It takes two to tango, along with the instructor, demonstration couple, two men on a guitar, one man with a microphone, the sound assistant, a few onlookers and an angry Mexican. Or so we learnt.
Dragging Jim to tango the other night was a great experience for me, although I think he left rather more damaged than I did.
Tango is not an easy dance. It heavily relies on intuition, rhythm and passion – three qualities which us British folk clearly lack. With no set steps, just a few suggestions and the freedom to elaborate, while everyone else was gracefully gliding and lingering we looked like we were doing the robot sideways.
My moment of salvation came when we had to swap partners and I got to dance with the instructor for a while – much easier to just cling to someone and allow them to pull you around. I have been waiting to do that again ever since I outgrew clinging onto my father’s leg and standing on his foot while he was walking.
Jim on the other hand did not have such a positive experience. Having made a swift exit for an experienced dancer, I left Jim looking around the room for anyone left over. Cue the fat Mexican in the corner that no-one wants to dance with…
She bounced over as Jim was asking if he could sit this one out and plonked herself directly in front of him. The music starts and Jim takes one big robot lurch to the side. The Mexican starts screaming and ranting to him in Spanish that he has no idea what he is doing and should not be here, he apologises profusely in English saying he doesn’t understand her or any of the tango directions which were all in Spanish, she gets even more infuriated at him calling the instructors and her friends to basically out Jim as a hopeless beginner. Even worse then being given the nod to sit down, all her friends (who incidentally did not want to dance with her) demonstrate patronisingly how Jim should be doing it, again in Spanish and to no real help for the poor bewildered, and at this point battered by a hormonally imbalanced Mexican, left-footed Englishman.
Finally the song is over, Jim is crushed and the real tango is just about to begin. We sit down seeking consolation with a welcome hit flask of gin and watch the professionals get to work as the band begins to play.
Some amazing quick-footed couples make it all look so easy and the band is so fantastic that we figure by next week we will have it nailed. And if not, perhaps we can pull off our own robot version convincingly enough to call it a new style…
Dragging Jim to tango the other night was a great experience for me, although I think he left rather more damaged than I did.
Tango is not an easy dance. It heavily relies on intuition, rhythm and passion – three qualities which us British folk clearly lack. With no set steps, just a few suggestions and the freedom to elaborate, while everyone else was gracefully gliding and lingering we looked like we were doing the robot sideways.
My moment of salvation came when we had to swap partners and I got to dance with the instructor for a while – much easier to just cling to someone and allow them to pull you around. I have been waiting to do that again ever since I outgrew clinging onto my father’s leg and standing on his foot while he was walking.
Jim on the other hand did not have such a positive experience. Having made a swift exit for an experienced dancer, I left Jim looking around the room for anyone left over. Cue the fat Mexican in the corner that no-one wants to dance with…
She bounced over as Jim was asking if he could sit this one out and plonked herself directly in front of him. The music starts and Jim takes one big robot lurch to the side. The Mexican starts screaming and ranting to him in Spanish that he has no idea what he is doing and should not be here, he apologises profusely in English saying he doesn’t understand her or any of the tango directions which were all in Spanish, she gets even more infuriated at him calling the instructors and her friends to basically out Jim as a hopeless beginner. Even worse then being given the nod to sit down, all her friends (who incidentally did not want to dance with her) demonstrate patronisingly how Jim should be doing it, again in Spanish and to no real help for the poor bewildered, and at this point battered by a hormonally imbalanced Mexican, left-footed Englishman.
Finally the song is over, Jim is crushed and the real tango is just about to begin. We sit down seeking consolation with a welcome hit flask of gin and watch the professionals get to work as the band begins to play.
Some amazing quick-footed couples make it all look so easy and the band is so fantastic that we figure by next week we will have it nailed. And if not, perhaps we can pull off our own robot version convincingly enough to call it a new style…
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