I left my house at the headwaters of the Schuylkill River, near Tuscarora Mountain, heading south. Tonight, I tango at La Pausa, in Philadelphia and I am looking forward to it. I’ve got to make an agonizing decision about work and I need a night of tango to put things in perspective. Philadelphia: Ben Franklin’s second home. Ben is a hero of mine and I reflect on an old adage of his, probably published in Poor Richard’s Almanac, “a bird in hand is worth two in the bush.”
It’s been almost two whole months since my last contract ended and I’m getting nervous about finding work in my field: cellular telecommunications. I’m collecting unemployment between gigs but I’d feel more secure if I was employed because I’ve got two daughters in college. I’ve got an offer of work in NYC but the wages aren’t that great and the job is a step down in skills. I interviewed for a higher paying position in Dallas that would be much more demanding and exactly what I’d like to be doing in five years; I did well on the interview but you never know. I might have to make the decision on Monday and I can feel the turmoil building inside me even though I try my best to ignore it.
As I pass mile marker 25 on Rt. 476, the seven tall spires of Philly’s television antennas, come into view, brightly lit with red glowing lights. On I-76, I take exit 342 and miss the Philadelphia skyline and the Museum of Art. As I drive down Belmont Avenue, I am confused by the trolley rails and islands in the middle of the street. I catch sight of the skyline and realize what I missed. A little sadness creeps into my mood.
I run a red light and carry-on a fictional argument with a police officer.
“I was confused,” I imagine telling him through my open window. “I’m not from around here. I’m from the Poconos, can’t you see how this all would be confusing? What the hell is going on here? It’s dark, for Pete’s sake.”
There is no police officer. I’m just uptight and I need a break.
La Pausa is located on the corner of 47th Street and Pine Street. It is said that the passion in tango is not in the movement but in the pauses and I believe that to be true. I’ve been working on making my connection more intimate, on slowing down, not working so much on my steps but, rather, working more on paying attention to 'her'.
Usually I come to dance with as many women possible, but tonight, I arrive knowing I will be up at 3 a.m., writing about my experiences. Something about blogging is changing the way I think about tango, giving me a new perspective. It is forcing me to take a look at what is going on and it is kind of like learning how to breathe while dancing. This is something that took me a long time master. If I had a nickel for every woman that told me to breathe, I’d have a dollar, for certain.
Inside, I say, “Hi,” to Fannie and Edilia. Yes, the same ones from Lehigh Valley Tango Society’s Wednesday practica. It is nice inside, like a big study room in someone’s house. The light is dim. The walls are lined with lamps and there is no overhead light. The white paint on the walls is old and yellowed. The floor is wood and the slats are at least eight inches wide but there is no buckling; the patina is perfect but I can’t tell what kind of timber it is. I’m guessing Chestnut because of the color and grain. There are two mirrored columns in the middle of the room. In a nook, on the far side, there is a dresser and a bookcase, adding to the homeyness of the setting. Cheap folding chairs line the walls, but, in one corner, there is a couch and a small, kitchen-like enclave.
I head to the right and find a seat in the corner, next to a wooden cocktail table. There is a lot of wood in the room: paneling, furniture, trim, etc., that makes it feel warm. I sit down and put on my shoes while watching the dancers, wondering what I’ll write about.
It is 9:45 and people are just starting to arrive. Milongueros in this town always start late...and finish even later. The people here already are like the who’s who of Philadelphia Tango. I don’t know all there names: the two Davids, Marie and Afshin, and at least three more pairs of instructors. There are only about thirty people here. The dancers are incredible, such a switch from last night when I danced with college students at Villanova.
I notice the clothes. Almost all the women are wearing black bottoms: black skirts, pants, dresses. Most of the women have dark tops with grey or silver patterns. Who cares what the guys are wearing. They could be dressed in fluorescent green highway suits and no one would notice: this dance is all about the women.
I look at the ladies’ shoes and realize this is where they all are differentiated. I spot a pair of leopard skin heels on a tanguera I absolutely love to dance with and decide those are the best. A woman sits down a few chairs away. She is skinny, in a black dress. Like a french-fry on a beach full of seagulls, she is spirited away from her seat and onto the dance floor by a tanguero. Her heels are devoid of straps below the ankle and her foot and heel are held in place by thin sheets of translucent black lace…very sexy!!! I have a new winner for the shoe contest!
My friend, Catarina, has a knock-out pair of hot-pink and black shoes, as well. However, my pick for best shoe has to go to my friend, Edilia. They kind of look like leopard spots but you can see for yourself, pics are pasted below.
I guess you think I’m one stop away from getting a ‘man bag’ but I wouldn’t say so. I’m trying to be objective and relate what is going on here. What is going on here is a battle of the shoes! Plain and simple.
I dance for awhile and sit for a spell to take in the crowd. The girls in the shoes mentioned are all dancing with the heavy hitters: the dance instructors and hosts from various milongas. I am too intimidated to ask the girl in the black lace heels for a dance but, for some reason, I am not too shy to prod her for a pic of her shoes: she complies, readily.
Next, I hit up Edilia for some shoe-pics and she is more than willing. It costs me a tanda of dances but that is not torture; she is an excellent tanguera and her embellishments are many and well-refined.
“Make sure you get a picture of the back,” she says. She is right. The back of the shoes are unique, as you’ll see below.
I’ve still got to get a shot of my friend’s leopard-skin heels but she is on an endless parade of dances with all the best leaders. I am starting to feel a little self-conscious about my standing with her. The men she is dancing with are seasoned tangueros. I start to put her on a pedestal and begin to feel she is beyond me. How can I ever compete with those guys? They’re so good.
I bump into Catarina, a tango instructor from the Pennsauken area, across the Delaware River from Philadelphia. We shared a car-ride this summer, escorting Daniela Arcuri to a tango festival in Boston. She’s got the hot-pink/black shoes and gladly poses for my camera.
I spend the night dancing with women dressed in black and red: black tops, red bottoms or vice versa. Finally, I break the pattern and invite a tanguera in a bright red dress onto the floor; she accepts.
After the dance, I realize I need to balance out all that redness and look around for someone else. My friend in the leopard-skin heels is dressed all in black, she would be perfect. Would be? She is perfect! She has been sitting for a whole tanda, maybe she’ll be eager for a dance…even with me.
I ask and she accepts, delighted. My spirits rise! Three, or four or five, songs fly by like seconds on a stopwatch. She is a joy to dance with and I wonder why I ever felt like I couldn’t dance with her. I feel so good afterwards, I have to leave…another dance would bring me back to earth and, right now, I am walking in the clouds!
Back in my car, I change out of my clothes. They are soaking wet from sweat. It was a good night of tango! I fire up my laptop and load some Jack Johnson into my media player. I decide to take Spruce Street straight over to I-76 so I can take in the sights of the city.
As soon as I hit the interstate, I am greeted with the warm lights of the Philadelphia skyline. The bridges, all lit up, are a pleasing scene. The Philadelphia Museum of Art, the site of the famous ‘Rocky’ movies, is a bright white spectacle in the night. The boat houses on the Schuylkill River are outlined in simple white neon strings. I can tell the river’s surface is glassy smooth even though I cannot see it.
To the west there is a half moon visible just above the horizon.
I am filled with a warm glow as Jack belts out surfing melodies, the skyline falling behind me, the antennas ahead of me. I am on the other side of them, now, I muse to myself. Such a long road I travel for tango. It is worth it, I tell myself and soon pass through the Lehigh Tunnel to exit the turnpike.
A little while later, I am back in coal-country; back at the headwaters of the Schuylkill River. I still carry the burning embers left-over from a raging fire of tango dancing. My heart is happy and Ben’s words run through my thoughts. I make my decision: ‘a bird in hand is worth two in the bush’:-)
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