I’m happy you found me. I’m happy you’re reading me. Welcome!

Sallycat and Sallycat’s Adventures have moved to http://sallycatway.com. Please join me there.

You’ll find all the articles from this blog, plus my most recent writings. So you’ll miss nothing, but gain a whole lot.

You can also discover full details of my new book Happy Tango: Sallycat’s Guide to Dancing in Buenos Aires on the book’s website at http://sallycatway.com/happytango. Don’t leave for Buenos Aires without it…

However, to become part of my future and not just be a record of the past, this blog needs to evolve. The technological platform it sits on has to support the projects I plan, which are not ready yet but will be one day.

There has been no way around this but to move the blog to a new home and I ask you to find me in the future on:

http://sallycatway.com

Sallycat will thus go on to live yet another life the ‘sallycatway’.

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I walk ten blocks and have to step round people, dogs and the effects of dogs, rubbish, broken pavements. I go to get money from the ATM: the door’s locked for no apparent reason, the machine’s out of cash, the security guard turns me away, the queue’s ten deep, it says I’ve reached my daily limit when I haven’t. I go to pay a bill: the cashier I waited ten minutes for is just closing, the system’s down, they stopped doing RapiPago half an hour ago. I look for the bus: fifteen minutes and none come; one sails right past: full; the next one stops and the crush is so deep I cannot breathe, but the driver keeps letting people on and so we shove and jostle and he brakes hard and we all fall into one another – maybe twenty times; I press the bell to get off but the bus doesn’t stop; I walk back to my destination, troubled that I will now be late, in the rain, and have to step round more people, more dogs and the effects of dogs, more rubbish, more broken pavements which rock and shoot filthy water into my shoes… I can be out in the street for three hours and it feels like three days.

A wise friend of mine says cities suck energy from the earth, and from us who walk within them. I think she’s right. And I am unused to that: I am a country soul, who sought the city for good reasons, but now I am becoming aware of the exhausting nature of built up zones: wherever they are in the world. There is so much that I love about Buenos Aires – I have written about it many times here on this page, and it is a place that has granted me more than I ever imagined, but it sure has had its piece of me.

And for almost two years I have chosen, with joy in my heart, to share a lot of myself since I arrived here: on this blog, with you, with travellers who come and we meet, with cyberspace names who ask politely and kindly (or sometimes less politely and kindly) for answers to questions, with fellow adventurers who want to share something with me. I have loved sharing, and meeting and talking and learning, but actually for now… I have had enough. And it isn’t because I have had enough of you, it is because there is not enough left of me.

It is time for me to accept and face up to one of my less attractive truths: that I am naturally one of life’s ‘fixers’, or whatever you want to call it… I’m ‘nice’. Maybe you like the ‘fixers’: they do what you want, they fit round you, they feel they have to explain everything they do, they usually say yes, they make your life easier, they basically sacrifice their own needs for yours. I don’t like being a ‘fixer’: it wears me out, it makes me resentful, it makes me angry with myself . I rebel against it and in those moments maybe I don’t look like a ‘fixer’ at all, sometimes I think I’ve grown out of it… but no, it’s still in me, alive and kicking despite all my best efforts and it’s ugly: it has the power to destroy my dreams, my wants, my needs, who I really am. My bottom line truth on this one is that my ‘fixer’ comes from guilt formed long long ago that should not be there (but that’s another story). I can fall over myself trying to be nice, not offend anyone, try to treat everyone the same, not let anyone down, give you more than you actually ask for… and then suddenly one day I find I don’t want to do it anymore because it feels claustrophobic, I feel under pressure, I want to run away. But I never blame you, because I’m ‘nice’… I blame myself and pile on more bloody guilt and get even angrier with myself… Aaaargh!

And in case you think I am complaining about the bounty of people that my Buenos Aires life and this blog have thrown my way, I am not. As you know, I celebrate some of the great connections I have made. This is me, and not you I am talking about now, me and the fact that I would rather spend time ‘nurturing others’ than ‘nurturing myself’, that actually I would rather ignore myself completely in the effort, usually totally unnecessary and pointless, to make someone else happy: this is absolutely my stuff not yours, and it’s that old pattern again that I talked about once before, just in a different form. And it’s unhealthy and it has got to stop.

Hell, I even feel guilt as I write this: of the ‘What will they think of me?’ type of nonsense… I thought my experience in starting this new life had toughened me up and taught me that it was important to say ‘yes!’ only to the things that in that moment I knew with absolute ‘heart certainty’ that I wanted to do, but bloody hell… you can know something and when you are strong and full of energy you can do it, but when you are tired… hey, how that old behaviour can creep back in. But at least now, when I see myself behave in old ways, I know it is time to push the ‘pause’ button and re-evaluate where I am. And perhaps even more importantly, today I have the courage to do it.

It is a big moment for me right now: my parents fly in tomorrow from England for their first visit to Buenos Aires, to me in my new life, to a time where I want to be only thinking of us, our precious relationships, and the joy that this time can bring to us all… if, and only if, I am fully present.

So for Sallycat it’s time to take a break. I want to give time to my book project: there is a lot of work to be done on that and in the end I hope that it will give something to some of you. I want to give more time to the people I love. I want to give time to me. I am tired, and as I walk pen in hand with ‘The Artist’s Way’ and reflect on my story so far and the guilt I carry, I realise I have some of my own healing still to do and I need to make some space to do it.

And so today I am pushing ‘pause’.

If you are kind enough to comment on this blog, I will answer, even if not immediately. I know that new people find me every day, I appreciate every single person who reads what I write, and I love to get your comments. If you leave questions here I will do my best to answer them, or direct you to the information on the blog’s pages. I want this blog to continue to grow and be a source of information and inspiration for all those who seek it and share with each other by commenting.

If you have thoughts about the book I am writing , please leave them here, on this special new page. I am listening and I am writing for you… especially you, the first time ‘tango tourist’ to Buenos Aires, very especially I am writing for you.

But for now, in terms of me connecting with you, that’s all I can promise.

This next part is a very hard thing for me to write, and makes me feel quite ridiculous, but I am going to make myself do it: I am taking my email address down from the ‘Who?’ page and if you do happen to send me an email, I may not reply… Well there it is, out on the page and it is good because it takes away my internal pressure, and gives me (although I know I have always had it but have been too ‘guilt ridden’ to exercise it, ever), choice again. And how old am I exactly? Five???

I don’t know how long it will be before I write another blog post, indeed I may find that I need to start writing soon after my parents have left, but that I also need to make some changes in my life. When things start to shift inside me ‘big-time’ there is no telling the outcome. I remember when I started this blog in January 2007, I wrote that I would tell the truth on these pages… and I have. The unexpected surprise was that as I wrote the truth in small ways here, I started to see my own truths: the truths of my behaviour patterns, the truths of my character, the truths of my soul, the truths of my heart. The ball started rolling, and now I cannot stop it. I continue to see my truths, and especially when it hurts and I don’t want to, I have to listen. Really it would be easier not to bother, just bury my heart and let my head control my days. After all, a busy life can trick me into thinking that ‘I can’t do the tough thing I really want to do, because I have to do the far easier Y’; a driven life can trick me into believing that ‘I should do X, and Y and Z’ or even that I must and in the worst case that I want to, when in fact I don’t; a life full of the things I enjoyed doing last year, last month or even last week might on the face of it seem great… but it isn’t, if deep down in my heart those things are not what I actually want to do TODAY. And now I will take time to think about that a little and re-evaluate what I need to do in the light of my soul’s current longing for space, and peace, and green.

So it may not be a ‘goodbye’, but it’s time for a jump-on-the-plane-to-Salta style ‘hasta luego’ while I focus on my parents, my sisters who I haven’t spoken to for weeks, Carlos, my closest friends (one of whom is also on her way to me right now), myself and my ‘baby creative artist’ that is just being born…  and when my ‘creative artist’ is ready, and not my ‘inner bossy pressure building critic’, I’ll write here once more.

In January 2007 I thought this blog was going to be mostly about one woman’s tango journey. Beyond my wildest imaginings it has turned out to be a documentary of one woman’s ongoing struggle to face and heal the past, follow her heart and awaken her creativity in the present, and so discover a kinder future for herself. Now, I almost feel that I have just reached the beginning, and that there is more to come, much more: but I have reached a point where I am not ready to share it, not quite yet.

And just for today, from my heart to yours, that’s the truth.

Who would have thought that writing three pages of totally uncensored ‘brain dump’ could be so powerful? But my God it is. Out onto that page comes anger, frustration, sadness, joy, nonsense, confusion, prayers, complaints, dreams, beliefs, affirmations, fear, love… all of me. I don’t stop to think. I just write. Yes I am doing all the other exercises too, and they are revealing and helpful. I think that this course has real power to transform. I have more energy. My passion for life burns stronger. My creative lights grow brighter.

A month ago I was feeling very blocked. I had declared my intention to write a transformational book, but it was going nowhere and I had no confidence. I felt I had no good ideas, and nothing to say. I was confused. I felt stuck. My creative soul shrank. I was starting to prefer ghastly Argentine TV to facing a blank page.

Today the TV is off. I have started work on a real book and this time I have greater belief. Twelve months ago I wrote notes for this project but did nothing. Now I have got those scribbles out again and with another year’s experience behind me I am on the case.

I am working on writing a small but ‘essential guide for the tango traveller’ to Buenos Aires, the Sallycat way. After all, who better to do it than me, who came here as a beginner in tango with no knowledge of Buenos Aires, but who survived? Who better to do it than me, who meets and emails with hundreds of tango travellers all over the world who ask me all sorts of questions that I find myself answering over and over again? Who better to do it than me, who has an open mind about all things tango, and will be able to draw on the experience of many friends whose preferences are slightly different to mine? How better to do it than in the Sallycat voice: simple, honest, open?

I am well aware that every tango traveller will craft their own journey here in Buenos Aires, will discover their own tango joy, will have their own adventure, as I did. But oh how I would have loved a little guide I could hold in my hand: to give me some tips before I left home, to be read on the plane, to offer some idea of what to expect, to inspire and motivate, to be agreed with, to be disagreed with, to grant me the feeling that I was not alone. Oh how I would have loved that.

And I hope that you will love it too.

I want the guide book to be small and not overwhelming. I want it to be practical, useful and realistic. It will not consist of long lists of every milonga in town, or of every teacher available. No, no, no… these are available on line and in the Tango magazines. Rather my intention is to gift you an insider’s insight, into where to start and how to get the best possible experience out of your ‘tango holiday’, ‘tango journey’, ‘tango adventure’ in Buenos Aires… from an ordinary tango dancer ‘on the ground’, from one who has been through it recently, from me.

I know what I want to offer in this book. But I am open minded and if you want to tell me what you would like to see, I will listen. I hope to include some ‘Friends’ recommendations’ and so I may contact you for your input. I know I don’t know everything, and I have learned that to ask is the answer, so I will ask. I want the book to be highly regarded in the tango travelling universe. I want the book to be valuable and offer something you cannot easily find in one place, anywhere else. I want to do my best for you guys out there who have yet to arrive in Buenos Aires. So help me if you can.

I have no idea yet, if this book will make it to mainstream publishing, or whether I will self publish it, or whether it will be an ebook. For sure it would be nice if it made me a bit of cash. So far, all the help I have given to tango travellers, I have given from my heart: it costs you nothing, and me a bit of time. I don’t mind that. I love to connect. But life is life and in the end I will be over the moon if I can pay at least one bill a month from selling this book. I hope you will support me by buying it when it arrives.

I am learning that my artist is very vulnerable. It is young, just beginning to grow and needs help to keep flourishing. I have had some fabulous support for this project so far (Tangobaby, I salute your inspiring creativity and thank you and love you), and I pray that you guys out there will support me. If you don’t, and if the book never sells a copy, well that’s ok too. At least I will have tried. And I will have a lovely memento of my own tango travels. With this venture I am going to try to stay unblocked, shut my inner critic up, and just have fun researching and creating. I am passionate about doing this. It is coming from my heart, from a desire to smooth the way for others. It will bring me joy. And as you all know, I believe that if I do the things that bring me joy, God will take care of me. I have nothing to lose.

I remembered in the past few weeks, that once, many many years ago, I was on a ‘personal development’ training course offered to me by my employer IBM. In one of the exercises, which was a wonderful experience involving talking about key joyful moments in our lives, we arrived at our ‘core process’ as they labelled it: perhaps our soul’s purpose, perhaps our heart’s desire, perhaps our reason to live. Writing my ‘morning pages’ brought mine, long forgotten, back to me. Do you know what it was?

Giving my spirit in magical creation

In the moment I remembered it, I cried. I realised that I am actually here in Buenos Aires walking hand in hand with my soul. Twenty years ago this was my ‘core process’ and I had it written on a piece of paper, but back then I was selling computers and feeling very lost: when I read the words, I knew they were me, but I could not see how my life and my soul would ever meet. Now, well… Oh my God. They have. They have actually met. I am in touch with myself. My life reflects my soul’s longing. I am following my heart.

And so I will have a bash at writing this book.

Let me know what you think eh? I can take it and I will love to hear your voices.

Find out more about ‘The Artist’s Way’ and Julia Cameron

While we eat, we talk and C. asks me what I miss about England. This is not a subject I think about often. I find that it is easier to get on with life if I do not allow my mind to linger with nostalgia on what I do not have, that I once did. He qualifies his question by adding, ‘Not people, only things.’

For once I don’t make jokes, or go on about Galaxy chocolate. Instead, I notice how my mind turns over before I answer: my thought path reminds me of a ray of weak sunlight dissolving a blanket of mist. I feel my own power in allowing it to happen: a conscience choice to remember. I have been away from an English life for eighteen months, and away from what I feel (put positively) was my ‘life before my major transitions began’, for over two years. I allow the illumination of the past: images appear gradually, and one leads to another. I observe myself go back in time. I actually feel my heart and my voice softening as I start to speak, ‘Green,’ I begin. I wonder if I will cry.

I talk about plants, fields with hedges around them, standing in a garden where I have grown the hundreds of plants myself, all English gardens of the lush kind. Mostly though I just talk about green. As my words collect between us, I am remembering a beautiful space that I left behind for others to enjoy. I know that Carlos senses I am on dodgy ground: he hears my voice change and become small. We look into each others eyes for a few seconds and I feel the tears prick.

Into the silence that follows he says, ‘Mi amor, if you left Argentina now what would you miss?’

I’m not ready to force myself back to the present even though I know it will make me feel better and so I say, ‘No, what would you?’

Immediately he starts with,

‘The sky.’ I think of  blue and the green fades softly and safely. We talk about the blueness that rarely turns to grey, how when you see the Argentine flag against it, the match is perfect and your heart soars (or ours do).

‘Asado, choripán,’ he interrupts. I laugh and I feel my passion leap,

‘The cafés, how you can sit for hours with one coffee on any street corner, read the paper, watch the world, and we don’t have to resort to expensive chains like Starbucks, and Costa where coffees are served in buckets even if you say small. At least here there is such a thing as a good small coffee, or medium small or more or less any size of small you like… and I love that you can share food without the waiter looking at you as if you are broke or barking.’  (Of course I don’t actually say barking because I don’t know if it has a direct translation. I probably stick to ‘loco’).

We discuss how we never buy two meals anywhere, and that even in places like La Cabrera sharing is almost mandatory: I remember their menu actually suggests that you share… and quite right too because the ‘bife de lomo’ arrives on a wooden platter and includes four separate steaks and a whole load of accompaniments. Then we start laughing about the things we wouldn’t miss, like the appalling TV that neither of us like much, though that prompts C. to remember that he would miss the Boca games. I realise that I don’t miss English footie although for years I never missed a home match, screamed and sang within a sea of red and white, and even played ‘Fantasy Football’ for hours on end.

‘I would miss the buses,’ I decide. ‘I don’t want a car anymore… and all the walking, all the things I see. Hey, listen to me! I love walking! Bet you never thought I would say that!’ My voice is strong now. In minutes, I have replaced the things I loved that I don’t have, by the things I love that I do have, and I’ve got my equilibrium back.

But even though I sleep peacefully, the memories of green stay awake into the morning, and the next day I dare to take a look at some photographs of my English garden: the haven I designed, the soil where I grew green leaves and flowers and food for our table, the heaven where I spent maybe ten hours a day in summer for many years… at peace with my hands in the dirt. At my laptop, I scan fairly fast through the pictures and don’t dwell. I find I still can’t look too long. I am a bit shocked that I feel so much sadness even after all this time, and after the joy I have found in change and in moving on. I am happy with where I am, yet I still feel some grief: for that time, for the woman that I was, for that life. But I am glad that I look, that I grieve, and that I do believe I will heal.

Reflecting, I realise that in general I stay away from gardens here: parks I can do, but gardens no. Of course there are some in Buenos Aires, and I visited a beautiful one last summer. But, I found it painful to be surrounded by green that looked a bit British, or a little Italian or designed at all. I didn’t like seeing plants that I had once grown, pergolas like those that I had walked beneath in the gardens of Britain’s stately homes, grasses loved by my favourite designers. Perhaps this all sounds far fetched, but I cannot possibly tell you how much I had invested in ‘green’, once upon a time, or how important gardens were to me in the days when everything began to fall apart, and walking around the gravel paths between clipped box hedges just dragged too much up, too much loss. I have run from green: I live in a city; I have bought two flats without gardens; I still do not have one plant on my balcony; I won’t even look at the glossy ‘taken by someone else’ shots in the Clarín Sunday supplement. I realise now that somewhere along the line, ‘the garden’ that I once loved, became the symbol that I associate with a time in my life when I wanted to die. I once found peace in gardens, and now I only find disquiet.

But on the upside, and there always is one, I am pleased I am thinking all this through as spring begins, and truthfully it makes me pensive rather than miserable. For now that is progress. In two weeks my parents will be with me in my new land, Argentina. There are going to be lots of conversations (and hugs and love), so maybe it is right that things are popping up and reminding me that life cannot be compartmentalised and tidied neatly away. My past affects my today and my tomorrow because it is part of me. And I do not want to bury or shut mine out, especially not the things I once loved.

So, I think I will go back to the beautiful walled garden in Belgrano one afternoon soon when the sun shines strong. I will sit on stone and hear the water that moves. I will smell the dampness of hidden corners. I will touch the leaves of box, and the bark of trees. I will feel the cool kiss of the pergola’s shade. I will give my soul the green that I begin to think it needs, and see how it goes.

I have discovered already that to walk the path of my heart, I have to be prepared to heal the past, or it will block my way into the present moment, never mind the future. Now something about ‘green’ is pulling me towards action. And I am listening and I am prepared to face what comes. Perhaps I will find that the love I had for English green has truly been replaced with a passion for Argentine blue. Or maybe in time I can learn to love Argentine green too. And maybe one day I will be able to sit comfortably on an English lawn once more. Who knows? But at least I am getting to a point where I want to find out. For now that is enough.

To be honest, I was so new to tango that I thought of tango as just tango and all the same (and yes, I know it probably seems hard to believe, but you have to remember that I came from only a few months of tango lessons in Hampshire, England (not London), had watched no tango videos on You Tube, and had never registered words like, ‘milonguero’, ‘salon’, or ‘nuevo’).

So in my blissful ignorance about ‘who I was and what I liked in tango’  and about tango itself, I tried many Buenos Aires tango venues/milongas at least once. I suppose in those days, if anyone danced with me and the experience made me feel even a tiny bit ‘good about myself’, then there was a chance that I returned. And at first that was really it: simple. After all, the only way to find out when you know nothing, is to try.

Eighteen months later I know a little bit more about tango and the tango scene in Buenos Aires and I have my favourite places to dance. In my kind of tango salon I feel increasingly confident and relaxed, I know some faces, and I will dance. Even if I don’t recognise anyone I will probably be invited onto the floor. I love the music. I love the atmosphere. I soak up the history of the tango that I dance. I feel respected. I am accepted. I feel comfortable with my age. Even if I dance only a few tandas I leave at peace.  Sometimes, inevitably it does not go too well: if I am tired, if I can’t connect with a partner, fewer men than I would like choose me – we all have off days, that’s ok. But I know if I go back next week it will be different. And I keep going back.

In addition, ‘me and C.’ have our places too. We love them for the music, the salon itself, the dance floor, a bit of elegance, the dinner, the warm welcome from the hosts… oh the so many things that make our ‘couple’ tango nights joyful. And yet we are not complete old fogies, and we still enjoy a night at La Viruta, that is when we can stay awake at a late enough hour to avoid the crush. There we can dance among the young but do our own thing and both feel comfortable: why exactly I do not know, but there is an inclusive vibe to La Viruta which seems to work for us.

Sometimes of course I go with friends somewhere I might not normally venture, or perhaps because it’s far to travel, don’t go to that often. I am always happy to try the new and occasionally, out of curiosity more than anything else, to ‘go back’.

Last week I returned with G. to a venue that we visited together only once, many moons ago.

In April 2007 I was a complete novice at tango: 7 months dancing, and this particular place terrified me. ‘Oh all the best dancers go there,’ people would say, and I believed them. So I felt I ‘had’ to go. The crowd was generally, though not exclusively, around fifteen to twenty years younger than me. My girlfriends were both fifteen years younger than me too, but we were all at a similar stage in tango. But in this place they danced. I did not. Eyes passed over me and saw nothing of interest. I sat and felt progressively invisible. Eventually it dawned on me that no-one was going to ask me. While I waited for my friends, I sat and took photographs to pass the time. I observed: I saw young Argentine professional dancers and tango teachers dancing skilled tango in their particular style, I saw many young foreigners dancing in their particular style, I saw some great dancing and I saw some pretty average dancing, I saw tango of a type that I had not learned to dance. As I watched I felt increasingly lost and lonely in tango. Eventually the torture ended and we left. I walked out feeling like a shit dancer, ugly and old. I got confused. I asked myself whether I should be learning to dance a different way, or at the very least getting a facelift in order to fit in to what some people, though I have to say mainly foreigners that I met at that time, billed as the ‘venue for the best tango dancers’.

Mmmmmmmmmm. Luckily I kept exploring and following my tango heart.

So I went back to this place (said loosely because strictly speaking the actual location has changed, which for me was a shame because it was previously a lovely space) for maybe two hours, with my friend. The age range was the same as last time, as was the mix of ‘levels’ of dancing. Now with my slightly more experienced eyes I saw no evidence at all that this is exclusively a place for the ‘best dancers’. Sure some of the ‘best of their kind’ and some ‘famous’ were there, but so were a hell of a lot of other people… to be honest I pretty much saw it all.

This time, I found that I knew one lovely girl which was a nice surprise, a couple of male friends of G.’s said hello, and I recognised a few faces from my La Viruta nights, but otherwise I looked out a sea of strangers, including many foreigners, to whom I was still completely and utterly invisible. Here, I reckon, you truly could be the ‘as yet undiscovered ‘best’ dancer on the planet’, but my assessment is that if you are over forty and not of the ‘glamorous chica’ type, then probably the guys who dance on this particular stone ‘pista’ will miss the chance of finding out. And frankly, I don’t blame them: they are mostly young and are faced with a room spilling over with gorgeous ‘twenty-somethings’: simple logic and nature say (and I am not putting myself down at all here), they ain’t gonna choose me. I was interested to see a few older guys there, of the not so ‘Argentine God-like’ variety. I wondered how they find the experience. Do the young Argentine beauties agree to dance with them? Or perhaps the young foreigners who do not otherwise get picked from the wall of fresh hopeful faces? Or do they end up with the older ‘biddies’ like me who could potentially get just a little desperate in this dizzy zone of taut female tummy flesh over floaty silken pants, and testosterone in groovy tango sneakers…

I thought about all this as I looked around that room. Once upon a time I might have slid into a state of ‘totally lost and completely confused’, all over again. But I noticed that I did not. Instead I was grateful to be there because in that moment I learned that I have changed. I realised that I now know what I like and what I don’t like, what I enjoy in tango and what I don’t, where I want to go to dance and where I don’t… where my own precious, desirable and valid ‘tango soul’ fits into the wider picture of Buenos Aires tango, for now at least. I knew it anyway, but this night brought a sharper clarity, and so it was not wasted.

The thing is, where I lived in England, to have even a few tango venues to dance in every week was a luxury. I did not have to choose one from twenty plus on a given night. I went where there was tango of any kind. And I made the best of my experiences in each place because if I wanted to dance several times a week being selective really wasn’t an option. It was a case of go back to a venue or not dance at all. It is different in Buenos Aires: at first it seems there is a baffling array of places to choose from. But as time passes the list shortens to the places that connect and resonate with the song of your particular ‘tango heart’.

Last week, sitting watching my friend dance, instead of feeling my self belief shrivel, I gathered it into a warming golden ball: and made sure that I stayed visible in my own mind.

The next day Gabriella and I talked, and we understood. When we arrived in Buenos Aires all those months ago we were both pretty much at the same place: taking our first steps in tango, finding out what made our ‘tango hearts’ sing. An off night could have been just that, or a signal from the soul. Now, a year or more has passed and we have both walked on different ‘pistas’, with different partners, in different countries, and at different points in our lives. Our bond of friendship remains strong and supportive, but our ‘tango hearts’ perhaps have different ‘homes’. And it’s perfectly natural: we are individuals, each unique, each priceless, of different ages and of equal value on this earth. We talked about the crazy days of exploration and discovery that we once enjoyed together: we celebrated the past and I know we always will, but we agreed that there is no going back to that. Tango moves us on and we move on in tango. Today we can only be true to ourselves, and respect the other’s choices. Some nights we will want to share our ‘tango homes’ together and sometimes we won’t, and that is ok. Who knows what our tango futures hold? But for now we relax the bond, and with unconditional love in our ‘tango hearts’, we each set the other free to dance for joy.

See some pictures of our past week in Buenos Aires

Heady from a ‘hips not body’ tango hour with Ariel, where I am perfecting my high boleos of both the square and circular varieties (that I never dance in the milongas!), I manage to end up at Malabia Subte station when it should be Medrano. Ah well fashionably late as usual, I eventually sort my brain out and we are back among the fields of tango shoes bearing flowers.

Today we have all the time our hearts desire and we take it. Once again we are the only customers. While G. deliberates, I notice that many of the shoes are priced at $300pesos, and therefore less costly than I first thought. The staff are extremely helpful and at least one person speaks English, though we all stick to Castellano.

G. asks many questions about this shoe and that shoe, and it gradually dawns on us that actually we can pretty much build our own: this front, that back, this leather (they bring various gorgeous samples from the backroom), that colour, this flower, that heel. And in the end that is exactly what we do: simple medium width toe bar, double wrap (very flattering and I insist) ankle strap with semi closed heel, black crocodile leather (I prefer the shiny patent but can’t persuade her), toning flower on front, 8cm heel of the thicker (I go for the thinner every time but my persuasive powers are not enough – and I understand, ‘It just feels so stable,’ she insists, and she is probably right) variety: $330pesos.

The upside is that G. gets exactly what she wants in her shoe (or hopes she does), the downside is that you don’t actually get to try the shoe you are buying so you could find out it looks like ‘La Viruta 6am when the lights come on’, when you finally see the finished article… We try to stop ourselves getting carried away with red flowers and black crocodile for example, or a bouquet of blossoms rather than one strategically placed. We attempt to minimise the risk by trying on as many shoes as possible with at least one of the characteristics we seek, and this is why you need a bit of time. The available choices are baffling and exciting. I decide I am definitely more of a ‘see, try and buy the whole shoe on the spot’ type of girl, but G. seems delighted to create her own from scratch, and of course I can see the attraction. The shoes will be ready in around fifteen days by which time we think the shop will have moved to a more central Palermo location (when I get the new address, I will add an update to this post).

I don’t try on a single shoe! I end up buying two clip on leather flowers which I may use on one of my more ‘creative’ days to dress up some existing shoes in the style of  ‘Miss Primavera 2008′. Of course there is a strong possibility that I won’t be able to carry it off, and the exquisite little leather blooms will never see outside of my apartment. But hell, it makes me feel like I am joining in the spring shoe fest, and at $35pesos its a cheap way to do it. We find out that Greta Flora will soon be designing and selling a wider range of dance wear: the staff look closely at a skirt G. is wearing, and so I think you might be seeing something similar for sale soon. G. in her turn buys a simple flattering wrap dress with a beautiful fabric belt involving a flower (naturally) that they have already created. I approve.

All in all (assuming the shoes are as beautifully made as we expect them to be) this tango shoe buying experience is an excellent one: staff who want to help you get exactly what your heart desires, reasonable prices, and from what I saw/heard, fine craftsmanship and an understanding of the needs of the feet of dancers.

So here’s the bottom line. If you are in Buenos Aires and in a rush to have your Greta Flora shoes for dancing on the same day, then you will have to choose from the shoes in stock in your size. If you have a few weeks, then you will be able to pick up your ‘made just for you’ pair before you leave, or I guess get them sent on.

Alternatively you might not be planning a trip to Buenos Aires at all. In which case Greta Flora do have agents in other lands, one of whom introduced me to these shoes in the first place. Why not check her out, and support the enterprise of a fellow and much loved tanguera friend in the process?

TANGOSPEAK STORE: GRETAFLORA TANGO SHOES

And as promised today October 3rd, I received this flyer from Greta Flora with the new shop address and opening times.

Three pairs are the target: something black, something metallic possibly pewter, and something electric blue.  She wants me along because she knows I am ‘Little Miss Decisive’ and that with one glance I will say things like: ‘No, impossible to clean’ or ‘No, put them down you’ve already got orange and purple stripes’ or ‘No, completely ghastly… don’t do it’. I know it will be a quest of utter torture for me since I don’t have a budget that includes tango shoes, but it’s always good to know what the options are just in case I ever make any money… and so I can help other friends to find what they want faster, and because I know it will be fun.

My own tango shoe history is very brief. After buying one very plain pair of black ‘shipped from Argentina and ridiculously expensive’ (at the equivalent of $600pesos) shoes in London in 2006, I bought six pairs here in Buenos Aires in 2007: each pair cost me $300pesos which seemed cheap at the time. I really only dance in three of them. The other three are of the ‘impossible to clean’ variety, or of the ‘pretty but back strap feels too unsupportive’ variety… these add a rather cool decorative touch to my apartment, but never touch the dance floor. I have learned from my mistakes, all $900pesos of them… and my last was a quite beautiful shocking pink and acid lemon/lime pair bought in November 2007 and so far worn once. Today I cannot afford to buy tango shoes, punto. Really, I have to wear all the shoes I have, including my mistakes, until they die… or at least that is what I tell myself as we plan our little mission.

We decide on three stores: Neotango, Comme il Faut and Greta Flora.

Neotango is our first stop. I’m personally not too keen on their shoes: they don’t seem to fit my feet, but G. has had great success with a black and white pair she bought last year. We enter and see the exact same black and white design and, to my eye, much of the exact same designs in general as they had over twelve months ago. But, we do find a decent pewter metallic pair and the available heels at either 7.5cm or 8 .5cm are both options for G. who prefers her shoes slightly lower than I do. The price is $380pesos. While G. pivots with poise in front of the mirror, the pal of a male customer strikes up a conversation with me: he likes my British accent. When I turn round his friend is dancing a tango with my friend right there on the carpet.  Then bugger me if the shop manager doesn’t dance with her too. Ah, some things never change… she always did get the dances. At least this year I can join in the castellano conversations… we all have a laugh together, but we leave without buying.

Next we head to Comme. We are the only punters and so to my delight I have the pick of the velvet sofas. The manager remembers us and is I think, impressed with my ability to ask questions in castellano about the state of tango tourism in the present world economic environment, and the currently falling number of tango tourists: which she confirms. She corrects my pronunciation repeatedly: she is not so keen on my British accent… but I am proud that I understand most of what she says. In fact I am so engrossed in the discussion of economics that I fail to give G. any attention at all. Out of the corner of my eye I notice that she is pivoting slightly frantically in front of the huge gilt-framed mirror in a pair of cool greens. ‘Nice,’ I encourage. They fit the original plan (well sort of close to electric blue…) and so go in the ‘possibles’ pile, along with a pair of black and gold. So far so good. But then, what always happens in Comme happens: they bring out the box, open the lid and although the shoes are not remotely what you were considering… your heart is lost. And this time I cannot believe my eyes, because the glittering prize lying nestled in the tissue is the exact same shocking pink and acid lemon/lime shoe that I bought almost a year ago. ‘It’s the last one we have,’ the assistant explains, and it’s in G.’s size, of course. I try to whisper, ‘impossible to clean,’ and ‘ankle strap too narrow,’ but I know it is too late: shoes have already fused with feet, are lost in pivots in front of that mirror, and are ‘SOLD to the girl from Los Angeles’ for $360pesos. Well it could have been worse, some of the shoes in there this week are rather OTT ‘bling’ and cost $450. And dear G. is ecstatic, which in the end is all that matters to me. ‘I’ve loved those shoes ever since I saw a photo of yours,’ she enthuses as we emerge into Arenales, ‘And they only had one pair left, and they were in my size… ‘

I smile at my darling friend. At this point, exactly where are we with the black, pewter and electric blue plan? Mmmmm, shocking pink and acid lemon, that’s precisely where.

Greta Flora is our final stop. Now I have seen these shoes on another friend’s feet and know that they are gorgeous and different so I am excited. It’s a bit of a trek to Villa Crespo and by the time we get there we are in a rush, so we have to make it quick: 20 minutes only. Not enough. Again we are the only customers, this time in a tiny space high up in an apartment building. There are some exquisitely made shoes, many with the beautiful signature flower, but it’s a bit complex: only these designs in your size, the heel size you want, in these three colourways etc. We need some time to take it in and we do not have it. The heels are thicker than the Comme stiletto style I normally like, but somehow the shoes manage to carry off elegance: I love them. In here we do encounter a black pair and a turquoise/green pair, both ‘possibles’ for G. at $330pesos each (other styles are I think more expensive). I actually try some on myself, because I adore that flower… very tempting, but fortunately I feel that my big toe is spilling out the front, which saves me. We learn that the shop is moving in a couple of weeks, to a more central location (good news) but we make a date to return to the current venue on Monday when we will have more time. Decisions like this cannot be rushed. We leave without buying, but I am pretty certain G. will when Monday comes. I am slightly nervous of going back in there: I suspect I will try on a few more pairs…

So, this little tango tour has taken us two days (with various other missions along the way), we have one pair of shoes that were not on the shopping list, but we have possibilities for the pewter (Neo), the black (Greta with flower), and the blue/green (Comme and Greta with flower). I have found out that spring 2008 prices are in the region of $330 to $450pesos, that even Comme who has a traditionally fast turn over are still selling some of last spring’s styles, and that Greta Flora will be moving location soon, so beware of trekking out to Abasto without phoning first.

The good news is that I kept my credit card in my pocket. Comme-wise (always my weakness) I still like a soft brushed gold pair with a double length wrap around ankle strap… these have been available on and off for a while, but they are luxury-gorgeous and of course probably of the ‘impossible to clean’ variety. But apart from these nothing came close to grabbing the ‘corazon’ of this little tango dancer. I decide firmly, on the bus home, that I would only buy the same patent leather style I have already, and then only if it came in black again: mine are horribly stretched across the toe bar after eighteen months of constant wear and yet I still love them.

I’m a bit shocked at how practical I have become: but I guess that is what happens when you turn from tango tourist into tango immigrant, and at the same time the world economy gets turned upside down: you learn fast that your tango shoes have to last.

Ah but then again, if I’m honest, I do find myself secretly hoping that G. might drag me back to Comme for the green shoes, because as I fall asleep with tango heels on my mind, I can’t quite forget the lustre of soft ‘oro’. And let’s face it, they do say when world financial markets are in chaos there ain’t no safer place to put your cash than into gold…

On Tuesday morning at 11am my doorbell rang. Carlos went down and I took another slice of quiet to be with some quite different feelings, this time involving the sense of excited butterflies zooming around my heart. Five minutes later another precious girl walked out of the elevator and into my hug. I had thought I might never see her again. My eyes filled up. We couldn’t let each other go. Carlos put his arms around us both. More than a year after we said our farewells, my original ‘partner in crime’ , Gabriella was back, and set to share my world for a while. Bloody hell!  Three days later it is as if we have never been apart.

When I arrived in Buenos Aires I knew no-one in this country and although that was scary, for many reasons I was glad to be completely alone: the relief of not having to answer to anyone, the freedom from responsibility, the delight in making choices for myself and for absolutely nobody else at any given moment of the day or night. Lonely? Definitely. Selfish? Maybe. But at the time it was necessary. It was as if I started with a clean page in which to decide how much of connecting with others would be good for me. And I liked the idea because I felt that it put me in the driving seat of my new life.

But of course, the universe had its own plans and those ‘others’ have chosen along the way too, to connect, or not, with me. I am never alone in this world: someone is always thinking of me, or walking towards me, even when I think that I have no-one. Originally, Gabriella was here a few days before I was, hoping for another tango dancer to arrive. It just happened to be me. Then I had the choice, of whether to join in the fun. I could have stood back and isolated myself further but I chose to jump in and enjoy the prospect of a new friendship. She played her part, and I mine, but I think the universe or if you like, ‘serendipity’  had a hand in the whole thing: it knew what I needed regardless of what I thought I wanted and it placed her in my path.

It sent Carlos to me too: stood him next to me in La Glorieta, offered me the chance to find out if I could love. And after a bit of ‘commitment phobic behaviour’, I chose to take it.

Several times a new friend has arrived in town, the day after a loved one has left: with absolutely no intervention from me. This has happened when I have needed it most, like magic.

The universe has continued, occasionally with this baffling degree of perfect timing, to put people in my way: those who comment on this blog and then turn up in Buenos Aires, folks who I vaguely knew in England who write to me and then come here to dance, friends of friends who I have already met. Not everyone becomes a ‘soul to soul connection’: my friendships vary in variety and strength for a whole host of reasons, but every person has something to teach me or I to teach them. No connection is ever wasted even if it is brief or relatively shallow.

I learn that there is so much I cannot control: who enters my life, and who leaves is often in the hands of the universe. There will always be birth and death of friendships, or at the very least postponement or change when someone has to leave here and go back to their own home. My part is to decide how much of any given connection I want, how much effort to put in, how much may be good for me. For their part the other person decides too. Maybe it matches with what I want and maybe it doesn’t. As long as I stay relaxed, in the end, it usually works itself out.

In very loose general terms, I have found that people who travel the world, or move to another country and choose to  live their life the way I do are a bit similar to me. We all tend to value our freedom and so we are relaxed about our connections. We don’t put pressure on each other. If we change our mind about a meeting we do not fret, we just send a text and catch up another time. On the other hand I find that when I do meet people on a similar path to mine, we cut through to the ‘soul level’ fast. There is far less superficial chat, and ‘superficial’ has never really been my cup of tea.

Once, many years ago, an old boyfriend said to me that I was a typical Aquarian: if I lost my address book then I would just go out and get new friends. I hated myself for a long time for this trait because I thought it made me a ‘bad’ friend. There was a lot of guilt. But the truth is that for the time I connect with someone I am totally present at a very deep level and a very ‘good’ friend, and yet I have come to believe that people are lent to each other for the time that they need, for the time that they have something to share. Sometimes it is for a lifetime but sometimes it is just for one meeting. And anyway silence does not necessarily mean the end of a friendship, just perhaps a relaxing of the bond for a while. Yes, maybe I am not emailing past friends every five minutes or even every five months BUT if an old friend needed me, I would be there for them, and I think my friends know that.

So in the life I have chosen in Argentina, there is an ease of coming and going that does suit me, and maybe suits the ‘travelling type’. Yet deep connections can be made fast, and once a strong bond forms in the setting of this ‘coming and going’, and lack of pressure, it seems to last despite distance, silence, or time. And now that I have been here for eighteen months, those who have left me here once, are beginning to come back.

So my goodbyes need never be too sad. There is always the chance that the person will return. Or if they don’t someone new will arrive in their place and connect with me instead. Importantly I have learned to value both the ‘together times’ and the quieter times: sometimes I need space and I am grateful that I can take it without offending anyone. I like the mix offered by the nature of the connections I make: hectic weeks packed with activity, dancing, tango shoe stores, soul to soul conversation; spacious days when I can write more, sleep more, think more, recover from the crush and the rush of action. At first this ‘seesawing’ unsettled me: the goodbyes hit me hard, life felt empty after someone left.

Now when friends leave I love them just as much, but I do not cry for as long. I have come to trust that I will always make or renew connections. And in the ‘in between times’ I celebrate my more spacious world: I do not feel loneliness as I once did, ultimately perhaps because I am no longer afraid to connect with myself.

On Tuesday ‘me and C.’ walked on Avenida Santa Fé. We had two little pieces of Buenos Aires bureaucracy to accomplish and the last of these took us down past ‘calle’ Uruguay. Both chores went smoothly. We had some precious daytime to ourselves. The sun was warm as we strolled back towards Puerreydón. I was relaxed and I saw more. I noticed the various ‘galerías’ that I have walked past those hundred times, and for some random reason I hesitated outside one. ‘Let’s go inside,’ I said.  And so we made our way down the tunnel of stores that mark the entrance of Santa Fé 1662.

I expected to find a fairly motley collection of small shops, and at first that was all I did see: books, bags, watches, souvenirs… but there was more to this little ‘galería’, much more.

While my eyes soaked in the covered café, and my head was deciding whether I might prefer a table in the sun, Carlos had stopped. I glanced round and observed him standing in front of what looked to me like a rather grim fake tree. I followed his gaze. ‘Mono,’ I heard him say. Indeed it was a ‘mono’, of a rather special recycled kind. He was fascinated by the story of the creature, created from engine parts, from metal that had been forged in another life. I stared and he stared. We saw more and more. We shared our reactions. He wanted a picture. I got the camera out. And as I tried to photograph the monkey from below, something else beautiful, painted on the ceiling, caught my eye. Now the place had my full attention and I saw all that it had to offer. We were in that wonderfully thought provoking space of art and sculpture for a very long time.

Afterwards I was annoyingly obsessed by entering ‘galerías’.  In the next one we encountered ‘art’ of a different variety: wall to wall tattoo parlours, and a juice bar of the ‘greenest’ possible kind. I dragged C. through its doors and before he could say ‘blueberry’ I had him sat up on an uncomfortable bar stool drinking nut milk and the said blueberries. He didn’t like the drink, or the throbbing music or the incessant whine of the tattoo needles, and to be honest neither did I. The view was a bit much: naked torsos being inked for eternity, in a goldfish bowl of a shop, across the hall. To distract C. from the sickening din and the fact he was spending $11 pesos on something that tasted far too much like it was healthy, I took his photograph many times as he shifted about on that high chair. I let him have the camera and he snapped the one of me, from which I cropped my eye.

It was only this morning that I took time out to notice the pictures we took on Tuesday. And there, from our afternoon of seeing it all, I found something unexpected in its beauty, to my eyes at least.

When I look at this honest portrait of the man who helps me to discover more than I ever imagined possible, I see everything.

Photograph published by kind permission of C.