Encargada de banio

It takes a special character to shine in the traditionally lowly status of toilet attendant. Cecilia, a permanent fixture of the Nuevo Chique Ladies, has it in spades, and her grace and good cheer seem indefatigable.

I photographed her in November, but this picture taken by Cheryl Brown earlier in 2011 is much better. Cecilia had her birthday some time in October/November and was called into the dancehall to be presented with a cake, a chorus of Happy Birthday and much fond applause.
Like many of her colleagues, Cecilia supplies all manner of cosmetics, hair products, perfumes, brushes and combs. And though the more squeamish might flinch from applying a lipstick that's already met a hunded mouths, most would do so in a make-up emergency rather than go naked into the milonga.
The Ladies is tiny - a space two steps wide between the stalls and the handbasins. The few chairs are usually occupied, so women wobble on one foot as they change shoes, dress and undress, and tweak hair and make-up, as well as pee. And when she's not keeping the toilets and handbasins clean, Cecilia looks on from her chair near the door.
Locals greet her with kisses and a que tal? and often proceed to talk at length with her about life, the universe and everything. But that doesn't mean they fail to drop a few pesos in her saucer on the way out.
Tourists aren't quite so sure what to make of her. But two visits are enough to establish her charm, generosity and all-round goodwill.
Although I don't know Cecilia's surname, I was suprised to find no trace of her on the internet in connection with Nuevo Chique. She's the star of these encargadas de banio. I never met another so personable - or with such a good memory for faces.
Here's another encargada - this time, at the El Aranque milonga. I'm afraid don't know either of her names.

Milonga wear



Tango dress shop window



A sign on the hall wall at the Nueve Chique milonga stipulates "Casual elegant". God knows what you would have to wear to be deemed unfit to enter.
Older men are the best turned out. Dark suits, and crisp shirts and ties are common. Their hair is beautifully groomed, and they all smell delicious. The younger ones dress more casually. There's the old gentleman at El Aranque in yellow satin trousers and gold shoes, but male flamboyance is a rarity. Menswear tends to leave less freedom for error than women's wear. By contrast, you can spot all kinds of sartorial misjudgments on the part of the women. Most of it is to do with not knowing when to stop. "Less is more" seems not to be a Porteno motto. The women's milonga dress code has more to do with being seen to have made an effort than with the actual effect of that effort, and its latitude is vast. In one room you can spot satin, sequins, lace and denim; micro skirts and long handkerchief hems; harem pants and jeans; bustiers and teeshirts; fishnets, ankle socks and bare brown legs. By and large, the locals dress up. It's the tourists who tend to take to the floor in trainers and those wretched zip-them-off-at-the-knees-and-call-them-shorts trousers. A bunch of Brits who keep turning up at the same milongas as us dress in the fashion equivalent of unappetising wholemeal bread.
No question my mother (a Brit to the core) would have turned up her nose at all tango wear, deeming it, regardless of its cost, "cheap tat". We're rather more accepting of the vamp code, but even so we've seen some gobsmacking sights. The most excruciating so far has been a nice-looking older woman who had mistaken opaque tights for leggings. When she danced, her top didn't cover her bottom, thus revealing through the stretched nylon a g-string and two pale buttocks.  You could only look away, and hope that sooner or later a friend would clue her in.  



Due to public demand ...

Well, all right - an email from N ("Shoes! Lets hear some news on the dancing, moments, life and love!"), this blog will stray temporarily (but enthusiastically) from its style brief.
Last Tuesday evening, El Aranque - our first milonga, and still our best so far. The usual early crowd of older people, and a relaxed, good-natured atmosphere. The women variously turned out in everything from office pants to glitter, but the men, as usual, sleek in their suits and ties, and smelling delicious. If only older New Zealand men understood that they could be well-groomed without sacrificing their manhood.
Some nice dances, and even one of N's "moments" with someone whose name and face I will never remember when we go back tomorrow. Charlie, or Oscar or Hugo. It was a vals, I do remember that, and if I'm ever to have a moment, it will be during a vals. We were distinctly nervous beforehand, but left after a couple of hours well-satisfied.
Wednesday night, late - El Beso. We came here on a Tuesday on our first visit here at Easter and were entirely underwhelmed. Sadly, this time was no better. We were given a good front row table because we were early, but alas caught the eye of no-one. The better male dancers survey the floor from either end and (so we felt) from down their noses. There were quite a few couples who never broke rank, and an excess of women. We danced one tanda each with a short, slightly mad Italian, who stood in front of us with an extended hand rather than cabaceyo-ing, then proceeded to fling us about the floor in open embrace. We could only imagine how much good this did our credibility with the alpha males. The attmosphere was "show and judge". Exit left, grumpy.
Thursday night we skipped, can't remember why. Still jet-lagged, I think.
Friday night - Canning, to be greeted by Alejandro and his friend Horacio. A asked if we'd like to sit at a separate table, but we declined - I think we both liked the idea of conversation between tandas. A poor decision, as it turned out, since tandas were rare, H spoke no English and we no Spanish beyond "cafe leche, por favor". The men were kind and frequently left us alone us at the table to find dances. Sometimes it worked, but we think we were pretty much marked down as "being with" the men. The crowd was much more varied in age than at the afternoon milongas, and there were large groups of friends and much meeting and greeting. By 1am, the dance floor was too tight to move. We might try Canning again at an earlier time.
Saturday we subte-ed all the way out to La Glorieta in Belgrano. It was a cold evening, with a nasty wind blowing through the band rotunda. Mid-dance with Robert from Montreal (a nice dancer), the wind caught my ponytail and slapped it in his face! Lots of action here, some good, some not so. But the atmosphere is fun, and we'll definitely go back. Locals and tourists, young and old. A showy young Romeo with a ponytail whizzed Suzanne around with giant strides. A small, perfectly formed woman in red heels, black tights and short denim shorts swivelled in front me and revealed a much-worked on 60-year-old face.
Robert, with characteristic North American frankness, said I leaned rather hard for his liking - he wanted to open up so we could "do more", adding that "Nevertheless, you are very pleasant"!
We wrapped up a cold evening with hot chocolate at a nearby cafe, but my submarino - two small blocks of chocolate melted into hot milk - kept me awake most of the night.

Best

Over yum char today I mentioned (which, I'm afraid, means gloated over) my latest purchase: a pre-loved Judith Malcolm confection. Black lace over bronze satin.

"Wear it tonight", said companion one.

"Mmm ... too over-dressed."  Tonight is the usual Sunday milonga.

"No, it's not," said companion two, notwithstanding the fact that he hadn't clapped eyes on the dress. "You can't be too over-dressed for tango. Tango is for now."

And that's when I realised that I'd automatically slipped into the "keep it for best" thinking I was brought up with.

As a child, my bedroom cupboard and drawers housed a rigid sartorial caste system. Nearly all items of outer wear moved in at the top then, by maternal decree, worked their way down. The most populous category – comprising what we'd now call the default position – were clothes for play. Play was anything not specifically covered by the other two categories (which I'll get to) and a lot more besides: having nothing to do, trying to kill my brother as painfully as possible, climbing trees, choosing sides for cowboys and Indians on the empty plot down the road. Play clothes were old, over-laundered, darned, and often a bit too small. Dresses and shorts for summer, and for winter, pinafores and what my mother called “trews”.


Decent was the next rung up. Fewer decent clothes, and through economic necessity subject to strict conservation measures. Reserved for school, the High Street (though not the corner shops), Sunday School and other minor public occasions, decent clothes had, the minute you stepped in the door, to be changed for something in category one.

At the top of the hierarchy was best. There was only ever one best outfit at a time, and it was almost always the most recently acquired. Best was a dress, in winter or summer style and fabric, depending on which season had thrown up the most recent important event. The last best dress I clearly recall was acquired when I was about 11 or 12. It was royal blue with a fitted bodice, flared skirt and long sleeves. It had white cuffs and a generous white Peter Pan collar. A curious blend of too young and too old for me is how I remember it.

With my best, I wore my least battered footwear. Until I was humiliatingly old this was either brown school lace-ups or Clarks’ sandals with the cut-out on the arch of my foot (mentioned in an earlier blog).  For outdoor play, rain and snow there were Wellingtons.
If the weather was cold or wet, I was instructed to don “your gabardine” – an unyielding item of quasi-military quality, which because of its expense was bought as large as my mother thought she could get away with. For half the coat’s life it touched my body only where it was hauled in by belt and buckle; for the other half, its sleeves didn’t reach my wrists, and my knees froze in the winter. Also in winter, a mitten dangled from each sleeve on the end of a tired length of elastic that travelled up one arm, across the shoulders, and down the other arm. For snow, there were random scarves and hats. For holidays, a swimming costume. And that, wardrobe-wise, was more or less that.

And here I was, a lifetime later, keeping this lovely new dress for best - ie not wearing it. Imagine if I'd fallen under a bus this week and hadn't given it an outing. What a waste.

Milonga

D (bless him) came with me to tango on Wednesday - the first non-dancing friend to do to so - and, against the odds, took these pictures.

The hall was candle-lit, the only other light source a few glowing wall heaters. And flash would have ruined the atmosphere - for the dancers and the pictures. So the image quality is poor (and, in deference to my own and others' privacy, I have wouldn't posted these if any of us were recognisable).











I love this one - the isolation and intent of the couple dancing, the lone woman watching. Edward Hopperish, D and I agreed (notwithstanding the fact that D suspects Hopper might be over-rated). 


I don't know how affecting others will find these images because I know how much I bring to them - experience of the music, the atmosphere, the feeling of dancing - but for me they capture something. That brief intense intimacy; leaders and followers holding on to each other against the odds. 

Someone said to me months ago that people couldn't dance tango until they'd had their hearts broken. Unfortunately, the reverse doesn't necessarily apply - having had your heart broken, even several times,  doesn't automatically transform you into a terrific tanguera.

D said he felt as though he were in a documentary. He was fascinated. And touched.