |
Marcos' only beef with the flight (other than the rather unsavory beef) was that the navy blue blanket Continental furnished left numerous tiny flecks of navy blue lint on his yellow shirt. Not the end of the world, but here's the irony: Marcos also owns the exact same shirt in the exact same Continental blanket navy blue. If he had known he'd have worn one of those, and packed one for the return trip, and the lint would have matched perfectly. Oh well.
Jetlag? What Jetlag?
A (mostly sleepless) red eye to Buenos Aires means you take care of details (get through airport formalities, get to town, find your apartment, have your first argument (with the doorman/manager, who insists everyone knows he's not supposed to be bothered before afternoon on Sundays), stop in at the cafe around the corner for coffee, take a short nap, stop in at the cafe around the other corner for a bite to eat, figure out the subway...) and still land at your first milonga before your first day is out. Nothing beats jetlag like ignoring the clock.
It's La Milonguita, in the Colegiales neighborhood. Here's what becomes clear pretty quickly, at this milonga, and as we visit others through the week:
As we get into the week we'll see that the demographic will shift: most of the locals out social dancing during the weekend are staying home; they have to get up and go to work tomorrow. The milongas (fewer during the week, only around 15 a night compared to more like 25 on weekends) are still packed, but in addition to the die hard social dancing locals there are more visitors (more women than men) and more locals drawn by the tourist trade (dancers hired by visitors, "teachers" looking for trade, dudes looking for willing tourists...) By midnight plus the crowd thins out a bit and there's more room for your dance.
Of course these impressions are drawn from the milongas we visited. We avoid certain ones and have yet to visit others.
With one exception we visit a milonga a night, sometimes two: La Milonguita, Gricel, Sueno Porteno, La Cachila, La Ideal, El Beso, La Glorieta. Typically we sail in around 10-11, leave when they close somewhere around 2-4. We're having great dances, and a great time.
One night, for a number of reasons we don't go to a milonga. We make it an early night, go to bed by 1 or so. Big mistake. Denied dance induced exhaustion, we discover for the first night in several that our bed is lumpy, our cheap apartment too noisy, the street outside too busy. There's a strange Twilight Zone, theramin-like whine from some pipe or high voltage cable or UFO parked on a nearby roof. Sounds like a broken oboe, or a saw, or someone sawing a broken oboe. We toss, we turn, we don't sleep.
Winkless, we vow to go danceless nevermore.
* Show steps, e.g. ganchos, boleos, --adas...
It's La Milonguita, in the Colegiales neighborhood. Here's what becomes clear pretty quickly, at this milonga, and as we visit others through the week:
- It's Sunday night, and it's more of a neighborhood milonga than others, so it's full of locals having a night out rather than visitors;
- In some milongas, usually the more neighborhoody ones, people who come as couples generally dance only with their partners, in others everyone who shows interest can be asked to dance;
- Milongas differ because of location, the kind of crowd they attract, etc.
- It's Sunday night, and it's still early-ish, so it's packed.
- People dance to the beat and sense of the music. As a result the whole floor undulates and flows smoothly and evenly (if slowly). You're not going anywhere fast, yet you're never stuck behind anyone.
- Denied space, one is forced to structure a dance of interest and grace out of the little room one has. A tiny step and shift to the music is all you need. It's all you have.
- No shenanigans*. You dance for yourself and your partner, not for the audience. Yet in the process, and with the other dancers around you, you create a spectacle that's lovely and mesmerizing to watch. Go figure.
As we get into the week we'll see that the demographic will shift: most of the locals out social dancing during the weekend are staying home; they have to get up and go to work tomorrow. The milongas (fewer during the week, only around 15 a night compared to more like 25 on weekends) are still packed, but in addition to the die hard social dancing locals there are more visitors (more women than men) and more locals drawn by the tourist trade (dancers hired by visitors, "teachers" looking for trade, dudes looking for willing tourists...) By midnight plus the crowd thins out a bit and there's more room for your dance.
Of course these impressions are drawn from the milongas we visited. We avoid certain ones and have yet to visit others.
Melody, dancing to D'Arienzo at El Beso with some Argentinian dude. By now it's close to 3am so there's more room. Yet note that everyone still enjoys dancing small, and how the floor has a rhythm, since everyone's dancing to the beat and the music (the same beat and music, by the way.) As a result, no floorcraft issues here, everyone's pretty much blissed out, and whoever is sitting out has something beautiful to watch.
With one exception we visit a milonga a night, sometimes two: La Milonguita, Gricel, Sueno Porteno, La Cachila, La Ideal, El Beso, La Glorieta. Typically we sail in around 10-11, leave when they close somewhere around 2-4. We're having great dances, and a great time.
One night, for a number of reasons we don't go to a milonga. We make it an early night, go to bed by 1 or so. Big mistake. Denied dance induced exhaustion, we discover for the first night in several that our bed is lumpy, our cheap apartment too noisy, the street outside too busy. There's a strange Twilight Zone, theramin-like whine from some pipe or high voltage cable or UFO parked on a nearby roof. Sounds like a broken oboe, or a saw, or someone sawing a broken oboe. We toss, we turn, we don't sleep.
Winkless, we vow to go danceless nevermore.
* Show steps, e.g. ganchos, boleos, --adas...
Civilization Found!
We choose to labor under the delusion that since we're dancing so much no harm will come from eating like this country wants us to, which means working oneself systematically through a mid-size cow every four days. Why else would they locate a grill at roughly every thirty two paces in any direction? Why would they price said juicy cow of prime steakhouse quality at U.S. mid-price restaurant levels, and throw in a bottle of descent Malbec to boot?
We learned to insist on ordering just one steak and a salad for the two of us. In doing this we have to overcome the objections of the wait staff who caution us that anything less than a full meat portion per person inevitably leads to malnourishment. Skip the salad, they advise, if you don't want to overdo things, but not the meat. We prevail and still waddle out unsteadily, wondering if we'll ever be light enough to dance again.
What does all this have to do with civilization? Now, this may be a personal view, but how a culture feeds itself in public correlates with its level of cultivation. To illustrate:
We learned to insist on ordering just one steak and a salad for the two of us. In doing this we have to overcome the objections of the wait staff who caution us that anything less than a full meat portion per person inevitably leads to malnourishment. Skip the salad, they advise, if you don't want to overdo things, but not the meat. We prevail and still waddle out unsteadily, wondering if we'll ever be light enough to dance again.
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| We looked hard for a small enough parilla to snap a picture of, we didn't want to scare anyone. In a later post we might upload a picture of a regular sized one. |
What does all this have to do with civilization? Now, this may be a personal view, but how a culture feeds itself in public correlates with its level of cultivation. To illustrate:
- Do they say "sure, sure sit anywhere," or do you get seated by a professional, presumably because you couldn't do it well enough yourself, and your choice will probably mess something up?
- Do they give you time to settle in and figure out what you want, or do they go with the "can I start you off with a drink" before you even put your purse down (meaning "can I rack up your bill already, and get things going so as to hasten your departure?")
- Do they leave you alone, or constantly ask you if everything is all right? (it's a rhetorical question anyway, try saying "no" sometime, you'll see, no one knows what to do next.)
- Do they leave you alone with your friends, your food and stuff, or constantly "do things," like pour your wine, clear your plates, and generally bother you?
- Do they let you decide when you're done, or do they constantly prompt you for the next course, the next drink, and finally the bill?
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| Signs of civilization:That's what I want to see on a sidewalk in my neighborhood, a five gallon bucket of tahini! . |
Buenos Bailes
Enough about food. All who know us know well that we enjoy our food, and delight in discovering its many forms in new places, but at the end of the day we crossed the equator because of the pull of Terpsichore, so let's get back to dancing.
Unless we're entirely delusional, and everyone around us is a stinking liar, we've become exponentially better dancers. We're certainly enjoying ourselves immensely. Partly it's because we're at it for around 5-6 hours a day (ya think?). Partly it's due to some excellent pointers we picked up along the way. Mostly, though, it's the environment: the limitations of the crowded floor, the ample example of good, solid, unpretentious dancing, the unspoken expectation that if you're fixin' to impose yourself on everyone, and expose your partner in the process, you better toss "toda la carne a la parilla" (all the meat on the grill--did we mention they're all about grilled meat down here?) Meaning, if you're a little too tired, or uninspired by the music selection, or distracted, or more interested in someone other than your partner at the moment, then just sit this one out and watch. But if you ask or say yes to someone, and join the rest of the congregation, then you have some responsibilities; you don't have to be great, but you better pay attention, and be as good as you can be.
The cabeceo (asking and accepting--or rejecting--dance partners through silent nods from across the floor) rules here, and nobody wants to dance with unknown quantities, or known bad quantities (please, anyone, how did we get ourselves into this unfortunate metaphor, and how do we get out?). Luckily we always have each other to dance with, and by doing so we also demonstrate (one hopes) that it may be safe and fun for someone to dance with us. Then, when we sit down, we avoid hanging onto each other so that others don't assume that we're only interested in each other. In the more neighborhoody milongas this is not enough; in those cases we actually sit apart and even ask each other to dance with the nodding thing (sometimes we even refuse each other, for fun and practice, and the building of character.)
As the night progresses, and day by day, we become known and dance with more people. We also benefited from running into a good friend from Los Angeles who comes down here for several weeks each year (to protect her privacy we'll call her Flo on these pages.) Flo loves dancing with Marcos, and also introduces him to her friends, assuring them that they'll enjoy dancing with him (being no fool, Flo makes it clear to them that she expects them to share their men friends with her.) In order to keep the peace, and to keep her occupied, Flo also introduces Melody to her men friends--all good dancers. It all works out, and everyone's happy. It should be mentioned that Marcos isn't doing anyone any favors, Flo and her friends are excellent dancers.
Marcos' partners are overwhelmingly delighted with his dancing. Melody, who thinks that his head is already much too big for anyone's good, cautions him that they probably think that he's simply good enough, but know that a higher level of flattery will get them more dances. Intellectually Marcos sees her point, but prefers to believe that women cannot possibly be that calculating.
Melody, on the other hand, being charming, pleasant, and an excellent dancer, has no problems attracting partners without the kind of pimping assistance Marcos seems to need from Flo. Case in point:
Unless we're entirely delusional, and everyone around us is a stinking liar, we've become exponentially better dancers. We're certainly enjoying ourselves immensely. Partly it's because we're at it for around 5-6 hours a day (ya think?). Partly it's due to some excellent pointers we picked up along the way. Mostly, though, it's the environment: the limitations of the crowded floor, the ample example of good, solid, unpretentious dancing, the unspoken expectation that if you're fixin' to impose yourself on everyone, and expose your partner in the process, you better toss "toda la carne a la parilla" (all the meat on the grill--did we mention they're all about grilled meat down here?) Meaning, if you're a little too tired, or uninspired by the music selection, or distracted, or more interested in someone other than your partner at the moment, then just sit this one out and watch. But if you ask or say yes to someone, and join the rest of the congregation, then you have some responsibilities; you don't have to be great, but you better pay attention, and be as good as you can be.
The cabeceo (asking and accepting--or rejecting--dance partners through silent nods from across the floor) rules here, and nobody wants to dance with unknown quantities, or known bad quantities (please, anyone, how did we get ourselves into this unfortunate metaphor, and how do we get out?). Luckily we always have each other to dance with, and by doing so we also demonstrate (one hopes) that it may be safe and fun for someone to dance with us. Then, when we sit down, we avoid hanging onto each other so that others don't assume that we're only interested in each other. In the more neighborhoody milongas this is not enough; in those cases we actually sit apart and even ask each other to dance with the nodding thing (sometimes we even refuse each other, for fun and practice, and the building of character.)
As the night progresses, and day by day, we become known and dance with more people. We also benefited from running into a good friend from Los Angeles who comes down here for several weeks each year (to protect her privacy we'll call her Flo on these pages.) Flo loves dancing with Marcos, and also introduces him to her friends, assuring them that they'll enjoy dancing with him (being no fool, Flo makes it clear to them that she expects them to share their men friends with her.) In order to keep the peace, and to keep her occupied, Flo also introduces Melody to her men friends--all good dancers. It all works out, and everyone's happy. It should be mentioned that Marcos isn't doing anyone any favors, Flo and her friends are excellent dancers.
Marcos' partners are overwhelmingly delighted with his dancing. Melody, who thinks that his head is already much too big for anyone's good, cautions him that they probably think that he's simply good enough, but know that a higher level of flattery will get them more dances. Intellectually Marcos sees her point, but prefers to believe that women cannot possibly be that calculating.
Melody, on the other hand, being charming, pleasant, and an excellent dancer, has no problems attracting partners without the kind of pimping assistance Marcos seems to need from Flo. Case in point:
Melody, doing the meringue pie or some such, with some Argentinian dude at La Milonguita.
The Fed Can Print Money Whenever, Why not Gustavo?
At some point one has to take a break from dancing and take one's laundry to the Chinese lady around the corner. She sorts and estimates, and asks for 28 pesos. Then she has a minor fit.
Marcos' Spanish is not up to the task. It's also possible that she may have an accent. Plus she's clearly upset, perhaps using non-standard constructions. Should we have already separated our dirty darks from our dirty whites? Could our underthings be too dirty for this establishment?
It becomes clear that her annoyance is over a particular 20 peso bill: look, look, no watermark, no good. Then something else that could mean "somebody slipped you a wooden peso, my gullible gringo." Then again it could mean "I'm calling the cops right now, you foul foreign forger."
Looked at one way, this is a minor thing, a question of the equivalent of five fake US dollars slipped to us by that amiable taxi driver the previous evening, no doubt a mistake or a friendly prank (great jokers those Argentinian cabbies.)
Then again, what if she does call the police? Can we be convincing with our limited Spanish? And if not, how much trouble can we get into? We all know that the ugly machinery deep in the entrails of a police state usually persists long after a junta falls. Will Melody have to bang on pots at the Plaza de Mayo to get any news of us?
Turns out the Chinese lady is content to receive a proper note and to have had her amusement for the afternoon. The next time we take her some laundry she charges 38 pesos. Something about our darks being too dark, or too many socks in the load and everyone knows that means more detergent, or more labor, or lint. Or simply, if we don't know enough to spot xeroxed money we're probably good for an extra 10 pesos.
Marcos' Spanish is not up to the task. It's also possible that she may have an accent. Plus she's clearly upset, perhaps using non-standard constructions. Should we have already separated our dirty darks from our dirty whites? Could our underthings be too dirty for this establishment?
It becomes clear that her annoyance is over a particular 20 peso bill: look, look, no watermark, no good. Then something else that could mean "somebody slipped you a wooden peso, my gullible gringo." Then again it could mean "I'm calling the cops right now, you foul foreign forger."
Looked at one way, this is a minor thing, a question of the equivalent of five fake US dollars slipped to us by that amiable taxi driver the previous evening, no doubt a mistake or a friendly prank (great jokers those Argentinian cabbies.)
Then again, what if she does call the police? Can we be convincing with our limited Spanish? And if not, how much trouble can we get into? We all know that the ugly machinery deep in the entrails of a police state usually persists long after a junta falls. Will Melody have to bang on pots at the Plaza de Mayo to get any news of us?
Turns out the Chinese lady is content to receive a proper note and to have had her amusement for the afternoon. The next time we take her some laundry she charges 38 pesos. Something about our darks being too dark, or too many socks in the load and everyone knows that means more detergent, or more labor, or lint. Or simply, if we don't know enough to spot xeroxed money we're probably good for an extra 10 pesos.
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| A pretty good photocopy, but Juan Manuel de Rosa's mug is supposed to be duplicated as a watermark in the white space. Oh well, a friend of ours back home changes currency (we'll call him Paul on these pages to protect his privacy); Maybe we can slip this one to Paul. |
A Small Tango World
We enjoy spending time with the locals, chatting up taxi drivers, waiters and shop keepers, and dancing with other tangueros, three or so very involved minutes at a time. But it's also amazing how often we run into Americans that we know or recognize. Of course when we think about it it's not that strange; these are Americans we know through tango, they're here for tango, and we keep running into them at tango venues.
In several of the milongas we go to we keep seeing this one lady who's only somewhat familiar. We assume she's from Los Angeles, that we've seen her in milongas there. Then one evening Flo tells Marcos, "you know, I should introduce you to this friend of mine, she's a very good dancer, and she's from Greece," and she heads to where this lady's sitting.
On the way Marcos tries to reconcile these new facts. She's not from L.A. She's Greek. But he's not met her in Greece, he's sure. Flo says, "Δανάη, this is my friend Marcos..." And he then says, "yes, and we know each other, you're Δανάη Θεοδωροπούλου, we danced some tangos in Istanbul."
Marcos and Melody spent several days in Istanbul last spring. It was not a tango trip but one night they decided to drop in at a milonga, at the top of the Pointe Hotel. They danced together and with some other people there. One of them, a very good dancer, was Greek, but naturally both she and Marcos assumed that the other was Turkish and a comedy routine ensued while each served his limited Turkish, then, as true nationalities were slowly revealed, one thought that the other was still Turkish serving his limited Greek, etc., until everything was sorted out. After three songs they parted, joking, well, maybe we'll see each other again, at some milonga somewhere... hey! maybe even in Buenos Aires, hah hah!, you never know!
In several of the milongas we go to we keep seeing this one lady who's only somewhat familiar. We assume she's from Los Angeles, that we've seen her in milongas there. Then one evening Flo tells Marcos, "you know, I should introduce you to this friend of mine, she's a very good dancer, and she's from Greece," and she heads to where this lady's sitting.
On the way Marcos tries to reconcile these new facts. She's not from L.A. She's Greek. But he's not met her in Greece, he's sure. Flo says, "Δανάη, this is my friend Marcos..." And he then says, "yes, and we know each other, you're Δανάη Θεοδωροπούλου, we danced some tangos in Istanbul."
Marcos and Melody spent several days in Istanbul last spring. It was not a tango trip but one night they decided to drop in at a milonga, at the top of the Pointe Hotel. They danced together and with some other people there. One of them, a very good dancer, was Greek, but naturally both she and Marcos assumed that the other was Turkish and a comedy routine ensued while each served his limited Turkish, then, as true nationalities were slowly revealed, one thought that the other was still Turkish serving his limited Greek, etc., until everything was sorted out. After three songs they parted, joking, well, maybe we'll see each other again, at some milonga somewhere... hey! maybe even in Buenos Aires, hah hah!, you never know!
Some Floors and Milongas
Confiteria La Ideal may possibly be the most beautiful milonga space in Buenos Aires. Chances are you've seen it, in some movie that involves tango and/or this city; it's an icon. Large, mainly Second Empire space, with a barrel vaulted ceiling, marble columns, chandeliers, the works. They tell us that some of the milongas there, especially in the afternoons, are very good. We went on a Friday night and quickly realized that it was tourist night, and--whoah--we were the dinner show! Most of the clientele was not there to dance. Flash bulbs, video cameras, generous applause, strange musical selection. It was worth the experience, and the knowledge that, back in Japan and Germany people will be showing videos of us dancing tango to their in-laws, saying "look, authentic Argentines, doing their charming tango thing," but we left after a very short while. It should also be noted that the marble floor is gorgeous but not easy on the feet.
We're very fond of El Beso, where they hold a number of milongas through the week, El Beso, Las Morochas, Zorro Plateado... To begin with, it happens to be walking distance from our apartment, and it's nice not to have to deal with taxis and "walk to the milonga" every now and then (has a really nice sound to it, no?) But also, whenever we went the music was very good. Rather small, nice wood floor. But, here's the thing: on the Saturday, the dancing was excellent, the dancers glad to dance with us, and the whole thing just perfect. On a different night (Tuesday, we think it was) everything promised to mount up to a good night but then all these milonguero personages were there, very loud and full of themselves, playing to "the crowd", and the crowd kinda playing to them, which distracted from a good solid tango night. We saw the same kind of thing in Porteno y Bailarin (see below), and heard that it happens a lot at Nino Bien, which we chose not to patronize.
We've also always had fun at Gricel (current milongas: Gricel, La Cachilla, Lunes de Tango...), even though the sound system is a bit uneven. Come to think of it, everything about is a bit uneven: the DJing, the leaky roof, and certainly the nicely springy wood floor. It seems that every single floor plank has a slight camber, which, it must be said, is useful in dispersing the water in the couple of leaky spots on rainy nights. Of course this unevenness also tends to throw you and your partner off your balance, but there are plenty of cracks and gaps to catch your heel and right you again, most of the time. If not, no worries, the floor also tends to slope slightly upwards towards the edges, which keeps everyone pretty much penned within the dancing perimeter and off the surrounding tables. But no, it's fun. Large, attractive, and pretty friendly.
We had a fine enough time at Porteno y Bailarin (also walking distance from us) but we probably don't need to go back. Good music, nice enough people, two rather small floors (linoleum, kinda hard on the feet). I think we felt it was a bit pretentious, paying attention to the "in" crowd, which in this case consists of some old milongueros. Great that they're around and that they seemed to be having fun (although they basically weren't dancing), but it just seemed that the place was geared towards them, and the people who came to look at them. We tend to like places where people come to dance or to hang out enjoying other people dancing.
There's a particular downside to this catering to personages and tourists, especially in the case with Porteno y Bailarin, which is a rather small space. They seat these "important" (mainly non-dancing) people, and the odd table of (also non-dancing) tourists, right up on the edge of the dance floor, and the people who want to dance end up in the back, where sight lines to potential dancing partners are impeded by these (usually inconveniently shaped) personages and tourists. OK, so we get to see the odd "important" person (we guess), but we don't get to dance as much, which to us (call us old fashioned) persists in being the point.
It's for this that we particularly liked the Sueno Porteno milonga on Wednesdays at Boedo, and La Milonguita on Sundays. Well attended, unpretentious, full of people who wanted to dance, good music, and no one you're supposed to recognize anywhere around. We were glad to close those places every chance we got.
One night we went to Viejo Correo by Parque del Centenario. A real neighborhood milonga, especially that weeknight. Nice people, good music, everyone from the neighborhood, so we were clearly the out of towners, strict cabeceo, and at first it seemed that there would be no way we would get to dance with anyone but each other* but the organizers were extremely welcoming and friendly and they personally went over to recruit a dude to ask Melody to dance, and nudge a milonguera to dance with Marcos. After that ice breaking there was no stopping the intermixing of cultures and a great amount of fun was had. Everyone was very sweet and eager to explain things and find reason to point out convergences; "my son is in Philadelphia, at Drexel," "a cousin of mine works at a restaurant in New York," "I was watching an American movie on TV just last night.."
* Especially in more provincial locales, if an Argentine dances with Melody then the neighborhood women may snub him for the night, and local women may avoid Marcos for similar reasons.
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| The classic, nigh cliché beauty that is La Ideal |
We're very fond of El Beso, where they hold a number of milongas through the week, El Beso, Las Morochas, Zorro Plateado... To begin with, it happens to be walking distance from our apartment, and it's nice not to have to deal with taxis and "walk to the milonga" every now and then (has a really nice sound to it, no?) But also, whenever we went the music was very good. Rather small, nice wood floor. But, here's the thing: on the Saturday, the dancing was excellent, the dancers glad to dance with us, and the whole thing just perfect. On a different night (Tuesday, we think it was) everything promised to mount up to a good night but then all these milonguero personages were there, very loud and full of themselves, playing to "the crowd", and the crowd kinda playing to them, which distracted from a good solid tango night. We saw the same kind of thing in Porteno y Bailarin (see below), and heard that it happens a lot at Nino Bien, which we chose not to patronize.
We've also always had fun at Gricel (current milongas: Gricel, La Cachilla, Lunes de Tango...), even though the sound system is a bit uneven. Come to think of it, everything about is a bit uneven: the DJing, the leaky roof, and certainly the nicely springy wood floor. It seems that every single floor plank has a slight camber, which, it must be said, is useful in dispersing the water in the couple of leaky spots on rainy nights. Of course this unevenness also tends to throw you and your partner off your balance, but there are plenty of cracks and gaps to catch your heel and right you again, most of the time. If not, no worries, the floor also tends to slope slightly upwards towards the edges, which keeps everyone pretty much penned within the dancing perimeter and off the surrounding tables. But no, it's fun. Large, attractive, and pretty friendly.
We had a fine enough time at Porteno y Bailarin (also walking distance from us) but we probably don't need to go back. Good music, nice enough people, two rather small floors (linoleum, kinda hard on the feet). I think we felt it was a bit pretentious, paying attention to the "in" crowd, which in this case consists of some old milongueros. Great that they're around and that they seemed to be having fun (although they basically weren't dancing), but it just seemed that the place was geared towards them, and the people who came to look at them. We tend to like places where people come to dance or to hang out enjoying other people dancing.
There's a particular downside to this catering to personages and tourists, especially in the case with Porteno y Bailarin, which is a rather small space. They seat these "important" (mainly non-dancing) people, and the odd table of (also non-dancing) tourists, right up on the edge of the dance floor, and the people who want to dance end up in the back, where sight lines to potential dancing partners are impeded by these (usually inconveniently shaped) personages and tourists. OK, so we get to see the odd "important" person (we guess), but we don't get to dance as much, which to us (call us old fashioned) persists in being the point.
It's for this that we particularly liked the Sueno Porteno milonga on Wednesdays at Boedo, and La Milonguita on Sundays. Well attended, unpretentious, full of people who wanted to dance, good music, and no one you're supposed to recognize anywhere around. We were glad to close those places every chance we got.
One night we went to Viejo Correo by Parque del Centenario. A real neighborhood milonga, especially that weeknight. Nice people, good music, everyone from the neighborhood, so we were clearly the out of towners, strict cabeceo, and at first it seemed that there would be no way we would get to dance with anyone but each other* but the organizers were extremely welcoming and friendly and they personally went over to recruit a dude to ask Melody to dance, and nudge a milonguera to dance with Marcos. After that ice breaking there was no stopping the intermixing of cultures and a great amount of fun was had. Everyone was very sweet and eager to explain things and find reason to point out convergences; "my son is in Philadelphia, at Drexel," "a cousin of mine works at a restaurant in New York," "I was watching an American movie on TV just last night.."
* Especially in more provincial locales, if an Argentine dances with Melody then the neighborhood women may snub him for the night, and local women may avoid Marcos for similar reasons.
Edible Edifices, and Other Adventures in Uruguay
We keep our usual schedule on a Friday (meaning, dance 'til 4), but then we pack 'til 5, then nap, but only 'til 6, because we have to drag ourselves to the port to catch the ferry to Montevideo. It's rough (not the crossing; the jolting ourselves to local time, for the first time in two weeks). But, it'd be nice to be out of Buenos Aires for a weekend. Melody lived in Montevideo for a year in the eighties, she has friends there, it's going to be fun.
Here's a story to pass the time until we get to the other side of the Rio de la Plata: an uncle of Marcos', Kostas, the oldest, left the village in Cyprus in 1926 to migrate to the States. He first sailed to Egypt, to get to the closest American Embassy at that time. There he was informed that the US immigration quota was filled for the year. Not wanting to sail back, and show himself at the village barely a week after he left, when no one expected to see him for a couple of decades, he inquired around and found out that Uruguay (also conveniently "in America") was accepting migrants, so of course he hopped on a boat to Montevideo. He spent about a year there, doing what no one is quite clear, but eventually he did make it to Ellis Island and Chicago, where he landed a job washing dishes at the kitchen of the Blackstone Hotel.
Argentina and Uruguay share too much history and proximity to be as different as they are. Partly it's because our impressions are influenced by the fact that our familiarity with Argentina is limited to Buenos Aires, a huge and "developed" city. Largely it's a question of size (Uruguay is much smaller, and, outside Montevideo, very sparsely populated.) But our overall, possibly overgeneralizing, broad brush conclusion is that Uruguayans are more fond of simplicity and ease in their comportment and interactions than their neighbors across the river. Case in point, we don't think we saw any injected women (with plumping or paralyzing agents) in Uruguay, and there's more than you can shake a stick at in Buenos Aires (more on this later). Also, in Argentina the cattle are Angus, in Uruguay Herefords.
OK, I guess we're back to food.
There's a long and bitter rivalry between the two countries regarding their claim as the birthplace of tango. Just last year they put it aside long enough to petition UNESCO jointly to grant tango world heritage status, and it worked. We wanted to dance in Montevideo, chalk another locale up, and see how milongas differ, but in the end we concentrated on spending time with our friends. And eating.
The chivito is more precisely "erected" rather than "prepared" for you. You pay the standard price, sidle up to the grill, and the man immediately loads the bottom bun with the standards, i.e.lettuce, tomato and a 1/4" slice of grilled steak, and looks at you, at the ready. You then start pointing, and he piles whatever you wish: grilled slices of ham, relishes, bacon slices, chopped olives, chopped peppers, cheese, spreads... A chivito is not a proper chivito if not topped off with a hard boiled egg. It visually crowns the edifice when the sandwich is sliced in two, and, we suppose, rounds off the entire cholesterol package, so to speak. The result is heavenly.
Recently, a brave and selfless journalist of El Observador visited and ranked the most well known chiviterias in Montevideo, and wrote a long article that concluded: "Después de una larga deliberación y muchas panzadas, el jurado decidió que había un empate entre los chivitos de Marcos y los de Santorini [hey, maybe this is where uncle Kostas worked that time in '26] como los mejores para comer en Montevideo. En ambos casos ofrecen una destacada relación calidad-precio, y producen un placer al paladar que nadie quiere que se termine."
We didn't sample the Santorini chivitos but wholeheartedly agree on the Marcos' ones!
Here's a story to pass the time until we get to the other side of the Rio de la Plata: an uncle of Marcos', Kostas, the oldest, left the village in Cyprus in 1926 to migrate to the States. He first sailed to Egypt, to get to the closest American Embassy at that time. There he was informed that the US immigration quota was filled for the year. Not wanting to sail back, and show himself at the village barely a week after he left, when no one expected to see him for a couple of decades, he inquired around and found out that Uruguay (also conveniently "in America") was accepting migrants, so of course he hopped on a boat to Montevideo. He spent about a year there, doing what no one is quite clear, but eventually he did make it to Ellis Island and Chicago, where he landed a job washing dishes at the kitchen of the Blackstone Hotel.
Argentina and Uruguay share too much history and proximity to be as different as they are. Partly it's because our impressions are influenced by the fact that our familiarity with Argentina is limited to Buenos Aires, a huge and "developed" city. Largely it's a question of size (Uruguay is much smaller, and, outside Montevideo, very sparsely populated.) But our overall, possibly overgeneralizing, broad brush conclusion is that Uruguayans are more fond of simplicity and ease in their comportment and interactions than their neighbors across the river. Case in point, we don't think we saw any injected women (with plumping or paralyzing agents) in Uruguay, and there's more than you can shake a stick at in Buenos Aires (more on this later). Also, in Argentina the cattle are Angus, in Uruguay Herefords.
OK, I guess we're back to food.
 | ||
| Our friend and host Richard, a paleontologist who somehow looks the part, preparing a modest parilla to celebrate our arrival |
There's a long and bitter rivalry between the two countries regarding their claim as the birthplace of tango. Just last year they put it aside long enough to petition UNESCO jointly to grant tango world heritage status, and it worked. We wanted to dance in Montevideo, chalk another locale up, and see how milongas differ, but in the end we concentrated on spending time with our friends. And eating.
 |
| Far from "with everything" this modestly composed chivito, coupled with a bottle of cerveza Patricia kept this blogger happy for the better part of his last day in Montevideo. |
The chivito is more precisely "erected" rather than "prepared" for you. You pay the standard price, sidle up to the grill, and the man immediately loads the bottom bun with the standards, i.e.lettuce, tomato and a 1/4" slice of grilled steak, and looks at you, at the ready. You then start pointing, and he piles whatever you wish: grilled slices of ham, relishes, bacon slices, chopped olives, chopped peppers, cheese, spreads... A chivito is not a proper chivito if not topped off with a hard boiled egg. It visually crowns the edifice when the sandwich is sliced in two, and, we suppose, rounds off the entire cholesterol package, so to speak. The result is heavenly.
 |
| In Montevideo, the place for a chivito is Marcos (no joke, see below). They were still setting up, an hour before opening, but fired up the grill and served us, when we explained that we traveled all this way especially.... |
Recently, a brave and selfless journalist of El Observador visited and ranked the most well known chiviterias in Montevideo, and wrote a long article that concluded: "Después de una larga deliberación y muchas panzadas, el jurado decidió que había un empate entre los chivitos de Marcos y los de Santorini [hey, maybe this is where uncle Kostas worked that time in '26] como los mejores para comer en Montevideo. En ambos casos ofrecen una destacada relación calidad-precio, y producen un placer al paladar que nadie quiere que se termine."
We didn't sample the Santorini chivitos but wholeheartedly agree on the Marcos' ones!
Adiós Buenos Aires, Amigos Adiós
Back in Buenos Aires we're assaulted by the bustle and noise and impersonality of the big city, after the relative smallness and mildness of Uruguay and its people, and the ease of being taken care of by friends instead of trying to figure things out on our own, and trying to avoid any more wooden pesos. We're also winding down mentally, since we know we only have a few days before we head home.
But, don't get us wrong, we're not exactly mopey semi depressives. Off the ferry after the 3 hour bus ride from Montevideo to Colonia, and the ferry crossing to Buenos Aires we roll our carry-ons along and across the avenidas, plunge into the subway, come out the other end on busy Corrientes, reacquaint ourselves with our apartment (alas, it's not any quieter, and the hot and cold water supply is no more consistent than the way we left it), clean up, eat something and start planning our dancing excursions. Flo has been calling, "are you back yet?" OK, El Beso tonight, Sueno Porteno tomorrow, Gricel Thursday, then tidy up things Friday, maybe go out and have the last portions of charred cow, and take the red eye home.
We'll be back. In the meantime, we'll have all this:
The Manifestations
But, don't get us wrong, we're not exactly mopey semi depressives. Off the ferry after the 3 hour bus ride from Montevideo to Colonia, and the ferry crossing to Buenos Aires we roll our carry-ons along and across the avenidas, plunge into the subway, come out the other end on busy Corrientes, reacquaint ourselves with our apartment (alas, it's not any quieter, and the hot and cold water supply is no more consistent than the way we left it), clean up, eat something and start planning our dancing excursions. Flo has been calling, "are you back yet?" OK, El Beso tonight, Sueno Porteno tomorrow, Gricel Thursday, then tidy up things Friday, maybe go out and have the last portions of charred cow, and take the red eye home.
We'll be back. In the meantime, we'll have all this:
La Esquina Anibal Troilo
 |
| All we wanted was some lunch, we dropped in to this place, turns out it was Anibal Troilo's (Pichuco, El Gordo) favorite hangout. We figure "yeah, sure", but it turns out it's actually officially granted national heritage status. Tons of pictures of him and his orchestra, with some of football teams thrown in for good measure |
¿Dónde Están?
 |
Buenos Aires sidewalks are made up of tiles: stone, ceramic, concrete, whatever. All in all there must be about three and a half gadgillion of them. But, about a third are broken or missing. Where are they? In addition to watching out for dog poop (nobody scoops), you have to always be careful not to trip on the missing tiles. |
The Manifestations
We don't know why these (high school?) students are demonstrating.
There are demonstrations practically every day.
One is sponsored by this trade union, because of the conditions here or the demands there.
Another is sponsored by a rival trade union, in opposition to the first.
A third by veteran conscripts of the Malvinas war demanding support and a pension
(most of them never even left the continent, huffs dismissively our taxi driver).
One thing to be said though. They're good, well crafted, spirited jobs, these demonstrations,
putting the anemic ones back home to shame.
Well coordinated chants, masterfully banged drums, parades in pretty decent formation...
There are demonstrations practically every day.
One is sponsored by this trade union, because of the conditions here or the demands there.
Another is sponsored by a rival trade union, in opposition to the first.
A third by veteran conscripts of the Malvinas war demanding support and a pension
(most of them never even left the continent, huffs dismissively our taxi driver).
One thing to be said though. They're good, well crafted, spirited jobs, these demonstrations,
putting the anemic ones back home to shame.
Well coordinated chants, masterfully banged drums, parades in pretty decent formation...
Scary
 |
| We didn't want to take pictures of actual scary people, but this poster is a good illustration of what one sees around this town. Nowhere have we seen more pinched, plumped, stretched, or paralyzed faces and bodies than in Buenos Aires (then again we haven't been to Brazil lately, so...) |
It Just Blows back In
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| We're told that until recently, when smoking bans were instituted in enclosed spaces, conditions in cafes, restaurants, milongas and such were insufferable. Things have since improved significantly, at least for people interested in breathing and such. Nevertheless, when people go "outside" to smoke, they step just this side of the (usually left open) door. If it's raining they might stand on the inside side of the open door, with maybe a foot "outside." |
Fun
Marcos and Melody, dancing to D'Arienzo, as Sueno Porteno is about to close.
No, This is Not the Beginning
We're old-fashioned people, and tricked the blog so that it reads top to bottom, not the other way around as we understand blogs are supposed to read. If you want to get the whole story in sequence then go back to the top.
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