Written Tuesday, July 31, 2007
From Seattle, Washington, where it’s clear, still and 80 degrees

TANGO CHRONICLES 3 - Becoming A Taxi

Senor Fuljumero has survived his first Tango Fest. Three days of instruction. Four nights of dancing. One midnight-to-dawn milonga, one breakfast party, and too many conversations to count. Tangoed to the max. Excerpts:

“Excuse me. You’re a fabulous dancer. I’m a Tango Klutz. Would you dance with me so that I know what its like to dance with someone with your graceful ability?”

No, this is not a trashy pick-up line. Tired of just watching the amazing dancing at the Mega-Milonga, and feeling like an inhibited wooden soldier, I’ve carefully chosen a lovely, mature lady in a black satin dress. A classica tanguera. She doesn’t do any of the mating-stork moves with legs slashing out in all directions. She’s safe for Senor Fuljumero, who doesn’t want to get disabled too early on in his Tango career.

“Of course,” she says.
“Thank you. Please be patient. I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
The lady smiles kindly, knowingly, and replies,
“It’s alright. I do.”
And she does.
No matter what I unleash - minimal tango, semi-tango, cha-cha-cha, waltz, or the who-knows-what-that-was-move, she follows Senor Fuljumero without a missed step. And nobody got hurt.
She even said, “Very interesting.” at the end.

Another night at a smaller venue, Il Bistro.
A lovely Chinese lady - who I later learn is visiting from Hong Kong, where she is the vice-president of a bank - and who has come for dinner but has stayed to watch Tango - is responding to the music while sitting. 
Senor Fuljumero to the rescue.
“Do you tango?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to learn.”
“Well, then, allow me to give you a basic lesson.”
“But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Ah, but I do.”

Whether I was complimented or discouraged, I was told that a “man like you - of a certain age - who is well-dressed and well-mannered - is considered safe. And anyone will dance with you, especially if you dance well.”

Safe? Me?

Today, Senor Fuljumero was at his lesson, unloading his dancing encounters of the weekend, and seeking counseling.
“I’m still confused and frustrated. I dance like a fire plug or else break training and dance like someone having an idiopathic seizure. Where’s the subtle passion part of this tango thing.”

She gives me her most indulgent smile.
“Come, I will teach you the mordida - the little bite - also called sanguchito The sandwich.

“Two steps left, an ocho, and when the woman plants her right foot, you put the ball of your right foot besides hers, touching, and your left foot on the other side, touching - the sandwich - then you step back with your right foot, opening the embrace, and she does the flashing leg thing - between your legs and up and down the left one - then an ocho again, feet together, and step ahead into another move.

(An ocho is when the woman makes a figure eight move, crossing her legs.)

We do it. Now, NOW, this is Tango.
Encouraged, Senor Fuljumero is signed up for three lessons a week.
Just wait until Miss Hong Kong gets back to town.
“Care for a sandwich?”

What I am learning is much more than sexy dancing. Over the weekend I carried a reporter’s notebook, explaining that I was a writer seriously interested in the lives of the Tangoistas. If you ask, people will tell you. From my notes:

For many, Tango is a way of life. A culture. A community.
They know the history, the music, the literature, and the style.
Half the tangoistas do not and even have not danced any other dance.
Women dress to impress - fancy clothes, special hair do. And high heels with straps over the instep - because they dance on the balls of the feet.
Men dress to impress, as well, but more conservatively, with low-heeled, soft leather shoes - suede soles - to move smoothly across the floor.
Women prefer to dance Argentina-style, in close embrace, chest to chest, cheek to cheek, with eyes closed.
Men lead, with eyes open, always moving in the line of dance, counter clockwise around the floor.

In fact, if you stand back and get an overview, all the couples on the floor are performing to unspoken choreography - dancing counter-clockwise, never passing another couple, never dancing backwards to the line of dance.
Tango is a group performance danced in couples. As the floor becomes crowded, the men lead with more economical steps, still respecting the choreography of the larger group.
A good tango dancer never bumps into another couple.

At most large events, there are Tango Taxis.
Not for a cab ride home if you have had too much alcohol.
(Tango dancers don’t drink much, actually. A drunk is unwelcome.)
No, a Tango Taxi is a member of the community - experienced dancers - usually identified with a name tag - who will gladly dance with the less experienced to help them learn. As one explained to me,
“Sitting on the sidelines and wishing is not dancing.”
It is a passionate dance, but also a compassionate community.

I am told that in Buenos Aires Tango Taxis are available for Tourist Tango wannabes like me. Essentially, they are instructors who will take you out on an evening to a milonga, dance with you at your level, and help you advance a little in your skills. You pay a teacher’s fee, buy the food and drink, and that’s all. Woe be unto you if you think this is a cover for an escort service.
It simply means going out of the dance studio into the real world with a teacher. Because Tango is more than a dance. It is a way of life.

What a concept. How utterly sane!

Imagine the possibilities.
A Ballet Taxi. An Art Museum Taxi. A Jazz Taxi. A Baseball Taxi.
The list is unlimited. A Horse Racing Taxi. A Singing Taxi.
I know. There are personal trainers, and computer trainers, and music teachers. But this Tango Taxi thing is different. Not in your home or office, not in a studio, but out in the world, making you feel at home in it. Not about a dimension of life, but in it.

More than wanting to employ a Tango Taxi, I want to be one.

“Whatever happened to Fulghum?”
“He’s a Taxi now.”