1. Skilled teachers, fabulous music, gorgeous dancing. Especially the last. It's impossible to get enough of the pure, greedy pleasure of enjoying the show, as participant, spectator or understudy.
2. Lovely dances with out-of-towners. Sonny, Lev, Homi, Mark, a guy from Boulder, which is not really out of town but what the heck. Women complain that the local leads don’t dance with local women during festival weekend. I'm with the guys on this one.
3. Tomas’s class for followers on finding your voice. Listening to the other women talk about the difficulties they’ve had with that, I am relieved not to have to deal with that on top of balance and coordination and everything else I’m trying to learn.
I have never not had a voice in the dance. Many of my struggles in tango are due to my very loud voice. When a teacher insists that I move in a certain way, I acquiesce for the space of time I am in their class. Then I go home or to a milonga and do it my way.
After Tomas’s class, though, I have to tone it down because I find myself contributing a little too much … er, shouting right over the leads. They let me play around, but I can see one old favorite is counting the minutes until this festival is over and I consider the possibility of occasionally following again.
4. Playing dress up. Friday night I wear the softest, sweetest dress I own. It is gold and pink, ultrasimple, ultralight silk--the ultimate party dress. Saturday afternoon, I need a shot of grrl power, so wear tight, low-riding black jeans with a distressed, tight-fitting black t-shirt. I have saw-blade earrings in my bag, but this outfit is so tough I don’t need them.
5. My dad at the final day of the festival. He is 10x more shy than I am, and just as curious and adventuresome. We sit in the second row at Grisha’s performance-lecture on musical traditions that contribute to tango music. He observes Brigitta’s class on tango landmarks—from the very farthest back corner of the room. He squirms as I introduce him to friends in the hallway. And, he meets festival organizer Tom Stermitz.
“You must learn tango,” Tom says. My father demurs. “You must,” Tom continues. “It’s a requirement for all men of international mystery and intrigue!”
My father—avid fan of international mystery and intrigue, avid admirer of clever turns of phrase—shyly smiles.
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