Stumbling In

That Time I Stumbled into an Argentinian Tango Class

There are a few weeks every year when the US changes from standard to daylight savings time or back again and Europe doesn’t—it changes a week or more later or earlier. And for that time period, because I keep my laptop on East Coast time, I am in a time warp. Things are just off by an hour, but for me, it’s like navigating the tilted floors of a carnival funhouse. The past couple of weeks we were four hours ahead of the East Coast instead of our normal five. I have learned to double and triple check the time before I do anything.

Last week, I ended my regular Tuesday writing session at noon Eastern, and spent the hour before I had to go to my exercise class being productive. I was cooking with gas. I changed into workout clothes, went around the corner in case one of the other ladies was waiting to walk up with me (she was a maybe). She wasn’t there so I kept walking the few blocks to the fregusia where the classes are held.

Usually, I see other people walking up. When I got to the doors, no one was coming or going. I opened the door and…

There’s another class going on. But it’s not exercise. It’s Argentinian Tango.

I did that thing where I checked the door to make sure I was in the right place.

Yep.

I’m just there at the wrong time. I’m an hour early.

A petite lady walked over to me and asked if I was there for the tango class.

Definitely No.

Would I like to stay?

I’m just here for exercise class, but I’d love to watch.

But no. One cannot just watch Argentinian Tango.

One participates.

Which is how I found myself stumbling around in my own personal hell for the next 45 minutes.

I do not dance.

Not the kind of dancing with a partner that involves synchronization and gliding.

I no glide.

Not a glide in me.

All out of glides.

In short (or, by this point, long), I do not dance.

I am very sure that Julia Louis-Dreyfus once saw me dance to Springsteen and that’s where she got Elaine’s dance moves.

Yes. THAT bad.

But Sophia did not allow lurkers. She was determined that I would tango.

The other people in the class had already been there for an hour. Some people had dance shoes. (I suspected, rightly, that this was not their first tango.) My cross-trainers were not gliding on the floor. Sophia motioned me over to a pile of talc-like substance on the floor to give me some glide-ability.

It did not help.

But we carry on because we must TANGO!

Side Note: It does take two to tango. I would take that a step further and say it takes the RIGHT two to tango.

Sophia gamely got me stepping in sync with her by the time the music ended.

Oh, so sad. All over?

Lovely to meet you. Thank you so---

NO.

We are not done.

The instructor, Fabio (OF COURSE HIS NAME IS FABIO! PAY ATTENTION! I AM LIVING THE EXPAT DREAM!) explains what it is like to go to a tango… dance hall? Tango room? A milonga. A dance event.

He tells us that the songs are in sets of three, four or five, which makes up a tanda and then the DJ will play non-tango music which is the cortina, or curtain. It’s a signal that the set is over and you can chat up your latest partner or go get a drink or take a little break. Then the music will start for the next set.

He explains that in Argentina, you just go up and ask someone to dance. You offer your hand and if the person wants to dance, they take your hand and you go to the dance floor. He says, “But here, you have to make eye contact first. If there’s a nod of agreement, then you cross over to the person and offer your hand.”

Or maybe it’s the other way around. I was in a fugue state of fight or flight and flight was definitely on my agenda.

Then he restarts the music and says, “Everybody change partners. You are going to ask someone to dance the way I just showed you.”

Wait. What?

Now we’re back to that horrendous junior high school dance where no one picks you. I start backing towards the exit, but Fabio catches me and says he will be my partner.

We move, Fabio guiding, me moving stiffly and not in time with the music and praying for the hand of God or the foot of Godzilla to get me out of there. But Fabio is a professional—he gets me talking so I’m not looking down at my feet or overthinking what we’re doing. I explain that I don’t dance and immediately add, “But I have friends who dance. I know dancers. Professional dancers.” I’m babbling because I’m afraid that he will think I don’t appreciate dancing. I do. They do what I so obviously cannot do.

I surface with “I’ve hired a lot of dancers.”

Like wow, Barb, conversational skills a bit rusty?

“You were in theatre?” he asks.

“Yes.” I correct myself. “Dinner theatre mostly. That was a long time ago.”

“Do you sing?”

I resist the urge to give the stock non-singing actor answer, “In character!”

I go with honesty: “I got paid to sing. That’s very different from actually singing well.”

We go round in a circle. He has taught us a grapevine move and some sort of turning maneuver. He has taught us a trick for when we’re off-balance, sweeping our leg in a semi-circle.

He and Sophia are very good teachers and I loosen up. A bit.

The class is ending and they explain that they will be doing two-hour sessions every Tuesday from four to six. My writing group meets from three to five. I decline signing up for future classes—scheduling conflict. I suspect Fabio and Sophia are relieved. I know I am.

I knew moving to Europe was going to require that I get out of my comfort zone. I like to imagine that I’m ready for anything life throws at me.

But Argentinian Tango?

I would love to be able to elegantly circle a dance floor but the truth is I have never done anything “elegantly” in my life. I meet things head on. I have been known to take charge when necessary. I logically check things off the to-do list and efficiently get them done.

I am one of those people who manages to muddle through to the desired result, but it is seldom graceful.

And that’s okay.

I know my limitations. I’ll stick with Springsteen.