Nina gives me permission to watch the Julio and Corina’s professional class. Corina has also given her blessing.
For a week I have been looking forward to this.
Now, half a day to go, I am assailed with doubt.
What if the students, the professionals in the class, don’t want anyone watching? It would be OK if they asked me to leave. It would not be OK if they didn’t ask, but resented my presence.
What if they think this is precious? I’m too old to be a groupie. I’m too shy to pull it off with élan. In ballet school, students are often invited to watch master classes. But as I am so often reminded, tango and ballet don’t mix.
Yes, I am assailed. But I am going. Wild horses couldn’t hold me back. I long ago learned to harness the wild horses of shyness. They stamp and bolt, but in the end I am stronger than they are.
I want to see how professionals learn. How they listen, how they practice. I can take classes any time to learn new steps; tonight I intend to learn how to learn.
***
I do not wish the professionals to think I have the nerve to participate in their class. As if they would care. They all have their own partners. Still. I don’t wish to attract looks of askance.
The solution: dress not to dance. This is a handy trick. If you go to milongas unsuitably dressed, you can sit and watch undisturbed. Jeans, a sweater, clunky shoes—that’s the ticket.
At the last minute I change into a nice top. There is a milonga after the class. I am too dispirited from my private lesson this morning to even consider attending. But I know the effect tango can have on the spirits. Best to take the shoes, too.
I plan to arrive a half hour late. Class will be in session. I can slip in unnoticed.
Ha! This is tango-time. Class has not yet begun. I find a place out of the way but with a good view.
Julio calls the class together.
Psst! Nina says from her place in the circle of students. Get in here and dance!
“No partner,” I mouth.
She points to Gino, who is taking registration.
I have danced with Gino before. A joy and a pleasure. In respect of his skill, I offer him a chance to back out. He refuses. “Get your shoes,” he says. “I will torture you!”
My mood turns on a dime. In a flash, I am shod.
Torture shmorture! This is Adventure!
And here’s a gift: Here in this class, Corina is repeating corrections she gave me this morning! Tips on posture, on how to step around your partner.
All night long, Gino teases and beguiles and helps me get better. As he works on the step, I concentrate on being the best damn follower on the planet.
I hear Corina’s voice from this morning. I follow Gino’s lead and Corina’s voice at the same time. I feel like Dorothy being prepped to meet the Wizard of Oz, a dozen stylists working all at once. Wow!
When Gino has the step, he helps me work on technique. He tells me things I have heard 100 times before, but in the context of the moment, in his repeated demonstrations, it clicks.
Something bigger clicks, too. When I left my private lesson with Corina this morning, I had only one question to ask her. I didn’t ask because I was afraid of the answer.
The question was this: Are there some people who just never get it? Are somehow intrinsically wanting, inept in the tango?
Editors trim sentences. Trim the last phrase from the last question, and the truth of what matters emerges.
The Inuit, they say, have 100 words for the various qualities of snow. English has only one word for love. Now it has one more: I tango-love Gino. I tango-love Nina.
In the space of one minute (Get in here and dance! Get your shoes.), two kind-hearted people gave me back the dance. And maybe a little bit more. Something has clicked. I feel it, but I am not sure what it is. I don’t care to pursue it right now.
Tonight, I am dancing again.
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