Will Argentina teach me the vertical expression of horizontal desire?

My tanguerno has black lacquered hair. He moves like a thoroughbred, his hat slightly tipped to shadow dark Latino skin and a dangerous glint in his eye. He grabs the small of my back thrusting me into his chest. He twirls me. Then yanks me back. The dolcet tones of Carlos Gardel reach a crescendo. The crowd roars. A relationship doomed but a steamy passion to die for.

At least this is how I imagined my first foray into Argentinian tango on Part One of a three part Argentinian adventure of tango, steak and polo. I sit waiting patiently for my Argentinian Fred Astaire to ask me to dance in San Telmo’s Piaza Dorrego in Buenos Aires, where daily street performances are followed by lessons for want-to-be tango queens.

Learning to sweep my leg dancing a sultry tango is a long held ambition. So I have come to Buenos Aires to learn how to dance the Argentinian tango. Not speaking a word of Spanish (even my gracias sounds more like ‘grassy arse’), I hope the dance of passion will transcend the barriers of language. I haven’t danced a step since I hurled myself around the festival tent to Pulp’s ‘Common People’ at my best friends wedding last Summer. Will I be gripped by Tango fever? Will I return to London with some impressive steps for my wedding dance repertoire? Will I cast the shackles of British reserve and learn the knack of Argentinian aloofness and bridled passion?

I have studied the wiki tango manual and watched hours of YouTube clips from the relative safety of my London flat, but am fast learning that Tango is a serious business. Just choosing a partner is fraught with difficulty. Subtle signals, rules and codes apply which you ignore at your peril. Single girls should sit with easy access to the floor. Couples further back. If a girl arrives with a man, he is hers – no question. The middle of the floor is for rookies. The edge for the graceful.

And then there’s the ‘Cabecco’ – the quick nod, eye contact, followed by uplifted eyebrows that signal a man would like to dance. The woman nods ‘yes’ or pretends not to have noticed – i.e. ‘no’. It is polite to dance a minimum of two songs. If you are given a curt ‘gracias’ after one, consider that partner unavailable for the rest of the night. If you don’t want to dance, don’t look at anybody – you could be breaking passion-fuelled hearts. Romantic, wall-flowers beware.

As my real world middle aged, slightly squat and very sweaty teacher, Adrian tries to teach me the “vertical expression of a horizontal desire”, I focus on immersing myself in the ragged coolness, old world languor and simmering passion of Buenos Aires. Passion and emotion oozes from the pore of the Porteños (the name given to the people of Buenos Aires). Tango originated in the working class slums of Rio de la Plate between Argentina and Uruguay and like jazz, was once synonymous with brothels and low life, alcohol and drugs.

Modern day tango is the life-blood of Buenos Aires, with is spewing buses and bustling fervor. Here the streets are European, shaped at the turn of the century by a wave of immigrants. Narrow Italian strada and wide Parisian boulevards are filled with lilac blooms of feathery jacarandas and pink flowering palo borracho or ‘drunken sticks’ whose tall, bottle shaped trunks leer drunkenly in Patermo Park amid lakes, Japanese gardens and dog lovers.

Passion pervades all the component parts of this South American city from the crazy, horn-blasting drivers to the political debates that take place on street corners (don’t mention the Falklands because it belongs to Argentina). There is even a 24-hour FM tango radio station that I listened to while I went to sleep last night in the hope that the rhythm would get me via aural osmosis.

Adrian, has more passion than is medically safe. His loins gyrate and rotate like a feat of 21st century engineering. The only time a man gets this close to me is if he is my other half, we are planning on getting frisky, or I am being felt up by a dodgy perv on a tube in London’s rush hour. I am British (although I am keeping that to myself given what I have found to be a weight of anti British feeling here). I don’t usually get this up close and personal with random strangers in public places. And yet the drama of the tango is intoxicating. Sometimes fast and athletic, sometimes resembling a fight, and sometimes an act of romantic love.

But alas I am cramping Dear Arian’s style. This passion is best left to the experts. So with a doff of his hat and a final pose for the camera with leg akimbo, (at an additional cost of $10), I dream from the sidelines of a people so entranced by hedonistic temerity in a City where the house red is Malbec.

Good night Buenos Aires.

#Argentiniantango