La Ideal Tango

Day 9, Part 2

We had a plan after our early evening nap: head to a local nest of restaurants we had recently discovered, then check out a really cool looking bar we had read about, and if our energy held out, back to La Confiteria Ideal for the evening milonga. I brought along our dancing shoes.

Unfortunately, the dinner at a little parisian looking cafe we found did not agree with C, and although we did walk to the Milion bar and saw that it was lovely, C couldn't shake the nausea that had set in after dinner. I walked him back home, and once I saw him safely in bed I decided to make my way back to La Ideal on my own. (Lest you all think I'm a cruel, heartless wife, please note that C both encouraged me to go, and did not look so ill as to warrant my staying home to care for him.)

Somehow, going to a milonga on my own was both exactly what I wanted, and also something to dread. I wasn't sure whether I would get any dances, and if not, I thought it would get discouraging and lonely to be sitting at a table all by myself and wistfullly watching the dancers. I had seen a woman doing just that at the previous milonga and felt a mixture of pity and horror. Pity, because I could recognize the loneliness and longing on her face, but also horror at the realization of what this dance tradition does to protect a man's ego and utterly debase a woman. She was all tarted up, painted like a prostitute and wearing a skimpy dress that revealed too much cleavage and too much leg. She was older than me, and not particularly attractive. She did not dance the entire evening, but she clearly wanted to. On the other side of her table sat a young, beautiful woman who was rarely to be found at her seat because she had a constant stream of men asking her to dance. It may be that the young woman was a significantly better dancer, but I'll never know because the painted lady never had a chance to show me how well she could dance. At the same time, the traditional cabaceo - where a man nods at a woman to indicate a desire to dance - seems designed to protect the mans ego and pride. After making eye contact, if a man nods at a woman she's supposed to understand that as an invitation to dance, and walk toward him. A woman 'rejects' a man's offer by simply refusing to make eye contact. Since the whole transaction happens without getting up from his seat, a man never needs to suffer the humiliation of walking over to a woman and having her refuse a dance for all the world to see.

So with the sad image of a lonely, desperately made-up woman in my mind, I walked up the grand marble staircase to the second floor of La Ideal, and found an empty table along the wall.

When we had stopped there for coffee in the afternoon, we sat at a table in the dining area on the planta baja (ground floor.) The most arresting visual features of the space are a floor composed of 2 foot square white marble tiles, and massive pink marble columns. On the far end of the dining room was a small bar, and on the side near the entry, trying to enclose the massive space, stood a few ornate glass cases filled with tchotchkes and mementos of a bygone era. Small tables covered the floor in between, adorned with simple maroon cloths. This place reminded me of the Century Ballroom, but not as it is today; it was more like the Century before the fancy restaurant, the stairway to the balcony, the Disney refurb. Like the big empty space that was just an abandoned ballroom before Hallie took the lease. It was a grand, old space, but all the things in it felt too small, unable to fill the emptiness. A building bereft.

When I entered the dance space upstairs, I saw that it was physically the same as the room below, with the same marble columns and floor. Instead of a bar, there was a small stage at the far end, and the tables lined the sides of the room to allow for dancing between the two rows of columns. The room was certainly not packed, but had a good number of people sitting at tables, and quite a few couples dancing. Somehow, the vastness of the space below was transformed by the new table arangement and the presence of people, into a more approachable and friendly environment.

I had read that the evening milongas at La Ideal tend to be a bit touristy, and I very quickly understood why. Even though there was no live music, I heard a smattering of applause from people sitting on the other side of the room. They were applauding the dancers, even though it's just a social dance, not a performance. Scanning the room, I saw that most of the people who seemed to be there just to watch were on one side of the room, at the tables with white cloths. I was sitting on the other side where I could see it was mostly locals. Some were not dancing but seemed connected to people who were dancing. I realized that the man at the entry who had gestured toward a table when I first entered the milonga must be sorting people. I guess I made the cut as "dancer" because I was holding a bag with dance shoes.

I settled in to my table, changed my shoes, watched some dancing, and ordered agua con gas from the waiter. Just as I was beginning to feel the nagging worry that nobody would ask me to dance, I saw a man in a brown pin-striped suit striding in my direction. Before I had a chance to register whether or not he was looking at me, he was at my table and had plopped his things down next to it. He nodded violently at me, with a glower on his face, then turned his back on me and walked away. I was fumbling to remove the wrap I was still wearing around my shoulders and wondering whether he really did mean to dance with me. At the edge of the dance floor, he turned and looked again at me with an even surlier frown, and jerked his head so violently I thought he might bite his tongue. I let the wrap fall to the ground, afraid I would mortally offend this guy if I left him waiting long enough to pick it up and put it on my chair. Feeling utterly like a dog being summoned to her master, I joined him at the dance floor and we began to dance. I found his lead hard to read. Every step I took seemed either clumsy or confused, and I couldn't tell if he was pleased, bemused, or irritated. The song ended almost directly after we had begun, and suddenly he turned, muttered some Spanish I didn't understand, and stormed over to my table, pointing forcefully with an open hand at my chair. Invitation or threat? With a look of utter confusion on my face, I regained my seat. He picked up his belongings and walked quickly away from my table. Was dancing with me really so bad that he had to dump me back at my seat after less than half a song? A young woman sitting a few tables down from me seemed to be snickering about it to her boyfriend. At first, I thought she was laughing at my confusion, or at my inexperience, but later I thought maybe she was laughing at the Cave Man and his very un-subtle approach.

Confusion turned to partial comprehension as the cortina or interlude music played, denoting the end of the set of dances. I had read somewhere that you never dance more than one tanda back to back with the same person unless you intend to do more than dance that evening. This is similar to the story I heard about the significance of a cowboy hat being placed on your head while dancing in a cowboy bar. The next tanda had started, and my agua had arrived while I was dancing. Before I got a chance to drink, a man sitting at the table next to me turned and opened his hand with a subtle nod. I think he also said something about bailar (to dance) and smiled. I nodded and we both stood up and walked to the floor together. This, I thought, is a much more civilized way to request a dance. And he was also a better dancer. Unfortunately, we only danced a single song, at which point an announcer came out to introduce the band. We made our way back to our seats, and my partner said something with proxima in it, which means next. After a few dead minutes while the band set up, the live music started. Unlike with our previous milonga, people began to dance right away rather than waiting and watching for several songs. Possibly because the caliber of the music was not as good, or because the people here were not as fanatical about tango and tradition. I'm not sure why.

Before I had a chance to turn and see if my friend next door had intended to dance this next one, or wait for the next full tanda, Mr. Surly was in front of me with the same furrowed brow and violent nodding. I danced a full set with him and saw that his repertoire was limited. Between each dance, he took out a travel-sized packet of facial tissue and offered one to me as he mopped sweat off his face. At the end of the tanda, he swiveled, led me back to my seat with the same militaristic air, and made his way down the room to terrorize another woman. As I watched him leave, I wondered whether he had enjoyed dancing with me, or whether it had been a chore. And that's when I finally understood: he was a self-appointed ambassador. I had met one of these before from my days of swing dancing. He was wearing the perfect 40's era mafioso suit, had the perfect slicked back hair and the famous tango scowl. He was here to show the tourists a strange caricature of tango, and he took his job seriously. He worked the room, dancing with every woman younger than himself, and I don't think it ever occured to him to enjoy it. Nor did he seem to have any passion for the dancing or the music. It was all ritual and posturing.

Now it was time for performances from a pair of professional tango dancers. They danced a few tangos, and then invited all the locals to join them in a traditional folk dance that seems to be releated to a Peruvian dance I saw on late night TV the other day. It had elements of contra dancing (long lines that move in unison, with partners standing opposite each other) and also reminded me a bit of schuhplattler because the women did this swoopy, skirt fanning action in front of their partner while the men did fancy stomping and jumping and other "preening" type of movements. It also involved scarves. The performances were good - certainly not at the level of the tango show we went to earlier in the trip, but the dancers were very good.

By the time all this was finished, I noticed that the guy next door was gone. I was a bit disappointed because I was hoping to dance again with him. However, I didn't have long to sit before an old gentleman emerged from the corner of the room and nodded at me warmly. We danced, a full tanda, and he seemed delighted. Between dances we tried to communicate a bit - the usual "where are you from" and "how long are you staying" - and he mentioned at one point something about his or my dancing being very musical. At the very least, I would agree that his dancing was very musical. He didn't seem to know a lot of moves, but I really enjoyed the way he actually danced to the music, stretching out movements when the music was slow or legato, and making them sharper during a more staccato phrase.

After that set, I entertained a constant parade of old men who had been hidden in the corner of the room. Actually, I think it was just three men taking turns, but I enjoyed dancing with them all, and was grateful for the partners. At some point, I noticed that there were very few people left in the room, and I noticed The Scowler angling toward me. I quickly looked at my water, and took a drink. Then I fumbled with my napkin. Anything but make eye contact with him - I had plenty of other people to dance with that actually seemed friendly and frankly better at tango. Maybe that makes me a snob, but I didn't have any interest in dancing another set with him.

Finally, the only people left seemed to be me, the professional dancer who had given the demo earlier in the evening and his friends/family. And Mr. Grumpy Pants. I had looked a few times toward the pro to see if there might be a chance of dancing with him, but he seemed deeply engaged with his people and not inclined to dance. I began looking for my waiter so I could pay for the water, but that was a bit tricky since it involved looking in the direction of both The Suit and The Pro. At one point, it seemed like The Godfather was headed in my direction. In a panic, I took my dancing shoes off - a great way to show that you're done dancing for the night. Then, suddenly, The Pro is standing on the dance floor directly in front of me with his hand proffered. I pointed at my shoes and shrugged. "I've already changed my shoes," but then I decided to try anyway in my flat little street shoes. I've danced tango in sneakers before, so how bad could it be.

It wasn't great. My balance was a bit off, and I could tell I was way out of my depth. He tried a few things that I just couldn't seem to get, and I felt clumsy. I made some lame excuses about having difficulties with my street shoes, but I knew that a very good dancer would be able to dance without her shoes. I felt like a mediocre painter blaming the crudeness of his paintings on his brushes. After the first dance, The Pro said something to the DJ and made a motion that looked like what we in the US use to say "cut it off." The hand swiping at the neck like a blade. Then he said something to me about liking this song, which I think was intended to make me feel like maybe the hand motion hadn't meant what I thought it did. But the set was a brief one - only three songs. And while I could tell The Pro was a great dancer, I was happy that it was over. Somehow, I just didn't feel connected to him, and even though there were moments of grace and loveliness, I felt awkward most of the time we were dancing.

The waiter was at my table when I finished, so I settled up, and left.