Buenos Aires, Argentina - Wednesday, October 16, 2007
A fine day in spring - cool, clear, soft afternoon breeze blowing off the River Plate

A LETTER HOME

For more than six weeks no new writing has appeared on this website. But that does not mean the writing has not continued - just the flow of words has been interrupted. The absorbing of experience and environment with the sponge of my mind is ongoing. What gets set down here must meet some vague standard of being useful or entertaining. Hence the stories from the book tour in September did not meet the standard and were not written down. Flogging books from town to town is a grind - more like a hallucination than a reality. Broken only by lucid moments when those who read my writing come to say hello, to offer a gift, to be in touch with handshakes or arms around, and to laugh. To those who came: my deepest gratitude. For those I missed: next time.

The dominant theme in my mind for months has been the dream of Argentina and tango. From experience I know that whatever you imagine a new country to be, reality will adjust your imagination. What is in the guide books is all too often a description of a Disney World that exists only for tourists who will be satisfied with illusions. It is best to be prepared to be disappointed by what you anticipate, surprised by what you encounter, and delighted by what you find.

So, then, how is BsAs and tango, you may ask? I will tell you. In the form of the South American literary tradition of magic realism, The Tango Chronicles of Senor Don Roberto Juan Carlos Fuljumero y Suipacha. You may draw your own conclusions.

CHRONICLES CINCO - Primo Milonga

She was a hot water heater. With handles. And wheels. A solid tube of a woman, standing with hands on her hips, leaning against a wall elaborated with graffiti. Her surprisingly slim legs came to a conclusion with dainty feet lightly clad in high-heeled dancing shoes of red leather.

Nine o’clock on a Sunday evening when the tradesmen’s booths of the Plaza Dorrego fair had been cleared away, the milongueros appeared, the mats were laid down on the cobbles, the DJ played a few songs to establish the style of the evening, and those who have come in couples lead the way for the first tanda of four tangos by the orchestra of D’Sarli.

Senor Suipacha walks to the edge of the plaza to watch. A tanguero he is not - probably. Not a native porteno for certain. But he is well dressed, alert, and interested. As yet not familiar with the protocols of a public milonga, Senor Suipacha looks at the hot water heater with interest. White hair, like his, with red lips, gold hoop earrings, and all the rest, as has been already noted.

His look of interest is that of a writer. But for the hot water heater it is a cabcera - the look of invitation to tango. She raises her eyebrows. He raises his eyebrows. The water heater accepts. Senor Suipacha, drawn like a gnat to an approaching lady spider, cannot explain or reject. He offers the embrace. She steps into his clumsily constructed frame of dance. And waits. And waits. Senor Suipacha is petrified. This is the moment he has come for. “Dance, fool!¨“

Finally, he shifts weight, confidently steps back to begin the dance, the hot water heater closes her eyes, but the music stops and the dance is over. Senor Suipacha has spent the dance frozen in time and space. The hot water heater steps back, smiles, pats him on the face, and says, ¨"Standing still is not dancing, Senor. You must move at times. ¨” She walks away. And turns back to say, ¨Be careful with the cabacera.¨” “Si. Gracias.”

So ends the first lesson in tango for Senor Suipacha outside the safe world of the school.
If you throw the cabacera, you must dance with the woman who catches it.
Or it is you who will be thought of as a water heater - full of cold water.