Genre: Opinion

“Your face looks like a gravedigger’s while dancing”, a friend told me. I remember the occasion well, a crowded night in De Duif in Amsterdam. The stone floor sagged into one corner, causing a weird sensation of drunkenness. The risk of bumping into other couples was high. The woman I danced with was wearing an intoxicating perfume. I wanted to enchant and impress her with a subtle, yet surprising connection. This required extreme concentration and my face was showing it. “You’re supposed to enjoy dancing,” my friend said, “and possibly inform your face about it.”

Isn’t it wonderful to have friends who tell you the truth. I had never given much thought to my facial expression while dancing. Her observation made me quite self-conscious. “I was focusing,” I explained to her. “A smile finds its way to the dance always,” she assured me. “How’s that possible? Dance partners can’t see my face,” I said. “Oh, they know how you feel without seeing it,” she laughed. “And let’s not forget all the dancers sitting on the side. They’re wondering what your face will show when you’re dancing with them.” I got the message. Who wants to dance with a gravedigger?

I studied the faces of leaders in the milonga. A dazzling plethora of options became available. Some danced Zombie-like, with a wide-eyed gaze. Others stared intently at some point in the distance, stone-faced, like a killer in a movie. A teacher told me tango couples face each other during the dance and I remembered with horror the plastic smiles of ballroom dancers. However, some tango leaders indeed continuously made eye contact with their partners, with a frozen grin on their lips. I tried looking at my partners more often too, but it made me even more self-conscious. “I shouldn’t care what people think or say about my face when I’m dancing”, I told my friend. “My face feels all contorted like Munch’s.”

We exchanged notes on maestros’ facial expressions. “Chicho’s is indifferent. He doesn’t care”, I said. “Noelia always seems slightly amused. Carlito has this dreamy Cheshire cat smile.” “Isn’t it all part of their performance?”, she speculated. “When they make a mistake, they laugh as if it’s all just great fun.” None of those performers looked like a Zombie, a killer, or a gravedigger, though. I probably should model myself after them. But weren’t we mere social dancers? “Are there different expressions for a vals, a tango, or a milonga?” I asked. “Sure,” she said. “And a different face for a d’Arienzo, a Troilo or a Di Sarli. Your face fits the music and the mood, I suppose.”

This was all years ago, and I eventually forgot about the whole thing. My face looked the way it looks, so what? Some things a man just must accept. But the whole episode came back to me, during a recent encuentro, when a couple came up to me saying “We’ve had so much fun looking at you dance, smiling all the time, you have such a comical expression!” The way they said it, it was hard to know what to think about it. “That’s not so bad”, I thought. “First a gravedigger, now a clown.”

Teachers show a sequence and innocently tell you to try it. “It’s easy,” you think. “Done this hundreds of times. It’s a breeze.” But you missed some stupid detail, or your partner didn’t get the memo. You try again. And again. And again. After a full hour of repetition and failure, you finally get it right, sort of. The teachers tell you that you are amazing and nailed it. You travel home all pumped with excitement. But by the time you arrive, the sequence is already fading. A week later, it’s wiped from your memory entirely. You’re dealing with a common case of Tango Lesson Alzheimer.

I used to think I was the only one with this embarrassing affliction, but I know now that people go into week-long seminars or ‘intensive’ weekends, joyfully accepting they won’t remember a thing afterwards. Try asking anyone returning from Buenos Aires what they learned, after a month of daily workshops. “It was amazing, sooo many new things.” “Okay, tell me one thing.” Silence, or repeated vague statements like ‘musicality’, ‘energy’ and so on. It seems they served them a wonderful high-rise sorbet, that melted in its entirety on the way home.

My first explanation for the phenomenon is my short attention span. Second, my childish over-confidence, tricking me into believing I can do anything on first try. Third, my brain aging. One follower told me she assumed smoking too much marihuana had caused it. Leaders struggle with it, too. Some fight it with an intricate notation system of logical symbols to capture the complex body movements of leader and follower. The great Andrea Uchitel even wrote a book filled with mathematical equations and graphs. It didn’t help me; I remind you of my short attention span.

I tried to make notes, producing stream-of-consciousness poetry, like “Make sidestep let her roll off your chest stop her let her roll back to other side make two sidesteps followed by stop spiral from hips.” A drawer full of notebooks, but when I sometimes throw a glimpse at them, the scribblings seem written by an idiot, separated from reality. I don’t believe in video recording, either. After class, many students whip out their iPhones and record the lesson’s summary, as if they are Japanese travelers in the Keukenhof. You can tell by a certain indifference in their movements, though, that they feel it’s part of the value offered in the class, but outsource their memory to a chip. Only a small percentage will review it afterward, and they all know it.

“Your muscle memory takes priority over your brain. If the moves didn’t sink into your muscles, your brain can’t remember them,” a teacher told me. “Like language. If your tongue can’t pronounce it, it’s hard to remember.” It explained why inexperienced teachers throw ten exercises at you in a one-hour session, while seasoned maestros take one sequence and milk it for ten lessons, focusing on the principle behind it. “Remember, people learn in different ways too: some need to hear it, others need to see or feel it,” he added. “If they can’t remember your lessons, why do you think they book follow-up courses?” “It’s a good question. I guess they don’t remember that they will forget those, too.”

When Artificial Intelligence takes over humankind, what will it do with tango? I assumed we were safe until I saw a robot dance teacher. A fine Japanese invention, designed to interact with humans and make them more comfortable around bots. It senses if you are a novice or an experienced dancer and varies freedom in the embrace accordingly. It’s in the early stages of development, but its long-term viability is not in doubt. Moving on wheels currently, under a cylindrical shape, any risk of stepping on toes is completely absent, too.

Nothing’s sacred anymore, I complained to myself, watching the video. I knew there are robots that break-dance, twist, or do tricky ballet moves. Bots that recognize emotions and respond to them, some with freakily realistic expressions on their faces, combined with interesting conversation. How long for robots to be used in couples’ dancing? I imagined followers taking their seats in the milonga and unfolding the bot they just ordered from Amazon. A solid strategy to avoid sitting through tandas.

I discussed the matter with a skeptic who called me crazy. Only a man could come up with such an idea. After all, she reminded me, men have sex with plastic inflatable dolls. “This is not all,” I said. “Soon, people will meet in virtual reality milongas, dancing with a partner they assembled online. They can stay on their couches and go for a spin with Noelia Hurtado, 2015 edition. Followers can pick the head of Pablo Veron and combine it with Zotto’s 1996 body.” As I talked about it, weirdly, the idea appealed to me more. Hang on, I thought, what’s so bad about all this? I would love to dance with Noelia Hurtado, even if she was some virtual avatar.

“For women, tango will always be about the real experience”, my skeptic said. “Putting yourself out there, pushing your boundaries. Being in touch with real people, feel their warmth.” “You are on Facebook, right?”, I said. “Well, yes.” “I’m a family man with a full-time job. Without Facebook and YouTube, tango wouldn’t have been where it is today for me. Let’s keep an open mind about technology and its benefits.” “It begins with a blessing, but it ends with a curse,” she said. “Making life easy, but making it worse.”

“The bot is very patient, repeating instructions a hundred times,” I added. “It will give you the name of each tango and who composed it.” “It won’t feel human, though.” “A matter of time,” I said. “I’ve seen robots doing somersaults.” “It doesn’t even have a crotch, your bot”. “That can be fixed,” I said, continuing my sale. “It explains things only when you ask for it. It doesn’t ignore your cabeceos. You can program it to make sure that it doesn’t make a pass at you during a private lesson.” “Yeah, yeah, I get the idea,” she said, waving at me to stop. “Or, if you prefer otherwise, you can require it makes a pass at you.”

(PS Okay, I admit she didn’t quote Kevin Ayers. It’s just that I’ve been dying to use that quote for some time, and this seemed the moment for it. Cut me some artistic slack.)

A traveler returning from Florida reported that taxi dancers in the milonga charge 25 dollars for a tanda over there. I suddenly saw that I could realize the dream of making my passion my work – and make some cool cash in the process. A friend calculated it for me: six milongas per week–she allowed me a day off – at an average of ten tandas per milonga, would yield a sweet 1200 per week. She considered 20 euros an acceptable price for an old guy like me. Hot leaders would obviously make more, but over time, I could cash in on the Last Mohican effect. She questioned the feasibility of the whole idea, though.

“Would you allow taxi dancers in your milonga?”, she asked, challenging me. “I most certainly would,” I told her, still thinking about my 1200 per week. “Why not? Taxi dancers have been around in tango forever. Except, in the early days, it was women who charged by the song.” “Prostitutes, you mean.” “I wasn’t there and I’m not judging anyone.  I understand they were often teaching their clients to dance.” “I think it’s called a private lesson today and lasts an hour,” she said. “That’s my point. What’s the difference? Taxi dancing is a viable business model in Buenos Aires nowadays. There are websites advertising their services.” I wasn’t ready to let a future loaded with quick cash slip away that easily.

“Can’t imagine something like that blowing over to the Netherlands,” she said, digging in. “Taxi dancers even enter the Mundial with clients, for up to five thousand dollars,” I said.” They’re taking taxi dancing to a whole new level. As organizers, we must know such developments.” “I don’t think there will be demand here,” she insisted. “Events are role balanced now. Women don’t like the idea of paid escorts. Many won’t be able to afford it, either.” “A woman returning from Stockholm told me sixty percent of followers in Sweden are double rollers now. In Edinburgh, close to ninety percent, apparently. It points to a latent demand, still to be tapped. When you see a tail, there is a dog.”

“Believe me, taxi dancers will never solve a leader-follower mismatch,” she said. “Really, which solution do you see that someone hasn’t tried before?” I asked testily. “And don’t give me free entry or free drinks for leaders. No “male-only” get-togethers before the milonga, either. All those ideas are being tried today already. A clean commercial taxi dancing approach might work brilliantly. It’s a win-win proposition! Competition might improve the dance level, too.” She shook her head, pressing her lips. “I still think followers would much rather start leading,” she said.

“Maybe we should develop the local market first, you know, educate them. Like self-checkout in the supermarket. Let them get used to the concept.” “Yes,” she said. “You could dance with women and subtly mention at the end of the tanda that this one was for free.” “Good thinking. Or give her some voucher.” “Maybe milongas will offer you free entry or free drinks,” she added. “Any leader with a heartbeat should be able to get that. And if it doesn’t work out, you can always fly to Miami, dominate the market for geriatric American widows.” “It’s hot and humid in Florida,” I said, watching a dream evaporate in hot air.

In interviews for Humans of Tango, I pretty much always ask about the roles. And I’m always amazed by how simultaneously unique and universal people’s perspectives are. Behold, 5 favorite quotes:

“When you are tuning with the other person you are listening all the time even if you are leading, because if you don’t listen to the other person, your lead won’t be effective…So the leader is a follower and at the same time the follower…is leading too, because without the energy of the follower, without that response, without that personality and that energy, you know, the leader can’t do anything either. It’s like, this is something that you create together – it’s a co-creation when you’re dancing.”  ~ Felipe Martinez

“I think I see it as the yin and the yang. There is a masculine energy and there is a feminine energy, but I don’t think that one is necessarily passive and the other one is active, or one is strong and the other is weak. There is that giving and there is that receiving – there is that cycle of energy.” ~ Phi Lee Lam

“Some queer people still feel that if you’re queer you have to do everything – no! Not for me…”  ~ Augusto Balizano (on whether queer tango dancers should dance both roles)

“…you know, leading is a lot of pressure. You need to create the story. You need to take care of the environment, the safety, navigation, all of that. It’s a lonely, scary thing to do sometimes, no? And follower don’t think that. Follower thinks, a lot of the time, ‘oh, they’re doing their thing, I need to follow their thing, I cannot make a mistake,’ like they’re taking a test or something. And it’s like, no, it’s not about that at all. Regardless, even if you’re a beginner. You, without you, they cannot dance. … Like, it’s hundred and hundred together.” ~Ayano Yoneda

“In order for the dance to evolve and for the role of the follower to feel empowered, the key, for me, is the music, and not the music you’ve heard a hundred billion times in the milonga – music that is happening now, music that is complex, music that was written not for dancing.” ~Heyni Solera

I’d love to hear your experiences and insights on the roles in the comments. And if you appreciate some good tango-related philosophical waxing, listen to “Humans of Tango” wherever you get your podcasts!

‘I apologize for writing directly to you, but you’ve come highly recommended, and we would just love to have you in our Encuentro’, the English woman wrote. A couple of things were going through my mind. One, is this a new level of event marketing that I’m supposed to explore? Two, who do I know in the UK that would put this woman on my trail? I stared at the message for a while, annoyed that this approach slightly tickled my ego. I ignore it, assuming this person was merely desperate to get her Encuentro filled up with any middle-aged, mildly overweight, grey-haired leader she could coax into joining.

I remind you I’m from Rotterdam. Friends would greet you, saying you looked less shitty than last time. So now I have a problem receiving praise. I know I’m not the only one, either. There’s probably some psychological thing going on. Thinking you should be perfect, and therefore feeling unworthy of appreciation. Or, when it’s public praise, a fear of standing out too much and people disliking you for it. In my hometown, we saw smooth talk as an Amsterdam thing. So, compliments to me are a suspicious way to manipulate someone into doing something they likely don’t want to do. Like going to a tango event in the UK, where you don’t know anybody, and are unsure of the level of dancing.

Long ago a tall guy from The Hague, far more experienced in milonga life than me, told me tango dancers are inclined to flirtatious flattery. ‘The whole flattery thing is part of it all’, he said. ‘It’s a way to get into the mood’. I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I asked, ‘What mood are you referring to?’ ‘A feelgood mood’, he said. ‘It’s nicer to dance with someone who feels good about herself.’ It seemed very logical, the way he explained it. ‘But you mean what you say  when you give a compliment, right?’ I asked. ‘Sure, I mean it. Well, sort of,’ he said.

Over the years, I’ve come to see his point. Flattery is part of tango culture. People coming to a milonga expect to be seen and appreciated. After all, what is the point of standing close to someone who couldn’t care less about you? Slowly, I’ve overcome my intolerance for flattery. I can nowadays bring myself to say someone looks great if in fact they look great. I never have to lie because I’m a glass-half-full guy. When in doubt, I’ll just say you look fine.

Now here’s the thing. The other week, another woman, from Germany this time, also wrote me that she would love to have me at her event. ‘You come highly recommended,’ she wrote. I thought, wait a minute, are they all going to the same training? What’s going on here? Two in a week, it can’t be a coincidence, surely. My ego swelled annoyingly again. I considered declining but wrote to her I would pencil the event in my agenda as a ‘maybe.’ Apparently, flattery works, if repeated. But I guess you probably know this already, being the great-looking, wonderfully smart, excellent dancers and perceptive readers that you are.

My colleague summarized what I just explained. “So, you have the introverts. Then you have the ones with daddy or mommy issues. What am I forgetting? Lack of confidence around another gender, inability to connect with people, a bad marriage, divorce, loneliness, or childhood trauma.” “Correct,” I said. “Or other challenging circumstances, like unemployment or money issues.” We were discussing why dancing tango is beneficial for the soul. “And you say tango is helping people with all of that and should be financed by health insurance.” “It’s only logical,” I said. I hadn’t told him that cushy subsidies might also make life easier for milonga organizers like me.

Once tango outsiders consider sex may not be our main motive, they mostly wonder how crazy we are, dancing three nights per week and going to marathons. ‘But the dancing is therapeutic’, I told my colleague, justifying going off early. “I’m sure it is,” he said, raising an eyebrow. I repeated my claim that tango dancing is beneficial for our physical and mental health.  ‘Okay, but people playing chess or collecting stamps may say the same thing.’ ‘No, no, it’s not like that, it’s… deeper.’ He frowned and I could tell he wasn’t convinced. “Like running is good against depression,” I added feebly. “Are you all depressed?”. “No”, I said. “Well, not all of us.”

“Tango is transformative. It’s about growing as a person,” I tried. “Everybody wants to transform nowadays, except my boss,” he said. I reminded myself there are good reasons to keep your tango life private. He winked at me. “I can see you get many… stimulations out of dancing.” Not showing my irritation I said: “Sure, it’s the adrenaline and endorphin and oxytocin being released that makes you feel good.” “But how does the transformation thing work?”, he wondered.

I was improvising now. “First, they hook you in such a way that you can’t stop,” I explained. “Then it’s a frustration for some years and you want to quit, thinking you’ll never be good at it.” “That sounds terrible.” “It’s character building. In the meantime, you get rejected, insulted, mansplained and taken advantage of. Your relations may suffer, too.” “And this is supposed to be good for you?” “I forgot to mention some humiliation may be involved, but not enough to kill you.” “And this you want to be covered by health insurance?” “Well, the idea is, after you’ve overcome all this, your daily challenges will seem trivial and you’re fine.” “Is the effect lasting?” “No, you continue the treatment permanently.”

I threw in some facts I picked up over the years. “Research shows improved cognitive functions, especially in areas such as attention, memory, and decision-making. Reduced stress, anxiety, and depression…Improved mood and overall well-being, social connectedness… Of course, they didn’t research the people that didn’t make it.” “But hang on,” he said, “You’re not an introvert or depressed, are you?” “No, I’m an escapist with attention deficit,” “You’re what?” “I get bored easily,” I said. ‘’ “What is it you’re escaping from?” I stared at him long but I didn’t say “From you,” because I’m much too nice a guy for that, and tango has transformed me into a hugging, spineless, hippie pussycat.

I suppose few among you watch Chicho and Juana perform, wondering if their knees will hold? Well, I do. They appear to be human, so I figure they must have lower backs, ankles, meniscuses, and hips. But most of us don’t like to think tragedy is only one step away. Nobody especially cares to hear about injuries in the milonga, either. It distracts from the dance experience, which is supposed to be magical. If I worry a lot about injuries, does it make me a hypochondriac, or merely paranoid?  

Injuries used to happen to other people. Now, I’m acutely aware our bodies are like my Italian-design coffee maker: one tiny missing plastic component will make the whole thing useless. My discovery of the rock step caused my first-ever injury. I loved changing direction in the milonga and the rock step was just the thing for that. One night I must have changed direction a lot, on a stone floor in Rotterdam. I could hardly get out of bed the next day. Still feeling invulnerable, I took two 2 aspirins and got on with it. However, the pain in my left foot lasted for 12 months, during which I learned how to turn more often towards the right and to remember taking aspirins to the milonga. The pain faded, but I still stay away from enrosques. Who needs those, anyway.

My current anxiety about injuries started with a knee twist on a concrete outdoor floor. One moment I was happily waltzing, the next my knee blocked, and I had to lean on my follower to get seated. Like stepping into a sinkhole on Leidseplein. Since then, I know where my Flexor Hallucis Longus, Tibialis posterior, and Gastrocnemius are. I sometimes wake up in the morning, feeling a weird phantom pain in my leg or ankle. It goes away, but I’m never sure. Maybe I witnessed too many fateful accidents in the milonga? Like that time when I saw a high heel penetrate a woman’s foot and had to assist her to the hospital. Or the friend who tripped on some concrete steps, leaving a milonga, never to return. My most recent injury was on my right knee, swelling to balloon size after descending a mountain slope. Stubbornly in denial, I went back to dancing two days later, applying ice after each tanda and popping aspirins. It took months of physiotherapy training, but I dodged another bullet.

Five years ago, a woman told me this was her last night of tango, ever. I was shocked because she loved to dance and was damned good at it. The enormity of her tragic statement sank in slowly. ‘So, this is the last time we dance?’ ‘Yes’, she said. ‘And the last time we see each other. I’m leaving town.’ She danced on pain killers now. The bunion on her foot, caused by wearing high heels for too many long tango nights, was inoperable and the only option left was quitting tango altogether. ‘I feel some pressure to make this tanda a memorable one,’ I said. She didn’t smile. ‘I wish I had your problems’.

Clearly, I’m not a hypochondriac. And not paranoid either. Unless, of course, you’re all doing power yoga and Pilates behind my back every day, pretending not to know what I’m talking about.

‘I apologize for writing directly to you, but you’ve come highly recommended, and we would just love to have you in our Encuentro’, the English woman wrote. A couple of things were going through my mind. One, is this a new level of event marketing that I’m supposed to explore? Two, who do I know in the UK that would put this woman on my trail? I stared at the message for a while, annoyed that this approach slightly tickled my ego. I ignore it, assuming this person was merely desperate to get her Encuentro filled up with any middle-aged, mildly overweight, grey-haired leader she could coax into joining.

I remind you I’m from Rotterdam. Friends would greet you, saying you looked less shitty than last time. So now I have a problem receiving praise. I know I’m not the only one, either. There’s probably some psychological thing going on. Thinking you should be perfect, and therefore feeling unworthy of appreciation. Or, when it’s public praise, a fear of standing out too much and people disliking you for it. In my hometown, we saw smooth talk as an Amsterdam thing. So, compliments to me are a suspicious way to manipulate someone into doing something they likely don’t want to do. Like going to a tango event in the UK, where you don’t know anybody, and are unsure of the level of dancing.

Long ago a tall guy from The Hague, far more experienced in milonga life than me, told me tango dancers are inclined to flirtatious flattery. ‘The whole flattery thing is part of it all’, he said. ‘It’s a way to get into the mood’. I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I asked, ‘What mood are you referring to?’ ‘A feelgood mood’, he said. ‘It’s nicer to dance with someone who feels good about herself.’ It seemed very logical, the way he explained it. ‘But you mean what you say  when you give a compliment, right?’ I asked. ‘Sure, I mean it. Well, sort of,’ he said.

Over the years, I’ve come to see his point. Flattery is part of tango culture. People coming to a milonga expect to be seen and appreciated. After all, what is the point of standing close to someone who couldn’t care less about you? Slowly, I’ve overcome my intolerance for flattery. I can nowadays bring myself to say someone looks great if in fact they look great. I never have to lie because I’m a glass-half-full guy. When in doubt, I’ll just say you look fine.

Now here’s the thing. The other week, another woman, from Germany this time, also wrote me that she would love to have me at her event. ‘You come highly recommended,’ she wrote. I thought, wait a minute, are they all going to the same training? What’s going on here? Two in a week, it can’t be a coincidence, surely. My ego swelled annoyingly again. I considered declining but wrote to her I would pencil the event in my agenda as a ‘maybe.’ Apparently, flattery works, if repeated. But I guess you probably know this already, being the great-looking, wonderfully smart, excellent dancers and perceptive readers that you are.

You’re probably missing a unique tango event right now, as you are wasting precious time reading this article. In fact, you may even be missing registration deadlines for future events that are even more wonderful. Think of all those dances you’ll be missing. How many on an average marathon? Maybe 40 or 60! All wonderful, I’m sure. But you are not there. You’re attending birthday parties. And business meetings. You’re probably washing dishes, resetting passwords, paying bills, changing diapers, or trying to find another streaming service to replace Netflix. In any case, you’re missing out on something out there that’s much more exciting than your life.

Recognize it? If so, you may experience tango-FOMO, short for Fear Of Missing Out on a tango opportunity. I used to have this affliction. Constantly checking the agendas and announcements online, fretting about which event would fit the family and work schedule. Grinding my teeth in resentment during coffee with my in-laws, while other people than me were enjoying a festival or a favorite monthly milonga. Like a smoker craving for his next smoke. I would check the Facebook pictures and elated comments about the events afterward, confirming my fear of missing it.

I remember all this because there’s a post-pandemic feeding frenzy of tango events going on. It weirdly excites me. I feel a bit like our cats whenever I open the closet where we store the food. I also feel the flip side of it when I’m registered for an event even months away. Peace. My brain soothing me, whispering “you may be missing something now, but at least you have this”. The feeling lingers until I arrive at the event I’ve been waiting to happen. Everybody is starry-eyed until the first tango starts, and a new FOMO replaces the collective peacefulness. Which partners are we missing now, and what if we miss him or her altogether? That would be bad. I can see quiet desperation developing, like people at the end of a breadline realizing the stock will be gone, when it’s their turn. You see them preparing for this reality even before it comes about. Sometimes they’re so absorbed in their fate, they miss the cabaceos that could have saved them.

I’m done with all that, though. Possibly, age and experience have toughened me up. I learned to enjoy the anticipation but to suppress the FOMO. It reminds me of the joke an old colleague of mine loved to tell, after a few drinks, reflecting on the perspective of the old versus the young. The joke went like this. An old bull and a young bull are standing on a hill, looking down on a large herd of attractive cows grazing in the valley. “Let’s run down this hill and jump a nice cow!”, the young bull shouts, anxious with FOMO. The old bull looks at him knowingly, saying softly: “No, let’s stroll down quietly, jump all of them.” A totally unacceptable joke now, I know, but the colleague left Earth long ago. I hope you catch the philosophical concept behind it, anyway.

(A woman driving with us, on our way back from an event, told us she’s also done with the FOMO. ‘We meet each other at these events and just dance, dance. Can we for once talk to each other?’ A new FOMO appearing on the horizon, I guess.)