Magical Milonga

Being as we were in the land of tango, it seemed only logical to try to find a way to see a performance while we were in Buenos Aires. There were countless tango shows to choose from, featuring professional performances of varying scale, from a single couple in some intimate space to Vegas-style dinner theatre revues. But most of them were geared to tourists and all of them were expensive. Searching for a lower-key option, we read about milongas, which are essentially tango dance nights for regular folks, I suppose much like salsa nights at dance clubs, not that I’ve ever been to one of those either. We had no intention of participating, though (tango not being really something you can just pick up as you go along), and I wasn’t sure it was okay to just go and watch. I had visions of being a wallflower at some darkly lit little club on the second floor of some narrow, crumbling building, studiously avoiding making eye contact with anyone lest I accidentally acquire a partner, dancers twisting severely across the crowded floor, elbowing indignantly past us. I worried we would be intruding.

It was, therefore, with a certain amount of trepidation that we resolved to stop in at a milonga taking place in the neighbourhood we were staying in, put on by a collective called Parakultural, which had a few recommendations (from tourist guidebooks, admittedly) to its credit. The venue proved hard to find, however; it was not some neon-advertised second-storey club, nor was it a storefront; nor, in fact, was it identified in any way shape or form. Walking past it once without seeing it, we enlisted the aid of an elderly couple closing up shop. My simple, polite and grammatically incorrect query as to the location of the Salon Canning was met with two very enthusiastic (if simultaneous) replies. Combining the lovely old folks’ advice at last yielded the right address, which proved to be a doorway beside a shop selling tango shoes, with a small cluster of folks lingering just outside. And then, with a nervous glance at these unassuming but doubtless internationally recognized patrons, we stepped into… a hallway. Wide, brightly lit and long, it led past a few tiny shops – all closed, except a kiosko selling candy and postcards – and came to an end at last at a door through which darkness and music were perceptible. The Salon Canning, at last.

The ticket desk was auspiciously low-key: still in the corridor, a twentysomething girl, casually dressed, sat at a little table with a cash box and a friend to keep her company. Paying our modest entry fee, we stepped through into the darkness. Immediately, our trepidation vanished, replaced by utter enchantment. We were in a grand old ballroom, with a square wooden dancefloor surrounded by thirty or so tables under white table cloths, with a long elegant old wood bar along one wall. Ancient tango recordings were playing over the sound system, and it was to these that a dozen or so couples were gliding around the dancefloor. Several dozen more dancers were scattered at the various tables, taking a break or changing from their street shoes into their dancing shoes, having just arrived – we were there early, just past midnight, when the rest of the crowd was likely still not halfway through dinner. We were already in love with the place by the time we took our seats (which was about forty seconds after making it through the door).

And then we watched the dancers. They were simply outstanding. Not in the sense of being the best dancers ever, though most of them were very competent indeed; but just that they were regular people, here to dance. And the tango itself: the upright posture; the invisible signals by which the men guided their partners; the women so often dancing with eyes closed, either in concentration or out of enjoyment, it was impossible to tell; the pairs navigating in the space available to them, regardless of how much or how little they had at a given moment, and all of them floating generally counterclockwise around the floor, obeying the flow of traffic; the assured grace of the older men, in jackets to a man, in contrast to the younger guys, who tended to be somewhat more casual in their attire and more assertive in their style. In between sets of five or six songs everyone returned to their table and their friends, and after the short pop song that filled the break ended the next set would begin, and the men scanned the room or took a walk among the tables, searching for a partner. And finding one, he would lead her to the floor, and they would take up their positions, and they would wait, and wait, and wait, and then take off, and their distinctness as a separate entity from the rest of the dancers would be clear at first while they started but then gradually diminish until at last they were subsumed completely in the larger, rotating group.

They were still arriving a few hours later when, reluctant to leave but exhausted from a packed day, we headed for home. Still now, as I write this, with the Strait of Magellan a mere fifty meters to my left, four thousand kilometers further on in our trip, the milonga stands out as the most enchanting experience I’ve had.