Tango a Go-Go

So I was at Kentucky Pizza, across from Plaza Italia. The nearest streets were Santa Fe and Thames, and it was just a few blocks to Armenia. I ordered a slice of Napolitana, the local excuse to douse a thick crust pizza in cheese and oregano. Just a few blocks away, Palermo Hollywood pulsated with its European discos and sushi bars.

Oh, Argentina and its stew of cultures all wrapped up into one big empanada.

The names of my surroundings may have spanned the globe, but the foamy mug of Quilmes before me was undeniably Argentine — like the raucous crowd in the late-night pizza joint, its walls triumphantly plastered with Argentine flags. And as such, it was the perfect prelude to my first milonga, or tango hall.

We walked past it the first time, not realizing that a neighborhood cultural center housed one of Buenos Aires’ infamous tango institutions. Only after consulting the address did we step through the door, where a hostess ushered us downstairs. A large dance floor dominated the big dimly lit basement, and tables jostled for positions close to the action. If it weren’t for the accordions wailing over the sound system, I would have sworn I had stepped into a roller rink. One that serves $7 bottles of wine, mind you.

The revelers downing vino were having a good time, whether staring deep into each other’s eyes or exploding into laughter, but on the dance floor, it was serious business. Cheek to cheek, the tangueros seduced the dance floor, their steps deliberate yet fiery. Red dresses fluttered. The steps were complicated and perfectly timed, dramatic and seductively close. Violins wailed; hearts broke; accordions bemoaned the losses. And then Shakira struck.

My friend and I looked at each other in disgust and wonder as the dance floor transitioned from the poignant romance of a bygone era to a grind that very much said today. Lights flashed, hips shook, and all semblance of milonga-ness evaporated. So it went for a good hour or so, as the musical selection slid from weird to weirder. At one point Elvis Presley had the entire place kicking up their heels.

And then, just when we’d had enough, the unmistakable first wails of a tango echoed in the atrium. The disco lights subsided, the pace slowed, and Argentina became Argentina again.

We were back to the Argentina of postcards and guidebooks.