The dance of passion

"When you dance tango you must give everything.
If you can't do that, do not dance."
-Ricardo Vidort

Although there are some speculations that the tango was danced for the first time in Cuba, we all associate it with the Argentinean capital.

At the beginning of the 19^th century it was played in brothels and the impoverished areas of Buenos Aires. It was danced for the immigrants and the lower classes, but its popularity increased over the decades until it became associated with certain unspoken feelings and hurtful passions.

The first tangos had absolutely no lyrics, but decades later, the lack of words was replaced with vulgar sentences which described the life in the brothels. Pascual Contursi was the one who introduced poetry into the tango, and later Carlos Gardel brought the international fame and recognition to this seductive dance.

Tango is a dance which needs two partners: man leads woman, while simultaneously he lets himself seduced by her. He will protect her, while she will engage him in a sexual game. They play the game of timeless seduction, trying to express their unspoken passions.

Probably George Bernard Shaw’s words: dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire, are verbalizing the essence of tango best. You need to crave for your partner’s embrace or the heat of his body, and there has to be pure chemistry between the two of you, in order to transmit this passion to the audience.

The tango is still danced on the streets of Buenos Aires, but now it’s more a show for the tourists, getting closer to the American ballroom representation and further from its Latin origins.

“El Tango es la directa expresión de lo que comúnmente los poetas han tratado de definir en palabras como: la creencia de que la lucha puede ser un festejo”

Jorge Luis Borges.

Graffiti love

I truly enjoy every expression of art, and street art is no exception to the rule.
The art scene in Buenos Aires is one of the best in the world, and walking through the barrios of San Telmo, Palermo Viejo or Bocca, you'll find the work of some brilliant local talents.
For some of you, graffiti is defined as the simple gesture by which a no one is painting public walls, but for others it's something extremely inspirational.
The mural art is the expression of the city's vibe and pulse.
Strolling through the streets and large boulevards of  Buenos Aires, you'll find representations of national heroes as Eva Peron and Diego Maradona, sketches and drawings of the football victories, and pictures which show the passion of the locals for tango and sexual conquers.
Apart this common graffiti, what strikes as truly impressive, are the ones who try to recreate through vivid colors and powerful images, some passages from the national history. Extraordinary is a representations of the horrible events which took place in Argentina between 1974-1983. An entire playground shows the Madres de Plaza de Mayo.

first day in Argentina...

The first day, I’ve arrived in Argentina, my luggage got lost at Heathrow Airport, so I’ve found myself in a summer paradise only with the winter clothes worn back in Munich; adding to the joys of my new discovered happiness, the hard disk drive, has foreseen the perfect timing to bail out on me. All these shortcomings still couldn’t kill the enthusiasm I felt for my recent life move.

Arriving at the apartment, I’ve realized that even the flat wasn’t responding to my expectations.

Being without clothes, computer and normal roommates, decided to go for a walk through this unknown Promise Land. Fooled myself that shopping, finally was backed up by a reasonable excuse, but again another surprise: everything was closed because it was Día de la Inmaculada Concepción!

 

Basically, even a fanatic optimist as I’ve become recently, would have seen all these, as bad signs or a negative beginning, but I’ve refused to interpret it that way.

In lack of any other activity, decided to walk around the city, looking for a restaurant or a bar where I could stay a bit and gather my ideas, coming up with a brilliant plan. I’ve walked for hours, lost in my thoughts until I’ve realized that it was evening and of course, had not even the smallest clue where my two feet have taken me. 

Looked at my I-phone, abused to the maximum by the hours in which it had to play different songs, and discovered to my great amusement, that the battery was announcing its final heartbeat.

Any normal person would have stopped a taxi and disappeared in the night, straight home...well, any normal person, but I’m not one of them. My parents think that I have a wonderful gift of getting myself always in trouble or of complicating my life in vain…they are right, but would never recognize that in front of them. 

Decided to try my luck again, being confident that I’ll manage to find the way back home; secretly hoping for some magical crumbs, like those of Hansel and Gretel, but instead managed to get lost even worse than before. When I’ve finally decided to grab a cab; it was already too late, and on that particular street, no cabs or any kind of cars were in sight.

Was I scared? Not really...fools walk through life unconsciously. I was so into the surroundings, the buildings and the people who walked by, that there wasn’t any time to be afraid of anything.

When the first person walked fast towards me and yelled in a strange, indecipherable Spanish: go away from here, it’s not safe to walk around!...I just stared at him as a dumb goose, being visibly disturbed by the fact that he would consider me an unprotected little creature! My entire body was repulsed by the idea that such an individual could tell me what to do, and where to go. 

After a couple of minutes of strolling, had the pleasure of a second encounter. This time it was a younger version of my first dialog partner. The young boy walked up to me. He had beautifully full black hair, but his clothes were just some old rags. Imagined that he was begging for some pennies, so I’ve took my wallet out from the purse, but he just gesticulated nervously at me. Tried to make some sense out of his nervous breakdown, but could understand just peligro…

At that point, I’ve started wondering already, if my look was too European for the people of that ruined barrio, or they were so bored with their routine and daily existence that a new face like mine, had to be harassed at each corner.

When the beautiful boy called his friends, and two other appeared from a dark hidden corner, it was for the first time that day, when my heart started beating a bit faster. One of them, which surely didn’t celebrate his 20th birthday, tried to communicate with me in something which was closer to the Spanish learned in college. He asked me where my hotel was and how I’ve got there, but his sudden interest in my affairs, freaked me out and brought unconsciously some weird images of dirty crimes to my head. He continued with his monologue, because something like that couldn’t pass as a dialog…he asked the questions, and offered the answers at the same time, so I’ve found it too much of an effort to stress my poor, tired head with forgotten Spanish words, learned more at tapas in Chueca than in my Spanish classes.

Although, his voice was too rough, and his dirty appearance should have freaked the hell out of me, I couldn’t stop wondering how such a pretty boy would end up that way. Of course, I saw beggars and poor people even before, it’s not that I live on the moon or something similar, but apart his physical appearance and his good genes, this boy seemed to be even smarter than the others. He was probably the leader of the pack, and to my surprise, his English was not as rudimentary as expected. So, how comes that someone like him would end up on the streets, looking for garbage and collecting cardboards?

As usually, I got lost again in my daydreaming, so when he yelled at a fat, small lady looking out of her window, something, I’ve managed to understand as much as: call her a cab, but didn’t quite see why he was so interested in my own security.

Maybe people were right, and there are barrios in which you shouldn’t walk at night, but to me, it didn’t look too dangerous. Each person I’ve encountered was so interested in my own security, so how could they provoke me any kind of harm? It was just too absurd!

While waiting for the cab, tried to remember some long forgotten Spanish words, just for the pleasure of having a conversation with him. I’ve asked him in which neighborhood we are, and kept the entire talk as simple as possible. Combining his English with my Spanish, we’ve managed to have something close to a normal talk.

Left him explaining something and felt again in the daydreaming phase. The whole situation had a fascinating appeal to it; honestly, couldn’t see a danger whatsoever in being there. Those wonderful colored houses, the dirty facades, and those creatures of the night…it all was intriguing, recalling to my mind pictures and images from an old Fellini movie.

Travel to Italy and you’ll see how the inhabitants of the peninsula, advertise something similar as a national heritage. Naples and Palermo are just two of the cities which proud themselves with their run-down buildings, the strong aroma of the coked food (here your lungs are invaded by the smell of arosto) and the atmosphere of a long forgotten era.

The taxi arrived just in time, because my whole body was already feeling the fatigue of the 24 hours flight, the lack of sleep and the walking around. Got in the car, after saluting my new found friends and promising to come back in a couple of days, to admire that new found urban treasure…of course, next time will act as a normal boring tourist, and will recharge my I-phone battery and walk around during day time.

Back home, while replaying the whole semi-adventure in my head, I’ve realized that the city was already playing its magic on me.

Just a couple of hours after the arrival in the Argentinean capital, I was already unconditionally and irrevocably in loved with Buenos Aires and its habitants. With clothes or no clothes, with the lack of a working laptop and the idea of having to look again for a new flat, this was still the coolest day, in a long time.

Dear Buenos Aires...

I’ve always wrote down my thoughts, ideas, and fantasies. I kept them away from unknown eyes, locked in diaries, notebooks and on old paper tissues. Would write everything that touched me, that made me smile or cry, but when my notebooks were full, or scratched and written until you couldn’t find the smallest white spot…I would burn or rip them, so that no one could see the real me. 

This writing process was a successful and quite cheap form of therapy. I would open up, throw my invisible mask away, and speak freely about my surrounding, fears, problems and love for life.

The years have passed, and now I regret all those torn pages. What wouldn’t I give to have them back? Unconsciously and willingly, I just throw away some wonderful memories. 

If I would be a talented artist as mom, I would take out my brush, and pencil that late December sunset, from Budapest. Maybe this way, people will finally understand why the Hungarian capital is so much more than a regular Eastern European city, as someone ones told me. The image of the Danube, guarding the former imperial capital, the imposing architectural masterpieces which are a continuous reminder of its glorious past, all what makes Budapest really Budapest, could now be, a touchable memory, something that remains in time and can be seen also by others. 

Or if I would have Julia’s or Greg’s talent with pictures and colors, now everyone could see the real soul of Rome and the passions it awakes in me, each time I recall her from the most secret corners of my memory.

In lack of any real artistic talent, what comes close to a gift is my way with words.  So, I’ve decided to write absolutely everything down, without erasing or concealing anything.

Starting today, querida Buenos Aires, I’m in a relationship with you! You are my muse, my fount of inspiration, my lover and friend. I’ll love you and hate you simultaneously, I’ll court you until you’ll grant me your most sacred secrets and until my heart will be so full of love and desperation, that I’ll need to cry over and over again, in a last attempt to free my heart from you.

I’ll write you love letters, angry notes… I’ll write about your ever changing colors, the fragrances blown by the humid air, those smiley habitants and the crazy, always on the run European tourists, the tapas and nightlife, heartaches and disillusions, and all those mixed emotions which you awake in me.

In years from now, when I’ll have gray hair and those wrinkles will be an integrated part of my mirror reflection, I won’t depend on the power of that ever fading memory, but on those written pages. Through them, my grandkids will be able to see my Argentina and my Buenos Aires.