My Two Embarrassing Moments
In Buenos Aires
By M.P. Prabhakaran
San Telmo is to Buenos Aires, the Argentine capital, what Greenwich Village is to New York City. Because of its Sunday flea market, antiques shops, art galleries, street performances and many other attractions, tourists to Buenos Aires rarely omit this area from their itinerary. For those who are enamored of old-world charm, there are 19th-century colonial mansions, known for their architectural grandeur, on both sides of the streets. Most of the streets are paved with cobblestones. The mansions were owned and occupied by upper-class Spaniards once upon a time. Many of them were later remodeled into multifamily buildings to meet the housing needs of new waves of immigrants, mostly Italians. Lately, many have also been converted into shops, art galleries, restaurants and bars. Frolicking Argentines and fun-loving tourists bring San Telmo to life, especially on Sundays. And on Sunday evenings, that world-famous art form the Argentine culture is inseparable from adds to the sights and sounds of the neighborhood. The art form--you have guessed it right--is the tango.
Tango dancers from various parts of Buenos Aires and beyond flock to San Telmo and perform at street corners and squares, partly in keeping up with an age-old tradition, but mostly for the entertainment of, and reward from, tourists. Some of the performances are just as good as those in night clubs, where watching them would cost between $20 and $100, depending upon the popularity of the club and the performers. At San Telmo, the cost is what one decides--an important factor that went into my deciding in favor of that place, rather than a night club. Little did I know when I made the decision that the dance I intensely admire, the one dance I always wanted to learn but have been procrastinating the learning for some flimsy reason or other, was also going to give me my first embarrassing moment in Buenos Aires.
Most of the dancers that I saw were in compatible, man-woman pairs. One could tell from their performances that a lot of planning and rehearsing had gone into them. There was also an occasional dancer who would start the show solo and then persuade a member of the audience to join as partner. Another cost-cutting device in financially-strapped Argentina? I dismissed the thought as fast as it came to mind, reasoning: encouraging audience participation had always been part of street performances in every country and every culture. Some of those who volunteered to participate were excellent dancers themselves. But those who joined in only after a good deal of coaxing by the performer were pathetic to watch.
My First Lesson in Tango
I was thoroughly enjoying the evening, taking in such scenes, when a woman performer dressed as a man caught my attention. In a double-breasted coat, with a matching tie, handlebar mustache waxed to remain in position, and a hat to boot, she could probably be imitating an English country gentleman. [And many Argentines do imitate Europeans.] I stopped to watch. I knew it took two to tango. I wanted to know in this case who from the audience she would pick to be her partner--the actual opposite sex or the opposite sex which the man she was masquerading as called for? My curiosity soon turned into shock when her choice fell on me.
My protestation, in English, that I hardly knew any steps was dismissed by her, in Spanish, that it didn’t matter. Or that’s what I thought she meant. She dragged me to the floor, to the delight of the crowd that clapped and whistled. “Shouldn’t the partner be of the opposite sex in appearance, too?” I shouted, to no one in particular. “Come on, man, be a good sport,” one from the crowd shouted back. He had a British accent. The crowd was international in composition.
Once on the floor, the first thing she did was to press me against her breasts. I enjoyed it. The twirled up mustache on her face did not diminish the enjoyment one bit. But her next gesture made it clear that I was not to read too much into that physical contact. She pointed her two fingers toward her eyes, meaning I was supposed to look straight into her eyes. Which I did, nervously. Then she began to push me around, telling me--in Spanish, of course--which leg to move where. I nodded yes. Not that I understood anything she said. I was anxious to get it over with fast. The instructions ended with her asking me to fall on her left arm and throw my left leg up pointing to the sky, the usual finale of a tango dance. Only then did I realize that she was expecting to play the female role.
She turned on the boom box and the music began to blare. Once again, she held me close to her. And once again, I could feel her breasts rubbing against my chest. But this time, I was too nervous to derive any pleasure out of it. She nudged me to take the first step. My first step, in my first tango dance, on my first visit to the land of the tango! Never had I imagined that that was also going to be my last step.
My left heel fell on her right toes and nearly crushed them. She roared in pain. I apologized profusely. My explanation that the step mix-up was caused by the sex mix-up did not have any effect on her. She pushed me toward the audience. The audience roared, too, but in great amusement, and to my great embarrassment. If they had come out that evening to have a good time, I had not disappointed them. As soon as she picked another partner from the crowd, I quietly withdrew from the scene, rushed to a nearby sidewalk café and ordered a cool Argentine beer. The beer was very satisfying.
Visit to a Turkish Bath
My second embarrassing moment came at a Turkish bath. When the hotel I was staying in offered a free Turkish bath as part of the deal, I said to myself: “At long last, I am going to have the ecstatic experience of being in a Turkish bath!” Until then I had only seen it in movies and read about it.
The bath facility took up nearly a quarter of the hotel’s basement. The huge hall that led to the actual bath had a bar on one side and a locker room on the other. As I entered the hall, my stare fell on a group of men sitting around a table, drinking beer and playing cards. All of them were tall, old and fat. Those physical features were not what caused my stare, though. It was caused by their nonchalant attitude to what they were exposing to each other. From the wet towels that were lying by their sides I guessed that they had just come out of the bath. When the bartender saw my surprised look, he pointed his thumb toward the locker room. I knew what he meant. He meant not merely that I must be heading in that direction. He also meant that I was being stupid staring like that at his patrons.
Inside the locker room, there were men, most of them old, walking in and out of small cubicles. Very few of them had the towels wrapped around the waist. Others carried them in their hands. I tried hard not to show any surprise this time. I didn’t want the locker room attendant to repeat to me what the bartender had done only a couple of minutes earlier. The attendant handed a huge towel for me to change into and told me where the bathroom was.
As I entered the hot, steamy room, I saw several men sitting on benches. Some of them were completely naked and some partially so. They were also unconcerned about what they were displaying. One look at them, and I said to myself: “I am no match for any of these guys. Let me not reveal to them that I come from an underdeveloped country.”
I made for the exit fast, making sure that my towel was firmly in place.
[Published on July 9, 2003]
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