The great Buenos Aires shoe hunt (continued)

Our next port of call was Alani's, whose flamboyant front-of-house person also designs the shoes. We ripped off our sensible, dodge-the-potholes-and-dogshit BA pavement shoes and began trying on. Madam was hyperactive and attention-seeking but it was all good fun. Until she held out a pair for S to try. S slipped one on, shook her head: "No, they don't suit my foot." Madam tossed her head. "I make shoes for dancing, not for queens!"
We discovered later that the appropriate BA response to this kind of verbal assault is to toss one's own head even more haughtily and declare, "I am a queen."
But since we're New Zealanders, jaws dropping and faces flushed with outrage, we left the shop. Never to return for the very nice salmon pink sandals that had caught my eye.
Flabella's, just around the corner, was near capacity with prospective early-evening buyers and encroaching stacks of shoe boxes. C had already been waiting 25 minutes for someone to produce something in her size when S and I arrived, freshly insulted from Alani's. The head honcho was taking up more his share of tight space. He flounced about theatrically in his perfectly tailored pale suit, kissing the hand of every woman who came in and lavishing all-purpose compliments on any female within earshot. I took him outside to show him a shoe I wanted to try, but he was so busy getting his hands on me that I wasn't confident he heard a thing. When I tried to explain that I had a bunion which might cause difficulties, his adoration knew no bounds: "I love you! I love your juanete!" he crowed. Not enough, however, for these shoes or any others to be fetched from wherever they had to be fetched from in the next 20 minutes.
Flabella's website claims that only 20 pairs of shoes are finished every day and since there were at least 21 potential buyers in the shop ... well, you do the maths.
C had already left in disgust. We found her across the road in Scarpe Mahara. The shop stocks tango and street shoes designed to be stylish and comfortable (sorry, they don't have a website, nor are they interested in selling long-distance). The middle-aged couple aren't all over you like a rash, but do seem to be in the business of actually selling shoes. In spite of the language barrrier, C was making more headway here than we'd managed to make anywhere else. The upshot was C - one pair, Jane - two.

The gold ones I wore that night and immediately forgot I was wearing new shoes. They're a dream. I love the black and red, too, and had been specifically searching for some with closed toes, but their slight pointyness will take a little more getting used to. The heels of both are perfect for me.
C's were classic 30s numbers in black suede, with a lowish heel and thin double instep straps. She liked them so much she went back for another pair.
Nothing, so far, had either appealed to or fit S. That might have been because, in her heart of hearts, she was hanging out for Comme Il Faut. About which, more later.

Post-BA posts

Plaza Dorrego, last Sunday evening; a test of nerve:
the band had just begun playing; S was first on the floor and I was second (photograph by Cheryl Brown)

Before I left home three weeks ago, I fondly imagined I would be posting from Buenos Aires at the rate I do from here, on all manner of appearance- and tango-related topics, liberally spiced with on-the-spot pictures.
Huh. I was far, far too busy doing it all to record any of it. All I managed was this list of blogs-to-come:

• The Eva Peron Museum - in particular, her dresses and shoes
• Tango-proof mascara - does it exist?
• BA's beautifully dressed older men and alarmingly dressed older women
• The great shoe hunt - down with Darcos and up with Comme Il Faut
• Milonga banio ladies
• Excess baggage - or, how much better I'll do in the packing department next time. Because, oh yes, there will be a next time.

Your foot bone's connected to your/ hip bone ...

The better I dance, the more painfully I walk. Is this fair? No, it's not! Turns out that 14 months of high-heeled tango several times weekly has produced a bursitis in both hips. And, predictably, a flurry of anxious internet research to try to establish what exactly bursitis is, whether it's curable or only treatable, whether the boring exercises the physio has me doing will actually make any difference, and whether it makes a hip replacement or two sooner or later inevitable.
None of this would have happened, I suspect, if I'd shunned heels from the outset and danced, as L always does, in flats. Now it's too late. I tried recently and felt so utterly wrong-footed that I nearly fell.
It's also too late because now I love high heels, and within 10 days will buying more, just for dancing, in Buenos Aires.

Comme Il Fauts are too high and needle-thin for me, so I shall try to avoid them for fear of falling in love.

Right now, this is my must-have pair - from Darcos. I saw someone wearing them on Saturday night at Nina's milonga and couldn't take my eyes off that glowing red suede and those sexy straps. 
Plus - albeit a dreary little plus - they look as if they might also be comfortable.



But then, look at these ...


And these ...

And these ...