Mediodia de viernes

This short sequence of film tells the reality of just another midday on just another Friday and just another tango practica in Buenos Aires.

It tells the story of one hour in the lives of me and my teacher Ariel Yanovsky, just two days before he left for Columbia, and two weeks before I left for England. When the film was shot we had been dancing together for almost a year for a couple of hours a week.

He is a professional dancer and teacher. I am not. He is young. I am not. He is Argentine. I am English. We both live in Buenos Aires. We are friends. We are both human beings. 

Catrin Strong is a film maker. She is also our friend. She filmed us and edited the film. I thank her from the bottom of my heart because she has managed to reveal more than I expected of who we are. This time I didn’t want perfection, I wanted reality. I got it.

Here is the link.

Tango Mediodia de viernes: Sally y Ariel

Lucky?

I get really mad when people say that I am lucky: lucky to live in Buenos Aires, lucky to have the life I have, lucky to be able to live my dreams. I can’t help it. It makes my blood boil. I looked up a few definitions of ‘lucky’ this morning: blessed with good fortune, occurring by chance; fortuitous, charmed, jammy. I like that one: jammy.

I guess perhaps my problem is that I don’t really understand what people mean when they say that I am ‘lucky’. And perhaps I do them a disservice in getting a little riled by their remarks.  It is I guess more about me. It is more that I feel that if people say I am ‘lucky’ to be living this life, there is an implication that it is easy, perfect, requires no effort, that circumstances have conspired to provide me with a dream life, on a plate.

Do people really think that the way to live your dreams and have the life you really want involves sitting back and waiting for it to fall into your lap? Believe me, there isn’t anything ‘lucky’ in that sense at least, about it. And I am sure that really, nobody thinks that way… do they? Perhaps I would have been ‘lucky’ if I had won my plane ticket to Buenos Aires in a free lottery, woken up one morning and discovered that God had decided to grant me fluent castellano, oh and in a separate envelope lying on the pillow, magic instructions of the read-once-and-have-it variety, informing me how to integrate without hiccup into the culture of Argentina, how not to miss my family and my home country, and a blank cheque.

If I search my story, I can find some clear examples of  ‘lucky’ moments, yes: the moment my husband decided to leave me and I felt completely devastated and certain that my life was over; the moment he told me he was not coming to Mongolia to ride his motorbike across the Gobi Desert, that he thought I should make the trip alone; the moment that I just happened to be standing next to Carlos in La Glorieta in Belgrano, Buenos Aires.

I believe that these were a few of my moments of opportunity. But behind every one of these significant effort was required. I had to spot the ‘luck’ and USE it to try to create the life I wanted. As I say, when my husband left, I thought my life was over. I can’t tell you how much determination it took for me to drag myself out of tears and the sofa and force myself to get to my first ever tango class. Or how many people I had to try to convince of my wisdom in deciding to follow my subsequent dream and travel to Buenos Aires, where I knew not a soul, on a 12 month ticket. And in the end, how much courage I had to summon to come here anyway in the face of many people’s doubts, including my own. Before I had even danced a step of tango, I had to get on that plane to Mongolia, 43 years old and alone, to face what I expected to be 20 male bikers and a Desert without even a bush to hide behind. If I hadn’t have gone, I wouldn’t have even heard about tango. I wouldn’t be dancing today. The night I met Carlos in La Glorieta was the first night I ventured out to a Milonga alone in Buenos Aires. Beforehand I sat in a café on Santa Fé, trying to persuade myself that I could do it, that I was brave enough, that I wouldn’t just turn around and go back to the hostel. This is what I wrote in my notebook as I sat at that table, one Sunday night, in April 2007:

I am tired. Have just eaten 2 pollo empanadas and carrot salad and drunk a banane licuado. Feel the vitamins entering my system. Will I see J. tonight? I hope so, otherwise I will know no-one. I must be brave and dance well even tho’ I am tired. Cafés are full of men watching Boca Juniors play tonight. I am a brave woman, even if I don’t feel it right this minute.

I convinced myself that I was brave. I went. I saw J. He said hello. He didn’t dance with me. I met Carlos.

I do believe of course, that I have experienced some seriously significant moments of good fortune on my journey, but in every case I have had to put myself in that place, ready and open to receive the ‘luck’, recognise it and do something with it.

Then there is the actual reality of living in Buenos Aires long term. Maybe my life seems attractive to some folks who have a different life. Isn’t it true that the grass often seems more lush from a distance than it is up close. For me right now there is no greener grass anywhere on the planet, but that is not because my life is some kind of charmed dream, some kind of whirl of perfect tango, of endless romantic moments. I get tired, scared, frustrated, pissed off, angry, restless, miserable… but I have learned that I can fight these feelings with a bit of work and I can move on. I have also learned that the more I give out of myself, the more the world gives back to me. If I am terrified of something, but do it anyway, then life improves. If I share myself with the world on this blog, I get wonderful people popping up in my life. If I speak to strangers, I end up with new experiences: the little film my friend Catrin is making of me and Ariel is a perfect example. Am I ‘lucky’ to know Catrin? Maybe. But if I hadn’t spoken to her, a stranger in a shoe shop, I wouldn’t have her as a friend. I believe I make my own ‘luck’. And the more effort I put in, the more ‘luck’ comes my way, then I spot it quicker, use it more often, and my life appears more charmed… on the surface at least.

Then there are the assumptions: ‘You are lucky because you don’t have children, so you can follow your dream’; ‘You are lucky because you had the money to buy your flat’; ‘You are lucky because…’ oh well I don’t need to go on with this one. Maybe I wanted children, maybe I am careful with money or choose to go without other things so that I can have the home I want, maybe I work harder than you think, maybe there are lots of things about me that you don’t know. I know that people who say that I am ‘lucky’, mean well. But it is so easy to think of someone else as being ‘lucky’, when you have no idea of their true story. I have written a little of my recent past on this blog, but there is so much more that only a few precious souls in this world know. Every human on the planet has their story, the pain and suffering that has pushed them to the place where they are today, and I am no exception. I can honestly say that I am now living my dream, but my God, I have had to work hard on myself to make it so. And the work never stops.

Now I do want to make it absolutely clear that I know that there are millions of people born into a less financially secure situation than me, who will perhaps never have some of the opportunities I have had, and for whom creating the life that makes up my particular dream might indeed be an impossibility.  But in general it is not these people who tell me that I am ‘lucky’. It is people who on the surface at least, come from lives similar to mine. And I am not judging any of these people either. I believe that each human being’s dream is unique, and of equal value. I am sure that you are all building exactly the lives you want. And if you are then you will feel exactly as ‘lucky’ as you think I am.

Here are some quotes that I like about ‘luck’. I salute all those people before me who felt as I do:

Be ready when opportunity comes…Luck is the time when preparation and opportunity meet.

All of us have bad luck and good luck. The man who persists through the bad luck - who keeps right on going - is the man who is there when the good luck comes - and is ready to receive it.

I’m a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.

Luck is when opportunity knocks and you answer.

Shallow men believe in luck.  Strong men believe in cause and effect.

Luck has a peculiar habit of favouring those who don’t depend on it.

If you are lucky enough to find a way of life you love, you have to find the courage to live it.

And I guess in the end for me, ‘lucky’ or not, the treasure that lies in the greenest grass that I can possibly imagine, is personal freedom, and this is the truth about freedom for me:

He who is brave is free.

Suerte!

Unstuck

There’s no excuse when you are living in Buenos Aires, to stay stuck. Maybe things around you are stuck for a while: my ‘trámites’ for example. But I’m not going to let that stop me making the most of my days. This week has turned out perfectly.

On Wednesday night it was ‘the night of the book’ as I like to think of it. There is a massive book fair on at La Rural right now, and on Wednesday night from 9pm till 2am, entry was free. Carlos and me were both exhausted, and he didn’t get home from work until around 10.30, but at midnight we were on the number 60 bus heading for Plaza Italia. Here you can see how our night with the books turned out.

See photos of our ‘night of the book’ in La Rural

Yesterday I caught up with Anne and Donna who arrived from the UK this week. It was the ‘day of the worker’ and so Carlos wasn’t working (well only for about 5 hours) and apart from a few kioskos everything in the city was closed. Everything that is except for La Ideal. Normally these days, there is no Milonga there on Thursday afternoons, but in celebration of the ‘day of the worker’… celebratory Milonga! We just happened to be standing outside there, in Suipacha, saying our farewells for the day to Anne and Donna, heard the drifting music and could not resist a tango or two. Carlos only had his street shoes but he managed just fine. We danced some perfect vals, some heart thumping milongas as well as some dreamy tangos, and stayed until the end. I can’t remember the last time I was in La Ideal with Carlos. It was fun. And one of my beautifully suited Thursday afternoon gents even came and asked Carlos’ permission to dance with me. Carlos agreed with a genuine smile. I was proud of him. He danced with both Anne and Donna too. It was win win all round.

Today I’m off to my class with Ariel, and then I’ll be dancing a couple of hours early in Humberto 1°, the lovely venue of Niño Bien fame. I’m still looking for a place to dance in the afternoons. 6pm to about 8 is a possibility here on a Friday, before it gets too busy. Anyway, I’m taking my friend Yasmin, also here from England, and we will see how it goes.

Tonight I could see Los Reyes del Tango play at Viruta. They are my old favourites after all. But it will be packed and I would have to get there earlier than my usual Friday night 3.30am. Can I face that? I haven’t decided yet. But it’s an option, and a nice one to have.

So, no excuse to stay stuck.  And I reckon that’s true wherever you are in the world… but, the delicious menu of activities here in Buenos Aires, makes moving on especially easy. I have done absolutely nothing about any of my ‘trámites’ yet. But I will, when I get a minute.

Like it is

The word ‘trámite’ is my least favourite word in Argentina. Any time I hear it, it means something that I have to do that I haven’t done yet, a document I need that I haven’t got yet, a place that I am required to visit that I haven’t visited yet. How is life here in ‘trámite land’ for me this week? Here’s a taste.

Yesterday I went to Ezeiza to try to find and collect the picture, a ‘used’, framed print copy of a Hamish Blakely painting of two tango dancers, that I sent here from England. I have a photo of the package, and now I am starting to think that this is the last I will ever see of it. I hope not. I want the picture on my wall in Buenos Aires. In England I paid for what was sold to me as a door to door shipping service. Beware any company that promises such a service. I think it is probably an impossibility.

Before I left home yesterday I had tracked the package on the TNT website so I knew it was at Ezeiza. Carlos had phoned TNT to establish how we could get the picture. They told us we needed to use a ’specialist company’ (I forget the name) to obtain the picture because it was art. We had phoned the ’specialist company’ who told us that no, it was only a copy, nothing of value, and so we could go to Ezeiza ourselves. We took a taxi: $62 pesos. When we got there there were no signs to show us where was customs: imports and exports. We asked four members of airport staff for directions, until at last after a lot of walking, we found ourselves in the right place.

At the gate to the customs compound I had to show my passport in order to be issued with a ticket to enter. Carlos didn’t have his DNI document on him, so he had to wait outside. I went in. There was no obvious system, just a closed office door and a few people sitting on chairs outside, waiting. A kind woman amongst them explained that there was one man ahead of me and then I could enter. She then patiently explained the same thing to about five other people who arrived after me. She didn’t work there… just a hopeful punter, like me. Eventually I got in to the office. Immediately I was asked for my ‘guía aérea’ .’Qué?’ said I.

The customs lady talked. I listened. My mind turned over. My disappointment I could not hide. I felt my eyes blink wet for a second. Oh I see…  that would be the paperwork I need from TNT to release the package from Ezeiza customs: that paperwork they never mentioned on the telephone, that paperwork that requires me to travel to the centre of Buenos Aires. Right.

The customs lady was lovely. She showed me my package’s paperwork on the computer screen. She even looked up the number of the TNT office for me on the internet. I already had the number. We had already called the TNT office. I walked back outside to Carlos and swore for about five minutes. He refused to pay $80 odd pesos for a taxi back, so we caught three buses: one to Liniers (86), one to Cabildo (21) and one to my door (68). It took us two and a half  hours to get home. When I got in I ate a large Snickers bar in about three seconds flat. It helped.

Meanwhile, there’s the DNI. I’ve now been to the ‘Extranjeros’ building in ‘la calle’ 25 de Mayo three times. First time couldn’t get past the security guard, ‘Come back at 5.30pm.’ Second time, at 5.30pm, got to the information desk, ‘Come back between 9am and 12.30pm’. Third time at 12 midday, when the security guard said, come back between 6am and 10am, I begged, and he let me in to present my envelope from the Argentine Consulate in London. It was opened, and the contents inspected. I was confident. That envelope had been sealed so solemnly. But my innocent hopes were quickly dashed:

Young man behind desk: Ah yes but you need a spanish translation of your Birth Certificate.

Me: Ah yes, there it is you see… a spanish translation of my Birth Certificate, approved by the Argentine Consulate in London.

Him: Ah no, you need one done by an approved translator here… sorry.  And you need a Certificado de Domicilio.

Me: Ah no, because on your website it says that I don’t need the Certificado de Domicilio if I have utility bills to my address in my name. Here they are: three of them.

Him: Ah no sorry. You do need the Certificado de Domicilio because it is your first time for the DNI. Then you need to come back between 6am and 10am to obtain a ‘turno’ (appointment) to raise the ‘trámite’.

Me thinking: How many times ARE there? Surely you only apply for the DNI once? God I hope you only have to apply for it once.

Me saying nothing. Feeling beaten this time.

Him: So you come back then? At 6am. Over there. OK?

Right. I’ve since been to the Colegio de Traductores, found a translator in my street, and the translation is being done… well at least, a fresh copy of the translation I’ve already got,  is being done. Haven’t yet made it to the Comisería to apply for the Certificado. Maybe tomorrow.

Then there’s the bill from the ‘Direccion General de Rentas’ that I have to pay as a property owner. The bill arrived at the flat. But it isn’t something I can just pay. First I had to take it to ‘la calle’ Viamonte 900 in the Centro. I went. There you take a number and wait a long time. If you have all the required papers they give you the actual bill which you can go and pay at the bank. I didn’t have any of the right papers. Because I bought my property mid year they gave me a list of all the papers I need including the ‘escritura’ (original and copy, which I have), and ’something official that I don’t really understand (which I don’t have)’ from my escribano . To get the ’something official that I don’t really understand’, it turns out that I need to go to the escribano’s office. It can’t be sent apparently. I had thought that there was a postal service in Argentina, but I confess that I am beginning to wonder. The escribano’s office is in San Fernando, a train trip outside Buenos Aires. Right. OK. Maybe tomorrow or the day after.

And because my universe of ‘trámites’  is kind of stuck right now, even the english Post Office have managed to lose two cheques I sent from the UK to pay bills in the UK.  Mmmmmmm.

In a few days I am sure things will get unstuck, and I will start making progress again. But for now, it’s a day to scream,

‘AAAAAAAAAAARGH….ENTINA!’

Moving to Buenos Aires?

It seems that I have moved to Buenos Aires.

The doubts are history. I’m buying furniture for my own flat, shipping favourite objects from England, and I am on the trail of the DNI. It is completely unbelievable to me that just a year ago I was fresh out of a hostel in Palermo, could only speak castellano in the present tense, and was fighting Carlos off, because I was determined to stay single. Bloody hell!

I am now managing to speak to strangers on the telephone using the Usted form of ‘you’, and Carlos told me yesterday that he can at last see my character emerging in castellano, because I am now able to reveal my, at times, rather ‘acid’ wit (as he put it). My parents are booking their flights to come and visit me in October, and I’ve at last got some income and so can plan to see a bit more of  Argentina. Friends who I originally met here in Buenos Aires, are planning return journeys and this time I am on their agendas. They want to see me again… and I will be welcoming them back. I think they will notice the difference in me. I am relaxed, settled and am learning how to balance all the aspects of my new life.

So now that I can say that I moved here, I want to give a bit of a helping hand to folks who want to follow their dreams and move here too. I’ve added a new page to my blog:

Moving to BA?

This page is where you can find out all the essential details that I didn’t know at the time I made the decision to stay long term.

I can’t promise that this page will save you money, BUT it WILL save you time. It’ll save you most time, if you happen to be British, but I think anyone from abroad who wants to move here, will find it useful. I hope so. I have walked many miles to discover this information, made countless telephone calls, spent zillions of hours on the web. Somehow when I see it laid out on one web page it is impossible to believe the searches, the struggles, the  disappointments, the energy that went in to discovering what works and what doesn’t. And now here it is on ONE PAGE! I want life to be easier for you, and I hope this page makes it so. And the page will grow as I make more discoveries. Also it will help me, because I won’t have to answer so many questions… read all this stuff first, and then email me of course. You know I will always try to help if I can.  But please read all this stuff first!

This week I will be learning EXACTLY how to get the DNI I was promised in London: it is not as straightforward as I was led to believe. I am going to find out if it is possible to ship an ‘object of art’ (a copy of a painting) into the country AND get it through customs and into my home. I will discover if I can obtain the paperwork that I require in order to pay my share of property tax, and exactly how to pay it. Aaaah… the walking, the phone calls, the challenges never end. And that is Argentina. And yes it can be frustrating. And I love it still!

And this is why.

Last night Carlos and me woke ourselves with an alarm at 3.30am, and returned again to La Viruta. Taxis were whizzing past my door at that hour, and we got there in minutes. We arrived just in time for the Chacarera which we danced… smiling, smiling, and finally laughing as it turned into the ‘doble’ version and half the dancers were completely lost, including us. We retreated to our table, grabbed second hand as the crowds drained away, to eat our breakfast of those fluffy medialunas with the sugary coating that I never find anywhere else. As we watched the pañuelos fly, I said to Carlos that this year we absolutely MUST learn to dance Zamba together. We said hi to a few friends, and I was delighted to see someone I have not seen in months. We had our cigarette in the street outside, sneaking a few kisses to celebrate 11 months since the very first. We reminisced of our friends now back in their own countries who we have stumbled upon stealing kisses in that same street. (Gabriella darling, were your ears burning?) We danced locked together, for two hours, which felt like minutes, until the lights went off signalling the final ritual tangos. Kissing again in the darkness, I was completely at peace. There was space on the dance floor to dance eyes tight shut until the last notes of La Cumparsita slipped into the shock that is the 6am Viruta Rock and Roll. I reluctantly changed my shoes and we emerged into Saturday.

Could I live in England? Southampton, England: at times three horrendous hours in a traffic jam from London, where it would be completely and utterly pointless to set the alarm for tango at 3.30am. No I couldn’t. I do not know why this lifestyle suits me, but it does. I am not out dancing every night anymore. My daytime life is filling up and I can no longer sleep half the day. I’ve only been out at night 3 times in 3 weeks BUT, the point is I CAN, whenever I want to. That the possibility exists, that I know that I can dance, and laugh and kiss at 5am, in a place where people understand, because they are doing it too… that is a symbol of the freedom that I have craved in my life. I have it here. And I like it.

So I will continue to work out the practical steps on the path to a sustainable life in Buenos Aires. And I daresay I will be adding a few more hints and tips to my new page. I hope what I write there helps you to live your dreams too.

When tango cultures meet

Back in January I wrote about the clashing of two tango cultures: his (Argentine) and mine (English):

When tango cultures cross

It is quite something for me to look back on that post and to sense the emotion, the frustration, the confusion that I felt at the time. Now Carlos has travelled to England and he has seen first hand my tango roots. But, has anything changed?

Well, how did ‘mi gran amor’ find the tango experience in England?

I think on the whole he loved it. I have lots of girlfriends in English tango, and other English women read this blog. Quite honestly Carlos was delighted to find that he did not once have to ask an English woman, ‘Bailas?’ They asked him. But he also found that if he did ask, his invitation was always accepted. We are a friendly bunch in Inglaterra, and I guess we don’t get that many Argentinos passing through. And I always joke to Carlos, that because of this blog, he is probably the most famous plumber on the planet! He has been unerringly generous in allowing me to write about him, from the start, and I think that the English have grown to love him for it. He was not a stranger over there: people recognised his beautiful brown eyes with their a hint of ‘tristeza’, his gentle tango embrace, his generous heart, and he was welcomed. I was proud beyond imagining to see him take my friends in his arms, and offer them the piece of his soul that is his ‘tango argentino’, his love of the music (when he recognised the music of course!), his Argentina. I was happy to share him. And he talks fondly now of his ‘English girls’. ‘Have any of my friends written to you?’ he asks me almost daily. Girls, he remembers every one of your dances. He misses you. Get over here!

Carlos rarely talks to me about anyone he dances with. He is not one to describe his tango experiences. I have never heard him complain about lack of skill, compare dance partners, or say anything negative at all. Occasionally he may comment to me that someone is a bit tall for him, but that is as far as it goes. He is a gentleman when it comes to tango. Ah well, I guess he is just a gentleman, full stop. And so, I have had to drag out of him his general impressions of dancing tango in England and basically it boils down to the fact that the women are perhaps not as relaxed in his arms as he is used to, perhaps not quite as comfortable in a close embrace as he is used to, perhaps holding back slightly from allowing their souls to dance, without even realising it… I understand this because I felt it in the men too. I wanted to say to many men, ‘Please, just for me, forget the steps… hold me, feel the music, and give me your soul. Then I can give you mine.’

I know how it was for me back in my previous life. I wanted to dance great didn’t I? You all know how much I wanted to dance great. I went to hundreds of classes in England. I loved it when we learned new moves. After one week I was begging my teacher to show me ochos, before I could walk of course… because I wanted to look good, follow everything that was led, be the best at tango, fast. I harassed my ‘dream dancer of Hampshire’ to show me ‘boleos’, ‘ganchos’, ‘volcadas’. He kept telling me to practice walking. I was angry. I learned to dance in an ‘open embrace’ and felt very uncomfortable if someone I didn’t know pulled me in close. For a start I was worried that if I couldn’t sneak a look at the floor, I wouldn’t be able to follow well. Mmmmm…

Now, I am not one to write much about my tango partners, individually that is, unless they are called Carlos. I respect their privacy, as I hope they do mine. And I had some lovely partners in England, and some magical tangos. So what I am about to say now is a general impression, nothing more. It is how I felt upon returning to my tango birthplace. And I can say it because I understand it, or at least I understand how I fitted in to the same overall impression when I lived in England, and probably would if I still lived there now. I am no expert I know.  And so I can only share what I feel as of this minute. And that might change in the future. I have learned some hard lessons in tango since I arrived here. I have written about them. I expect there will be more to come. I am still a beginner in my tango journey. I am being taught by every single man, including the English man, who walks towards me on the dance floor, by every single person that I see dance, and by my own emerging soul, as ‘lentamente’ it learns to speak its truths. And now, for better or for worse, it wants to speak about this.

I don’t honestly know how I have come to discover the magic of the connection of souls in tango. It came gradually as I danced and as I watched dancers here in Buenos Aires. It came with a bit of time. It sneaked into my understanding, unobserved. I think it flowed in to the space that was created by my ‘tango ego’ ebbing away as I learned my tougher ‘tango lessons’. And I believe that being in Buenos Aires for me, was a huge factor in all of this.  Here I learned how to let go and forget myself in life, and on the dance floor. Today, my surrender to the music and my tango partner allows my soul to breathe his breath, my heart to beat with his, my body to feel and respond to the dance of his soul… When I returned to England, I definitely danced more flamboyant tango then I ever dance here, apart from with Ariel in private perhaps, and sometimes it was fun, a laugh, a challenge, BUT for the most part, it wasn’t the tango that I have now personally come to live for: what I think of as the tango of the soul.

In the beginning of this last trip to England, I did exactly what I do here. I would step up to a man, enter his embrace, gently reach out for his soul… and, initially I was shocked, to often find it blocked. If I am honest, the Milongas in England felt to me to be full of men’s souls dancing trapped in boxes. And the boxes felt to me to be made of  steps, of sequences, of moves, of anxiety to ‘perform’, and perhaps too on occasion, of the ‘great British reserve’. It is indeed true that sometimes the boxes were quite pretty and decorative with complicated patterns on the outsides, but the problem was that I wanted to rip the box open and get at the treasure inside.  I felt a sadness that often, the man wasn’t offering me the sensual dance of his soul, he was shoving at me everything that his body had learned to do, with no pauses, no silences, no feeling. He was giving me a part of him yes, but it felt like the hard shell of him, and I felt that this shell was born in his head. I wanted to break through his ‘brain barrier’, with an ice pick (if I’m really honest), and find his heart beat, his breath, his music, his suffering, his joy. I would close my eyes in those first moments of the embrace, and my soul would lean towards him, hoping, longing, but then… a jerk, a sudden unwelcome and sharp opening of the embrace, a shove off axis, a move learned in class maybe that same night and sometimes poorly led, a compensation by my body (now totally alert and on guard), an equal and opposite reaction: my yearning locked away in an equivalent box until I could offer it to my next partner, the magic with this one being not even a remote possibility. My reactive thinking even started to block out my soul too. I began to feel nervous that if I didn’t follow everything, ‘they’ would say, ‘Bloody hell, she still can’t dance… and she’s been in Buenos Aires exactly HOW LONG?’  As time passed in England, I regret to say that apart from with a few partners, my soul didn’t even make the effort to reach out. It learned not to bother because it wanted to avoid yet another rejection.

Of course what I cannot know is whether English women sometimes feel to their partners as if they dance trapped inside boxes too… but I will say that I know I did for quite some time. I think I did a rather excellent job of constructing mine and wrapping it in layers of some slightly misplaced dreams of winning the ‘Tango Mundial’ within a year of arriving in Buenos Aires. Lucky for me it was, that the men of Argentina, and particularly Ariel and Carlos, have patiently unwrapped me. I don’t think I’m anywhere near ‘naked’ yet, but one day I think I would like to be. So I’ll keep dancing.

Now I am NOT criticising anything about English dancers, after all I am one. And my tango experiences are not always perfect here either. It was just a different experience in general, and one which resulted in these feelings.  I have no idea how it is possible to be taught or to learn to dance with your soul. All I am saying is that you CAN. And it’s worth it. And some of you do it already, by the way… and you will be the ones who get the queues of women lining up for you. Guys, you can make a woman putty in your arms if you search for her, listen to her, care for her, love her, wait for her, invite her, respect her, dance WITH her, or at least let her know that you have noticed that she is there. You might do nothing fancy with your feet, but she will feel AMAZING and so will you! Oh and it helps if you actually listen to the music, because she might be listening too.

Phew! My soul feels better now! It has let out its ‘Edvard Munch’ scream.

So back to Carlos and me. Well, it is early days to  know how things have changed for us, but I think they may have. We have only been out dancing twice since we got back: La Milonguita (Friday night) and Club Independencia (the next Friday night). Both times, Carlos invited friends of mine to dance, without any nudges, glances or any kind of encouragement at all from me. Both times no-one else invited me. Afterwards he teased me about his ‘girls’. I am just happy to sense that he is more relaxed. I think perhaps what he did see in England was that people dance together for pleasure on the dance floor, but that on the whole we are not spending every last second scheming to get each other into bed, to steal each others partners, to invite each other for ‘coffee’ after one tanda, to race off to a ‘telo’ after the Milonga. Now I’m not saying everyone is doing all of that here either… well not all of the time anyway. The way I see it, at least there is a healthy dose of passion in tango in Buenos Aires and I can appreciate the valuable side of that now. Maybe it comes from the power surges resulting from the exchange of souls. Maybe one day England will be exactly the same if those boxes get torn open!

And as for me, well I am far more laid back now about how many dance partners I have here. After all there is a limit to the number of times I can fully offer my soul in one night, and I want to be able to give, as well as receive. In that respect, I have firmly exchanged quality for quantity. I certainly danced with many men in England, and it is almost as if for now, it has helped me get something right out of my system. And it is definitely true, that after three weeks of dancing without him, I longed for Carlos to arrive and take me into his tango embrace.

On reflection, I think not only English tango, but the entire experience of sharing an extremely colourful journey to England,  has given both Carlos and me a fresh perspective to enlighten our relationship in every respect, and within that our tango relationship is on firmer ground too. And I do believe that as a result, our two tango cultures are at last beginning to find a way to meet, and maybe even tentatively kiss for the first time… just like we were doing in the street outside La Viruta, this time last year.

Nest building

There is nothing like a trip away from home, to give a different perspective, and sometimes it may be rather unwelcome. When I walked in to my tiny flat in Buenos Aires, after living in a far bigger apartment in England for six weeks, I was shocked at the contrast. In the moment that I came through my door at midnight on Saturday 5th April, I almost couldn’t believe that I had ever lived in the space at all. It made me miss my English flat. It made me miss everything I had just left behind. I confess it made me cry.

But on the plane back here I had already been making plans. I realised, while I was away, that I had never really made this flat my home. I had invested in a good quality sofa bed, but after that I was content to make do. I was afraid back then, that my apartment in England wouldn’t let easily and that I would end up with no money. Perhaps deep down I was even afraid that I might not be coming back to Argentina at all. I struggled for weeks before I allowed myself to replace my broken laptop. I can’t tell you how many times I have been to the local internet café to print a document, first using PDF Creator to turn it into a PDF file, emailing it to myself, and then paying to get it on paper. My clothes were all folded into those pop up laundry containers… no hanging space. And Carlos and me, ate, lived and slept on that sofa bed.  It wasn’t until I went back to England where I have a dining table, a printer, and more than one saucepan, that I determined to make my life in Buenos Aires more comfortable. With a few simple and relatively inexpensive additions, I knew that I could turn my South American living space into a real home. Although I admit I did long for an IKEA…

So, Carlos and me had a big shopping expedition on Saturday. Alas no IKEA, but we did find Carrefour Home.  Things do change so fast here. This new store arrived while I was away. And I like it.  It is quite cheap, but contemporary. There are a couple of them on Avenida Santa Fe, and we chose the larger one. The printers live downstairs, the furniture upstairs. We spent a long time on both floors. The service was great. An extremely helpful guy kindly left us alone while we moved the furniture around trying out various configurations. Then as we selected a kitchen bar table with two stools, a computer desk and a gorgeous transparent, acrylic office chair, he offered us a discount because one of the items was the display model, and arranged for everything to be delivered within an hour. We literally ended up in willing our bus to race against the clock to arrive before the delivery van. It did.

Then came the fun. In one respect Carrefour Home is all too similar to IKEA. The furniture arrives flat packed in a box with a single impossible-to-understand diagram. The first time I turned around I saw Carlos lying IN the box. Once I got him out, I think it took him three hours with a manual screw driver, to build the kitchen bar. Thank goodness the computer table was the display model, and so arrived ready built. But he did it (my Argentine angel), and so we are no longer eating on our knees. And we realised that we can move the bar out onto the balcony when the sun shines and when the smoke clears (See what Buenos Aires looked like in the smoke on Saturday 19th April), to eat our breakfast in the ‘aire libre’.

On Sunday, I took a little trip to Arredo, my favourite soft furnishings chain, and came back with a luxurious black fake fur throw to add to my English one, and some totally delicious cushions. My printer is installed and doing a great job underneath my computer desk. In my one room, I now have a space where I can eat, a work space and a cosy space to relax in … and I now love walking through the door into them all. I keep saying to Carlos, ‘Why didn’t I do it earlier?’ A perfect plant on the balcony, and I will have a garden too!

It is so crazy how I can put off improving things for myself because I am afraid of something.  I have got to start believing that I am on the right path, and so everything will always work out. My latest little challenge here is to get my DNI application made. So far I have had two useless trips to 155, 25 de Mayo. The first was in the morning, to find crowds of people and no obvious system.  The security guard wouldn’t let me in, but told me it would be quieter to come back at 5.30pm. So I returned today at the allotted hour. No people this time, so I did make it to the information desk. But alas, there I was told to return with my Consulate-sealed envelope between 9.30 and 12 in the morning. Mmmmm… going round in circles perhaps… But I am getting used to all that now, and I’ll be back. In the end I’ll get my application in, and I’ll get my DNI. I have faith! Ezeiza airport customs also have a picture I shipped out here from England. It is sort of stuck in the system. Carlos managed to find out today that it counts as ‘an object of art’ and so requires some special process to release it. It’s actually a framed print of a tango painting, and has no real value, other than sentimental. I just want it on my wall. It is the one precious item that I allowed myself to bring from my English home. But again, I will trust that one day I will get it through the door here, to make my little nest complete.

I am learning that what matters is to keep living in the solution of whatever challenge jumps out to surprise me. There is always something to be faced. As one thing is solved, another arises. I am happy that since I have been back, I seem to have been granted the energy to deal with it all.  And any energy I don’t have, Carlos has. He’s even been baking me bread to  fatten me up. And we all know, that there is not one thing on earth quite like the smell of a fresh loaf rising in the oven, to turn any old house, however small, into a perfect home.

Farewell England

We are home!

Yesterday was an emotional day. I shed my first tears at Gatwick saying goodbye to Shaun, and so did Carlos. After that it was an endless mixture of walking through airports, sleeping on planes and more tears. How much harder it is to leave happy memories behind than sad ones. And by the final day of our stay in England our hearts were packed with joyful moments: yesterday just talking together about any one of them and my face was wet, yet again. But this is the balance of life. And I am learning to accept it. It is the same in all lives of course, but perhaps as we come and go between our two home countries we feel the joy and pain more acutely. We notice the contrasts in our emotions as we leave and as we arrive. Our travels bring things into sharp focus. We have a wonderful family in England. We were loved by warm and generous hearted friends. We stayed in my Southampton flat which is comfortable, contemporary and has more than one room: we were spoiled. Only the weather tried to dampen our days with persistent English rain forcing us to stay in the car at Stonehenge and on top of the Shropshire hills. But we are made of hardy stuff and a bit of wind, sleet, hail, rain and snow did not take the smiles off our faces. And when you have had great times, it is always going to be hard to walk away from them, even when you know that there will be many more to come.

The  flat in England  is now let to someone else, which has been hard to swallow: it was my first home after my marriage ended, it was a sanctuary for me, and the first concrete evidence of my independence. But I have to let it go. It will provide me with a welcome  income for my life here, and in the end it is still mine. My friends and family are half a world away tonight, but they were already calling me on Skype this morning, and they won’t disappear either.  The good parts of England have not gone anywhere. We have just left them for a while.

And so, last night, the next phase of my life in Argentina began. I came through customs as a ‘Temporary Resident’ and it felt good. Officially no longer a tourist, I was coming home. It was 23 degrees in Buenos Aires at midnight, and I smiled to drive past the people eating outside cafés and restaurants as we passed. I felt freer and lighter just to be here. But, I cried again when we arrived in the apartment. It felt tiny, and Carlos commented that we humans are always comparing: what we have here, what we have there. We both knew we would quickly get used to the space, but for a moment it was a shock to be back living in what is basically one room again. Our next challenge was where to put the things inside the four massive bags we brought with us. At about 3am I gave up trying and we collapsed on our sofa bed with chaos  all around. Today I laughed as Carlos revealed to me the little objects he had sneaked from my English flat into the bags: a clever double ended screwdriver, a beautifully shaped coffee measuring spoon, numerous pens and pencils. Carlos adores pens: and I don’t mean expensive ones. He likes clever pens, or ones with names on: hotels, banks, conferences… he will treasure them all. He spent this morning lovingly examining every single item in the twenty quid 240 piece tool set my dad bought him in Aldi, Southampton: drill bits, a vast range of strange things that I could not put a name to, screwdriver heads… He proudly explained each object to me and I nodded and said, ‘Si, mi amor,’ alot. And all the time he was wearing the very English cap that my mum bought him in Shrewsbury market! How could I not be happy to observe him so content. I brought back winter coats, my favourite thick cardigans, boots, headphones so that Carlos can watch TV when I want to sleep, my iPod station, soft fleece slippers (two pairs), a fake fur throw, another hot water bottle with a fleecy cover… Where Carlos loves pens, I love furry things that make me feel cosy on grey days.

Our first day back has been a bright one. I woke feeling optimistic and positive: the clear blue sky and sun were gifts, and somehow I found a home for the contents of those four huge bags. Later we walked to Jumbo and Easy in Palermo, looked at computer printers, flat screen TVs, computer desks, wardrobes… but bought nothing. We decided not to restrict our spending on food, just this once. We had feared the shelves might be empty, having heard that meat and vegetables were not getting into Buenos Aires while we were away… but there was no sign of that this afternoon and I was delighted to choose anything I wanted from the vast selection at the deli counter. We bought steak for dinner (unaffordable for us in England), good ‘jamon crudo’, grilled vegetables (Argentine style), ready cooked roast potatoes, and tiramasu for dessert. I am pleased to report that England brought my appetite back and  I have put on two kilos. In the household goods aisle I was highly amused when Carlos demanded to know why the quality of toilet paper is so poor in Argentina compared to England, and insisted on buying the most expensive, and the most like the brands in Tesco! The queues at the checkouts were as usual horrendous, but actually today I didn’t care. I felt at home in the Argentine supermarket. I never really have before, but today it felt familiar and like I had missed it.

Tonight I am relaxed. The balcony door is wide open and the warm air and sounds of the Buenos Aires evening are drifting in. Carlos is sleeping and I have the tiny portable TV on in English. The flat doesn’t seem doll-sized any more. It just feels like home. Who knows what the future holds for us, but how lucky we are to have strong and beautiful connections with not one, but two countries. Carlos said to me yesterday, ‘Life with you is never boring.’ He is right. Our life will not be boring. Sometimes we will face challenges brought about by our circumstances, but never will we live in a rut. We will adapt, evolve and find a way to make the most of both our worlds. Now I know that I will want to regularly return to England, and maybe the next time will be more like a holiday… no flat to clear and let, no car to sell, no visa to obtain. But I also know that I would not enjoy England as much if I had to live there again. So, back in Buenos Aires, I am happy with the way things are. England will still be there if I need it, but for now Argentina is the place where I know that I can spread my wings and fly.

See pictures of our farewell to England

The big day

Many days have led up to today. For a year I have officially been a ‘tourist’ in Argentina. I managed to work out how to renew my first 3 month tourist visa at Migraciones, for a second three months. I left the country and headed to Uruguay to get a new visa on re-entry after 6 months. I renewed that one smoothly in Migraciones. But, especially after I bought my flat in Buenos Aires, there was always that uneasy feeling: next time I leave the country, will they let me back in? Of course I know that many people live for years in Argentina on tourist visas, or even on expired tourist visas (as you can just pay a fine when you leave), but I longed for a bit more permanence, stability, security…

I remember the first time I looked on the web to find out whether there was a possibility of obtaining a longer term Argentine visa: and my delight that yes, indeed there was (although at the time obtaining it seemed a very long way off).  In my case it is called a ‘Steady Income’ Visa, and basically an amount (not too huge) of money in an English bank is needed. That and a fair bit of leg work of course. The visa must be applied for in London. It is not possible to make the application in Argentina. The problem is with this type of quest, is that it is never very easy to find out exactly what is required. To their credit, the Argentines do a very good job of providing you with specific information on their website, which helps, but I’m the sort of person who can lose sleep over whether I have followed the instructions correctly. It’s funny really, how I can walk out on one life and start another on the other side of the world without worrying about the long term future, and yet, when it comes to filling in forms and obtaining official letters I struggle to believe until the very last that I have done enough… done it right.

In the end it turned out that the time I have had in England was just sufficient to enable me to gather all that I needed, and to make my application. If my flight had been last weekend, I would not have made it. The universe has definitely been with me on this one and has reassured me that my destiny is to be tied with Argentina.

So what took the time?

Week 1: a Chartered Accountant’s statement of my financial status, certified by a Public Notary; the fact finding mission to the Argentine Consulate in London and appointment for the necessary interview with the Consul made; getting the unusually sized 4cm by 4cm passport photos; the applications for Certified Copies of my birth and divorce certificates.

Week 2: the trip to the Foreign Office in London to get my three documents legalised (verified as original copies); the documents and legalisations handed over for translation to the The Spanish Translation Service, London.

Week 3/4: translations completed efficiently and professionally and kindly sent back to me, thus avoiding yet another trip to London. (And in the time I had spare as a result I managed to sell my car, clear most of my personal belongings out of my flat and visit my family.)

Week 5: the interview with the Argentine Consul in London and the handing over of the documents including their Spanish translations, application form including referees in Argentina and in England and the photos; paying the visa fees in person at the required branch of Barclays Bank in London.

Week 6: the final trip to the Argentine Consulate in London to collect the visa (it takes up to 5 days after the interview, which I think is pretty brilliant)… and today was ‘the big day’.

This morning, on my fourth trip to London in six weeks, I got the visa I wanted, with just a few days to go before my flight back to Buenos Aires. The visa is for temporary residence of one year, renewable in Buenos Aires for a second year, and after that the door is open for the permanent  residency application which can also be made in Buenos Aires. The precious DNI number can be applied for as soon as I get back… which I had not expected, so I am delighted: I can build more of a life. I can allow my soul to commit, with less fear of rejection. I feel relief.

The visa itself consists of a large stamp in the passport with a letter attached from the Argentine Consul, plus a sealed envelope which I must hand over when I arrive at the airport. I have a second sealed envelope containing my photos, fingerprints, and copies of my documents for the DNI application.  These envelopes were filled and sealed in my presence, minutes before Carlos took my photo to record the historic moment.

After that we took a walk through London with a friend: Buckingham Palace, The Mall, St James’ Park, Whitehall, Westminster, Westminster Bridge, The South Bank… It was slightly warmer than last week’s open top bus tour experience, when we could not feel our feet and were forced to get off before it had arrived at Buckingham Palace (for fear of freezing). I can’t remember the last time I took a walk around these beautiful parts of London, and maybe that is because I never have. It is truly amazing how having someone to show around makes you see your own country through fresh eyes. Today I loved being British. But perhaps I loved it more because I had my Argentine at my side, and my Argentine visa in my big pink flowery bag. I felt free: free to live where I want to, free to live my dreams.

See pictures of me and Carlos in London

Easter flowers

I’ve not been able to post until now… no internet connection, but this I wrote a few days ago. I want to share it because it was a moment of peace in a hectic schedule.

The universe definitely does seem to be with me since Carlos arrived. All that I have to get done, is getting done. When loose ends are tied up I will share that side of the story, but for now I want to celebrate the time we spent with my precious family, in Shropshire…

It is Easter Sunday in Shrewsbury. My mum and my sister and my niece are at the table in our little sitting room, and Carlos is teaching them how to make paper flowers. My sister is speaking Portuguese, Carlos is speaking Spanish, my mum is speaking English and I am chipping in occasionally with a few words of translation.  My mum wants to make a sculpture for the garden, and she wants to know if Carlos can make the flowers larger and with foil to cope with the rain. 

This morning we all sat together and ate a huge full English breakfast: crispy bacon, sausages from the market, mushrooms, fried eggs, tomato ketchup, toast, coffee… and an Easter egg at every place setting. We toasted Carlos. My sister thanked him for everything he had done for me. He said, ‘Thank you for wanting me to be part of your beautiful family.’ 

It snowed in Shropshire yesterday. We spent the day at Ironbridge, birthplace of the Industrial Revolution (I think) and site of the world’s first iron bridge. We wandered through the living museum where Victorian life is re-enacted daily. Carlos saw how the English used to live, and shivered through most of it. But as we left, an organ grinder played music in the street and Carlos and me danced tango in the falling snow. Carlos has only seen snow once in his life: in Buenos Aires last year in July. He might have been frozen, but he was excited as a child.  And I felt truly blessed. We came home to a traditional English Sunday roast dinner, well a sort of late Christmas dinner really: turkey, roast potatoes, veggies, stuffing, bread sauce and lashings of gravy. Carlos was hesitant with the gravy, making sure it wasn’t spicy before gingerly dotting  it over his food. Afterwards I made dad get the slide projector out and we relived 1968 to 1978… laughing at the fancy dress costumes of summer carnivals, and chilly days on the beach. I slept better last night, than I have for months: safe and secure in the heart of my family.

Before my sister arrived I walked through Shrewsbury with Carlos and showed him the historical town: Grope Lane, the black and white houses, the traditional market stalls, the river Severn with its English, Welsh and toll bridges. He just wanted me to take photos of him in front of everything. I did.

It is going to be very difficult to drag ourselves away from here tomorrow. This evening my other sister arrives with her family. There will be 11 of us in this little house tonight: 11 mouths speaking different languages;  11 hearts joined by blood and love; 11 members of my precious family assembled together at last to greet its newest member: Carlos.

I wonder if there will be room for all of us and for all of the flowers that have been made as I have been typing: they are getting bigger and increasingly flamboyant.  I am laughing to see how my creative family (all artists) have managed to inspire Carlos to transform his simple flower once made from waste Buenos Aires milonga flyers, into ‘roses’, giant silver blooms, petals with serrated edges, multi-coloured bouquets. I think the next one will be larger than Carlos. But I am also laughing because he is happy, relaxed and has given my family an Easter gift, far more special than any paper flower,  that they will treasure long after we have gone: my family will have seen me happy and loved, and that is all they ever wanted.

Of course as I sit here I am well aware that joyful times such as this are all too transient. On Tuesday I’ll be handing over my documents at the Argentine Embassy and hoping that they grant me the visa I want. In two weeks I’ll be back in Argentina, starting the next phase of my new life and my family will be far behind me. Who knows what the future holds? Someone left a comment on this blog recently warning me of near certain doom and gloom. Frankly that is of no new concern to me nor puts any surprises in my thinking. All life includes suffering. We all die in the end don’t we? What I can be sure of is that I will have enjoyed some peaceful and perfect moments on my particular journey. They will balance out the tough days, and shine bright light into the dark tunnels ahead. 

For starters, I am well aware that it is not going to be easy to say my goodbyes this time round. But on the other hand at least ‘my love’ will understand when I miss my family because he will miss them too.  And I have friends in Argentina who write and say that they miss me now. I will be returning to a life I have begun to build, and not to the empty void where I started a year ago. I am lucky beyond imagining. I have lives in two lands and somehow I am going to work out how they can comfortably coexist. I do not fear the future. I look forward to it, whatever it brings.

See pictures of my Argentine in Shropshire