STILL IN DIAPERS

I push the heavy door and enter in. This is my Monday place. The doors of the dance room are shut. I join the minority of people who are watching the lesson behind the large window. It's packed inside. Just by looking at the people it's hard to understand what they are actually practicing. Bumping couples, frustrated leaders, suffering followers... pulling, pushing, kicking... It looks...well...pathetic but somehow amusing to us, the ones at the window. Suddenly the door opens and someone throws himself out for dear life. I feel the humid, sweaty, warm carbon dioxide of frustration on my face.
"We need some air in here" he whispers, moving his lips like a fish out of water. "I think we are slowly dying."
I take a look at the pitiful scene inside one more time. "If they had more oxygen, probably would function better." I think.
In about five minutes both doors open wide and people pour out, desperate for water, air and food... three basic elements for vita. This is the mingling time before tango. I change my shoes, get a glass of wine and say hi to some friends. After scanning the room quickly I right away know how my night is going to be. Yes, it sure is crowded tonight but it is the wrong crowd for me. There are only three people I like to dance with. My partner, and two other advanced dancers. Hoping to dance with them I keep mingling. Then I see someone approaching towards me with a big grin on his face. I remember meeting him about five months ago when he was a complete beginner. I remember our dance very well too... but, not because of its beauty. He says he was in Buenos Aries for the last four months and danced tango almost everyday and took bunch of privates and attended workshops and all that. After talking about his experiences over there for almost two tandas, he invites me to dance. Curious about his progress I say yes. He holds me in close embrace and we begin to walk. Our first dance is pretty much about walking. Don't get me wrong it's a good walk. Almost defending himself he tells me in Buenos Aries people dance much simpler, and if anyone does even a little boleo they say it's too pompous.
"Well..." I say jokingly, "... I wouldn't mind a little pomposity."
Me and my big mouth!
Our second dance begins with a nice walk again. Then he whispers in my ear, "Watch this!"
Hey!!!... He makes me do an ocho cortado! "That was nice" I say... "Hope it wasn't too showy."
"No no no" he answers, "This is acceptable in Buenos Aries." ... I smile.
After four or five more ocho cortados music ends. We stop almost at the beat. Our third dance is filled with ocho cortados. Every other step he makes me do one. I can't ignore them... I can't escape them... The room begins to feel warm again. I begin to feel the same humid, sweaty, warm carbon dioxide of frustration in my lungs this time. Finally the music ends... hopefully the tanda ends. He tells me there's a very good connection between us that he had never experienced before.
"We need some air here" I tell him. Now, I am the fish out of water. With great enthusiasm, I ask him if he wants to dance with someone else.
"Hell no" he answers and clutches me with the first note of the milonga. Darn it! No way to escape, I am trapped. I have no freedom but ocho cortados. I truly begin to hate ocho cortados by now... At the end of the milonga I tell him I would like to stop.
Holding my hands he asks, "but why, we have a very good connection?"
"Yes indeed we do. We connect very good in ocho cortados. But I've gotta go. I've gotta go now." my inner voice yells.
"In tango..." he says, "... I'm still crawling, still a baby in diapers, ya know...."
This is the the time to flee... escape... right now, for thy life!
I give him a hug and thank him for the pleasurable dance, and say "I am potty trained... ya know..."