It was Saturday Night and Alice wanted to go to a tango show. I didn’t fancy an expensive theatrical experience with tourists bused in so we decided to go to a milonga instead, where ordinary people dance rather than professionals. We went to a place called La Viruta which turned out to be underneath the Armenian Cultural Centre. Huh? It took us a while to find.
The evening was everything you’d want in a night out. La Viruta is a huge tatty space with low ceilings like a bunker or the engine room of a submarine. Its scruffy bar sells bottles of decent Malbec for two quid and snacks to stop the customers from falling over. Tables were pushed to one side and rows of people were learning to dance the basic steps before branching out on their own. We positioned ourselves at the bar to see how it was done. Actually on the night we went there were rock ‘n’ roll lessons as well as tango – a strange but alluring mix with the slow romantic jerks of tango broken up by high energy jiving.
We were in prime position. Lots of people chatted to us while they ordered drinks. One was a man who we’d given top marks to as the best (rock ‘n’ roll) dancer of the night. He was really really handsome – tall with lots of black curly hair and his white shirt stuck to his body with sweat. I tried not to drool in front of him. His name is Mario, he told us in excellent English and he’s a banker living in the posh district of Recoleta (like a grander Knightsbridge) who dances jive or lindy hop whenever he can. Immediately my imagination starting whirring – by day he sits in an air conditioned office, dressed immaculately in a silk suit, crunching numbers. At night he leaves his dull blonde girlfriend picking at a salad in their elegant flat and heads out to seedy bars all over the city to twirl strange girls round his body. It was my very own South American Saturday Night Fever, Juan Travolta in action.
Satisfyingly, Mario, after a few false starts, found a dance partner who while far from glamorous was almost his match and away they went, spinning and flipping across the dance floor.
The evening was everything you’d want in a night out. La Viruta is a huge tatty space with low ceilings like a bunker or the engine room of a submarine. Its scruffy bar sells bottles of decent Malbec for two quid and snacks to stop the customers from falling over. Tables were pushed to one side and rows of people were learning to dance the basic steps before branching out on their own. We positioned ourselves at the bar to see how it was done. Actually on the night we went there were rock ‘n’ roll lessons as well as tango – a strange but alluring mix with the slow romantic jerks of tango broken up by high energy jiving.
We were in prime position. Lots of people chatted to us while they ordered drinks. One was a man who we’d given top marks to as the best (rock ‘n’ roll) dancer of the night. He was really really handsome – tall with lots of black curly hair and his white shirt stuck to his body with sweat. I tried not to drool in front of him. His name is Mario, he told us in excellent English and he’s a banker living in the posh district of Recoleta (like a grander Knightsbridge) who dances jive or lindy hop whenever he can. Immediately my imagination starting whirring – by day he sits in an air conditioned office, dressed immaculately in a silk suit, crunching numbers. At night he leaves his dull blonde girlfriend picking at a salad in their elegant flat and heads out to seedy bars all over the city to twirl strange girls round his body. It was my very own South American Saturday Night Fever, Juan Travolta in action.
Satisfyingly, Mario, after a few false starts, found a dance partner who while far from glamorous was almost his match and away they went, spinning and flipping across the dance floor.
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