F is for Fargo

               It is very humid in Fargo in the summertime. I’ve been here nearly two weeks and I haven’t slept beneath my sheets once. The moisture in the air, compared to New Mexico, is as thick and warm as a blanket. I can feel it wrapping around me, permeating every pore of my skin. It feels good.

               It is very quiet here even though there are cars and machines of every type. There is something in the air that muffles the sound or maybe there is something missing. I can see now why writers go to a retreat to complete a literary work. I find myself writing a lot and enjoying the process.

               Whenever I talk to the people here I sense their apprehension. It is nice now but something bad is coming. It is like a predatory relative that one cannot escape. It is winter.

               No one I’ve met has spoken well of winter. They always say, with remorse, it is hard, it is brutal, it is always coming.

               Besides that atmosphere of foreboding, everything is wonderful here. People are very friendly and extremely polite, even in traffic.  

               There are not many good looking women here, except for the perfect tens. In Durango, there were a lot of nearly perfect examples of feminine beauty, nearly perfect. Here, most of the women are tall and heavy but every now and then I’ll see one that is absolutely perfect: platinum blond hair, five foot six inches tall, skin smooth as silk and just a hint of Asiatic DNA in their eyes.

               There are a surprising amount of Africans here. I’m not sure which country they hail from but they are not Americans. There are many Indians here, or maybe they’re Pakistani. I can’t tell. A lot of them are Muslims. I know this because the Indian restaurant I frequent had a Ramadan special and it was packed. I think there are quite a few Koreans and northern Chinese as well.

               In spite of what I’ve been told, Fargo is not a cheap place to be a contractor. I am renting a weekly hotel room and these lodgings are packed with construction workers. North Dakota apparently has a lot of tax money to spend on roads, sidewalks and bridges. There is a phenomenal amount of things being built here, all public works projects. This drives up the price of hotel rooms so I am forced to compete.

               Lately, I have no desire to dance tango. I think am in shock. This place is so different from Durango, so flat, so humid, so bland. Durango was everything, all the time. Fargo is incredibly nine to five, Monday thru Friday; on Sunday we gather to pray. Durango is a hot, green chili pepper doing yoga. Fargo is sweet corn sitting in a church pew.

               I think I am depressed.

               I have a theory, based on many interviews with milongueros from cold climes, that the winter is a good time to introduce tango into a community. People are looking for something fun to do indoors, something besides drinking and bowling. People also have a need to socialize in the winter, to socialize in a way that fulfills a need that church isn’t providing, can’t provide or won’t provide.

               Tango is the antifreeze of the Arctic.

               I won’t try to start a community yet. The local population needs to feast on the warm weather as much as possible before the frigid temps descend upon them like wolves. My contract is for only two months. I won’t stay longer than that unless they offer me real money. What I’m getting now doesn’t quite compensate for the remoteness of this location.

               That’s all for now. Stay tuned for more updates.

Sincerely,

Kayak Hombre and Capitan Frog