Where is your Tango home? Where is the place where you walk in and immediately everyone greets you. You take your seat, air kisses all around, ask the one who's been to Buenos Aires, Dubai, Shanghai or Bali how it's going, what did they see, what did they learn. You hear the strains of your favourite melody and catch the eye of the dancer you always dance this orchestra with.
He twitches his head in the direction of the dancefloor and you can barely get your shoes on before running onto the floor before that first song finishes.
Home. Your Tango Home.
Or the origins in a dusty floored classroom, a packed dance floor. The salsa guy trying tango in front of you and you, trying to figure out where to put this damn left hand of yours. On the bicep? Behind the back? Owch, he just stepped on your toes. The arguments over the latest basic sequence you just learnt-"you have to place me here so that the cross happens automatically, signal like that...or maybe it was the other way..."
Tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree comes on and you watch in envy as the teachers dance so cleanly, so exact, so musically. They can dance to anything, and you in your pumps watch their Comme's twirl and glitter even under the fluorescent lights of a classroom.
Getting shoved to dance with that absolutely horrendous lead. By your friend. Great. You smile and try to make it out with your toes intact.
Laughter in a Mexican bar down the road on a winters night at 11pm, Margaritas, Nachos. A mix of salsa + alt-stuff. A floor that is kind of undanceable on, but you're there for the conversations. A loved one next to you and the end of a journey where you've finally let go of everything-all that stress and goal setting realised.
Finally.
And you walk home under gently falling snowflakes-satiated. Satisfied.
Where, oh where can I find you again?
He twitches his head in the direction of the dancefloor and you can barely get your shoes on before running onto the floor before that first song finishes.
Home. Your Tango Home.
Or the origins in a dusty floored classroom, a packed dance floor. The salsa guy trying tango in front of you and you, trying to figure out where to put this damn left hand of yours. On the bicep? Behind the back? Owch, he just stepped on your toes. The arguments over the latest basic sequence you just learnt-"you have to place me here so that the cross happens automatically, signal like that...or maybe it was the other way..."
Tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree comes on and you watch in envy as the teachers dance so cleanly, so exact, so musically. They can dance to anything, and you in your pumps watch their Comme's twirl and glitter even under the fluorescent lights of a classroom.
Getting shoved to dance with that absolutely horrendous lead. By your friend. Great. You smile and try to make it out with your toes intact.
Laughter in a Mexican bar down the road on a winters night at 11pm, Margaritas, Nachos. A mix of salsa + alt-stuff. A floor that is kind of undanceable on, but you're there for the conversations. A loved one next to you and the end of a journey where you've finally let go of everything-all that stress and goal setting realised.
Finally.
And you walk home under gently falling snowflakes-satiated. Satisfied.
Where, oh where can I find you again?
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