Home of tango, the sexiest dance in the world, many flock to Buenos Aires to hone their craft with the best. Will McGuire puts his big-foot forward, to prove he’s better than the rest.
Argentinians are renowned for their passion and nowhere is that more evident than in their capital, Buenos Aires. The culture of the city is dominated by their enthusiasm for football and tango. The colourful neighborhood of La Boca is an open air museum dedicated to their famous dance, with street performers at every corner ready to photograph with tourists. For those who wish to tango themselves, the city has become a popular destination to train with the best, and reputable schools have emerged all over the city to keep up with demand.
But not all dancers are made equal. There are the world-class acts seen at expensive theatres and then the street acts, like the strip club versions, hustling in parks and public squares, the performers riddled with tramp stamps, track marks and tattoos. Although neither Jen nor I had ever tried tango before, it seemed obvious to me that if the chain-smoking sleazebags on the street could make it look sexy, then so could we. Or at the very least – me!
I chose a nearby school, Mariposita de San Telmo, which doubles as a hotel for the serious enthusiast to stay and practise for weeks. But it also offers the odd class for beginners. Between Jen and I, she was the one pushing to try it, but was anxious about having to dance with someone else. She made me promise not to switch partners.
Google Maps brought us to a white building with no sign. Pressing the buzzer, a doddery old woman opened the door and led us through. Madame Isobelle was the mother of the woman who ran the school, a prestigious dancer currently wowing fans in Australia.
Inside was a dance hall with polished wooden floors and a long mirror. A private class was currently underway with a gentle Chinese man being directed by a snooty instructor. Through a window I saw students in the garden, frog-squatting and downward-dogging.
We were the only students until just before the class was due to begin, when a motley crew arrived all at once to join us. As the tango I’ve seen is always performed by slender, attractive humans, I assumed that our class would be an intimidating mix of Adonis-like men and Penelope Cruzs. Except for a busty brunette (one half of an attractive German couple) they were all bald or stinky (or both), squat, fat or dorky. One guy looked like Professor Frink from The Simpsons.
Jen and I smelt another before he even entered the room. We covered our noses in disgust as he burst in, dressed all in black with a tight t-shirt and trousers. He had only just arrived and already he was sweating down his bald head. But he didn’t let a few droplets hold him back, and owned the room by moving in exaggerated strides, pirouetting into each step. His body odour reeked so badly that everyone was more than happy to give him space. He draped his jacket over his shoulder like he was the Don Juan of tango. Trailing far behind was his timid female partner. She smiled nervously at the room and then stumbled to catch his jacket as he slung it at her.
Don Juan must be our instructor, with that sort of confidence there couldn’t possibly be any tango in the world left for him to learn. He twirled across to the reception desk, shoving Professor Frink out of the way. Leaning over to Madame Isobelle, he laughed and smiled like they had been friends for years. After printing him a receipt, she patted his arm. ‘Enjoy your second lesson.’
That already qualified him as an old hand. And he made sure we knew it.
While Jen and I asked the German couple polite, small talk questions, Don Juan limbered up. He wasn’t going to risk pulling a hammie. After I asked the girl where in Germany she was from, her answer was lost amongst the groaning of Don Juan as he lunged out all his kinks. When he stretched his arms I shifted my chair before I was whacked by a limb.
A very petite, female instructor led us onto the dance floor and warmed us up by practising the key step of moving forwards and backwards. We progressed to walking in a circle holding a bouncy ball. When we were called to take a partner, Jen fastened herself to me, and we continued our way around the circle with the ball now pinned between us. ‘Switch partners!' The instructor demanded. Jen’s eyes gaped with terror as she was swept away.
I partnered with the busty German girl. We were instructed to hold our partners and keep the ball between our torsos, tight enough so that it didn't drop, as we slowly tangoed in the circle. Our noses were almost touching and the sudden intimacy was embarrassing for us both. Looking into her eyes made my face grow hot, so I put my head down to concentrate on my footwork. And stared straight into her cleavage. She didn’t partner with me again.
Jen was paired with Don Juan, who pressed himself in close. She suppressed a gag as he wrapped his wet armpit around her.
'Let me show you my passion' he purred, and pelvic-thrusted her across the dance floor. As Jen wriggled away, the ball between them began to slip. ‘Tighter! Tighter!’ he commanded, chasing her with his pelvis. ‘Let me lead! I am in control!’
Her next partner was Professor Frink. He kept asking her about England, but his breath was so bad it turned her face gangrene. She pretended she couldn’t speak English to stop him from talking.
There was certainly nothing sexy in the way we moved. Instead of free flowing wild passions, we had awkward and apologetic mincing. The men in our class were certainly a poor crop. I would have stood out as the best, had I not come off like the big-footed pervert of the group, with my unsuitable partners entirely to blame. Among them was even a dwarf! As I hunched over to dance, her face pressed into my crotch. Another partner was an Asian with an attitude problem. She berated me just because I kept standing on her feet. ‘No! No! Feel the beat!’ She growled. They all ended their dance with me by waving the instructor over to complain.
Surprisingly, all the women I danced with suffered from slow feet. When I stepped on one lady’s laces they actually untied. I just couldn’t believe they had the cheek to suggest I was the problem! In need of a partner who could keep up, I waved down Jen. But once we started I saw she had issues of her own. ‘Stop pushing me!’ I hissed at her. ‘Let me lead!’ Unfortunately there wasn't any woman in the class up to my level.
I finished the lesson with new respect for the dance. With these kind of partners around it’s hard to look any better than awkward incompetence. Even the strip club acts would have had to work on their craft for years. They deserved a donation in their hat.
Jen took my hand and tugged me towards the exit.
‘At least we don’t have to do that again.’ She grimaced.
Madame Isobelle smiled when she saw us. ‘Did you have fun?’
‘Yes, it was great!’ Jen assured her.
Madame Isobelle patted my arm with a sympathetic smile. ‘You did really well.’
I knew it!
‘Beginner’s luck, I’m sure.’ Yeah right! We both knew it was God-given talent. I patted her arm back, laughing and smiling. After all, we were practically old friends. I slung my jacket over my shoulder. ‘I’ll have that second lesson, please!’
Because let’s be honest, they need me!
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