Tango Boot Camp

Jack Black’s Bombshell: Queen of the Dance

Last weekend I took my first steps of Tango.

I am in the midst of a ridiculously passionate love affair with a profoundly romantic young man. This poetic soul believes dance is a crucial manifestation of the relationship between man and woman, and therefore an essential part of courtship and love. In our initial conversation on this topic he told me that he believes the Tango is the apex of this experience; the intense intimacy of the embrace, the intricacy of the steps, the outrageously plaintive lyrics. Every other dance pales in comparison.

We quickly identified Tango as a metaphor for the kind of sustained, unapologetically consuming love that so many of us want and so few of us have yet achieved. He looked into my eyes, shyly but steadily. “It may be that you and I will Tango. Maybe we can learn this, together.” The words were very simple, the message was subtle, the invitation immense.

Some weeks later on a Friday afternoon this young man and I met downtown for the first night of “The Chicago Tango Mini-Festival,” or “Tango Boot Camp” as we came to call it; three days of back-to-back classes followed by a Milonga (dance) each evening until the wee hours of the morning. We were a little puzzled by the rigorousness of the schedule. I suppose I envisioned a Tango festival with a lot of dim lighting, black clothing, and roses clamped between gleaming teeth. Perhaps some temperamental man would rant in an indiscernible Argentinean accent for half an hour on the beauty and pain that is Tango, and then we’d learn some swishy turn and have an espresso. The schedule I held in my hand looked more like my last semester of college.

In retrospect, I learned a lot about myself and my beloved at Tango Boot Camp. Firstly, it was revealed that I have disturbing soccer-mom tendencies. Other women showed up with dancing shoes and blithe smiles. I had an enormous bag stuffed with granola bars, band-aids, hair ties, aspirin, and back-up batteries for the digital camera. I shudder to think of what I would have been brought had a mini-van been at my compulsive disposal.

The first class began and I was amazed that despite the many other couples present, we two were the youngest people there. Given the stunning sexuality of a well-executed and heartfelt Tango, one would think that hungry twenty-somethings would be flocking to Milongas everywhere. Not so. There are very few young people, mostly couples, mostly married.

Our instructor, Robert, had us begin by simply leaning chests and shoulders together to form a sort of pyramid. “Lean close enough to each other to feel your partner’s heart beat, yet keep yourself centered enough so that if your partner stumbles, you will not fall.” The music began.

We swayed back and forth a little. My young man looked me in the eye, and we took our first step together. It was more a balancing act than anything else as we tried to move with the correct posture; dignified, steady and mercilessly personal. It was bliss. Clumsy, hesitant bliss.

By the end of the first evening, we were able to move forward around the floor and execute a turn or two with surprising ease. We had also learned a fast, choppy little Tango-esque dance that has the virtue of being very easy to do while looking quite complicated and impressive to the viewer. I was psyched.

At the first Milonga, we encountered the wildest, most dangerous and elusive breed of Tango-er: Crazy Tango Stallion Man. He burst in exactly like Antonio Banderas in “Desperado.” The women, as if of one mind, turned wide, fearful eyes on him. He snatched up one woman. I didn’t envy her as he executed a series of appallingly erotic and painful looking lifts, turns, and holds with her. When he released her and she crawled away, I watched as he asked and was refused by woman after woman. Some turned their backs on him. Some pretended not to notice his approach and scuttled quickly towards the chips and soda. Apparently, Crazy Tango Stallion Man has a reputation. Ladies, beware.

By the end of the second evening, my young man and I were tripping over intermediate moves and feeling the intense urge to slap each other. We were hungry, tired, and our feet felt like they’d been dipped in acid. We’d been under the instruction of two women from Argentina, both stars on the Buenos Aires dance scene. These women were beautiful, mysterious, and intensely cold. They had very little patience for the all-American crowd and watched with thinly veiled contempt as we attempted to repeat the slinky little combination they had demonstrated. We bowed our heads and shuffled off towards the train with the intention of hitting the “Hard-Core All-Night Milonga” that evening and perfecting the step. Instead we went home, ate many, many tacos and fell asleep in our clothes.

The third and final day delivered us back into Robert’s capable hands. After the combination-step craze of the day before, he brought us back to keel with the slow, balanced art of feeling your partner’s movement. We ambled, then swayed, then spun around the beautiful, baroque hall while thunder rumbled outside and the music lilted on the wind.

At the final Milonga I found myself again standing across from my young man. Here we were, three days, six classes and many, many tacos later. He leaned into me, put his arms around me, and began to lead me across the floor. Having danced with so many partners over the weekend, I had actually only danced with him a few times and his embrace felt almost foreign to me. I was surprised by the level of grace and ease he had reached over these three short days. We stumbled once or twice, but they were neat little rhythmic stumbles and no one fell down or sprained anything. We were still fairly remedial in our Tango, but we were Tangoing nonetheless.

Each time we dance, we must find that balance first. I move my hair to one side so my femininity doesn’t asphyxiate him. We must take equal strides so as not to step on each other’s feet. We hold one another close, but do not cling. I cannot attempt to anticipate his next move, as doing so will only tangle our feet. I have to provide him enough resistance to move me forward, but not so much tension that I become heavy.

He always kisses my cheek, once, just before we begin.