Summer Tango Drought
“I’m sorry, but I won’t make it to next week’s milonga. I’m so very, very sorry.” As an organizer, one can appreciate loyalty in a regular member of the milonga when they apologize, preemptively, for missing a night.”Well, have you filled out the form?” I said, “Give me an official reason so the Board can review it.” “I’m afraid it’s for a holiday,” she said, her face twitching as if bracing for a blow. “Don’t tell me; a romantic visit to Paris? A hike in the Swiss Alps with your best friends?” “It’s Italy, I’m sad to say, Venice,” she said, pulling the corners of her mouth down. “Great food?” “Of course.” “Long evenings with a romantic companion?” “Very likely…I’m desperate, really. But I can’t get out of it.” “This too shall pass, dear. This too shall pass.”
“Aren’t you leaving on holiday yourself, though?” she said. “Sure. Road trip to England, six of us. Going to be wonderful,” I sighed. As the plans for this road trip became clearer in spring, I casually suggested tango workshops for our young companions, implementing my strategic plan for carefully staged accidental visits to local milongas. I psychologically manipulated the young, aspiring leaders in my family into believing that moving vaguely with their partner to music would make them swoon already. The girlfriends I simply flattered relentlessly. I did all this with the sole objective of increasing my chances of attending a tango event at venues that I carefully desk-researched. “You’re a lucky man,” she said. “Yeah.”
“How will you cope with your tango break?” I asked her. It’s a long, hot summer. We’ll joke about it, but the prospect of an extended tango drought may create some anxiety in any self-respecting tango addict. “Don’t even pack my shoes,” she said. “You don’t look online for events that a traveling party might miraculously bump into?” “Nope.” “You’re a better person than I. I’ve packed dancing shoes for mountain hikes. I faked surprise once when my wife discovered them hidden in the car’s boot. During a long stay in Mumbai, I once traveled for 2 hours, risking my life in tuk-tuks, to find the only milonga in a city of 12.5 million, knowing full well it was next to a garbage dump, and usually hosted not more than 4 couples and a vagabond.” “You’re a serious case,” she said.
She reasoned with me, gently patting my back. “We survived a pandemic; surely a couple of weeks in summer should not be too long a tango drought? It’s only a mild affliction; don’t make a big deal out of it.” She was right, wasn’t she? During the pandemic, I actually thought I could do without tango: improve cooking, create art, and finally finish the unread books in my library. Why was it bothering me now? I decided to let my anxiety go. One day, we would all have to accept a long tango drought, I considered philosophically. But it wasn’t this day. Maybe I wouldn’t pack my shoes, just a couple of books. “Well, the Board has reviewed your request, and you get official absentee permission for two milonga editions,” I informed her. “I’ll be seeing you in three weeks. Just don’t let it happen again.”
(PS If anyone is thinking I didn’t pack my shoes, or didn’t go to a milonga in the UK, I probably fooled you)