I.

It’s been too long since I’ve written. To soak in this culture and this language is exhausting and I end each day feeling both utterly full and completely drained. But it is wonderful. The train wails by my house throughout the night and winter thunderstorms rattle the wooden blinds and I lie waiting to dream in the soft tones of Spanish. More things have happened in these last few weeks than I will ever be able to capture in this post, like visits to famous memorials, the mystifying show Fuerza Bruta (where by the end I was soaked with water and my hair was full of confetti), sunny Saturday morning runs through the vast park complex right by my house. But here are a few things.

II.

Malba, a modern art museum is currently featuring the art of Le Parc Lumiere, whose works are all moving lights and mirrors. In the spacious and gaping dark rooms, we became fragments of pulsing light, reflections in hundreds of mirrors. Shadows.

III.

Since being here, I have taken the wrong bus twice. I have taken the correct bus once, but in the wrong direction and I didn’t realize until the bus reached the last stop and I was asked to get off. I wandered lost and confused for a while around an area that I later learned was Barrio Chino (Chinatown in Buenos Aires). I was half an hour late for class that day. Once, I gave a cab driver vague direction and ended up having to redirect him after he took me to “la catedral” subway station instead of “la catedral” tango club on Sarmiento street (not to be mistaken as Sarmiento Av. which is entirely different from just Sarmiento). Needless to say, I’ve figured a few things out since then.

IV.

Aprender a seguir. (learning to follow)

Tango. The dance of Argentina is sensual, but never sexy. It is rigid and fluid, and breathtaking to behold. We fell into it carelessly at first: Stepping boldly as if confidence could mask my clumsy ignorance. It was easy to memorize the basic step, and easy to feel the beat. So I was surprised when, an hour into the lesson, the instructor approached me to say that I was doing it all wrong. In Spanish, she stopped me and told me that I was leading and to try again. As soon as she said it I felt stupid. It’s exactly the kind of mistake that I would make.

A few moments later, my new partner was an older Argentine man. He was thin, and obviously well practiced at Tango. When I heard the beat come around to take the first step, I had to fight the urge to step forward and begin. Instead, I took a breath and waited. Follow. Why is this the hardest part? To let go of the grip of the steps, to not move my legs and body but rather let them be moved. Surrendering to the dance and the small Argentine stranger was like one long exhale.

He danced slowly, with small careful steps, and without looking I could feel where to step. It took a moment, and there were a few misguided steps on my part. But each time I did, he would hold still and wait for me to stop, take a breath, and ease back in to following his movements. And in an instant, I was doing something new. He glided me around the dance floor slowly and I felt like I was in some sort of trance. Like I wasn’t really touching the floor, like my feet were not my own. I realized we were doing Tango steps that I hadn’t even learned.

My reverie was broken when the old man smiled and told me that I was doing very well. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t doing anything. Because the truth was it felt like I wasn’t. For the first time I wasn’t doing anything and somehow it was easier.

V.

Tonight we leave for Paraguay!