swiss club practica, cairo, egypt

This is the (empty) bar at the Swiss Club in Cairo.  Looks very Swiss, no?  And so very NOT Cairo.  If you're ever in Egypt any time soon and want to dance some tango, "The Swiss Club Practica" is held every Tuesday night at 19h00 in the "bowling room" by the back garden.  When I was there, you could dance a bit, the room is very small, and then go outside to chat or watch, sitting on wicker chairs and surrounded by tiny palm trees.  Like a little oasis.

There aren't many dancers, but some are wonderfully good, and all of them are very nice people.  Egyptians (and there aren't just Egyptians dancing, some expats and foreign people like me who stop by) are excellent conversationalists, so the energy is pretty positive.

is it true?

...  Is it true that there is a human being attached to these shoes?

...  Do you ever wonder...?

j.a.

stylish...

... but not tango.

Use your imagination and pretend this is me, standing on the street in NYC, outside of a dance studio in Manhattan on 8th Ave.  I've just come from a workshop and I'm furious.  Other tango dancers are standing around outside, talking to each other about getting a coffee (not wine??) before the milonga (it was 6.30pm, why not wine??).  They are speaking Spanish.  I just hung up the phone, speaking in French with my friend, because I was talking about how awful the workshop was.  I figured with French I was safe from being detected - this is probably a stupid thought in NYC and also among tango dancers, but whatever. 

Now before I alienate myself from the New York tango scene (not that anyone knows me anyway), let me explain.

It was boring.  Yes, boring!  Why??  Why was it boring??  I still can't wrap my head around it.  Two great tango instructors, a lot of good tango dancers (kind of obsessed with themselves), but the vibe was so low energy, and even though it was an advanced class there was nothing challenging about it, apart from controlling my neuroses and the raging ridiculousness I felt at having taken the train all the way down to 8th Ave. when I was about to take a nap.  But the scene was so familiar - tango workshop, studio, people putting on shoes, taking off shoes, talking to friends, using the same words, blah blah blah.  Half the time I wanted to scream, DO SOMETHING INTERESTING!  I was probably in a bad mood, yea ok I was in a bad mood, but why is tango putting me in a bad mood lately?

Then again, I DID come to NYC in part to get a feel for the "cosmopolitango"(can I copyright that? or do people already use this?) that a big city like New York might offer.  Instead, I left the workshop with the wrath of God inside of me, put on my sunglasses, turned up some Turkish dance remixes on my iPod, and what did I do?  I went shopping.  Because the night before someone had approached me and said, "Hey, are you a model?"  In NYC that's pretty impressive.  Or it was just a creepy guy hitting on me (but everyone needs self-esteem boosters, and often!).  So thanks, creepy guy.  

Didn't buy anything - whew.  Instead I drank wine and ate flourless chocolate cake with a friend at Wine & Roses.  Lots of wine, lots of chocolate.  Trying to forget that there are so many amazing tango shoes out there, if ever I am worthy of them...  And ultimately just deciding, "Hey, yea! I'm a model!" and pretending for awhile that I get paid to look fabulous and drink wine with my friends...  

j.a.

new york!

I'm going to New York tomorrow, to take a workshop with Javier Antar and Kara Wenham!  I'm super excited, especially because my tango life has been dragging for way too long.  I'll let you know how it goes! xoxo.

j.a.

four poems: in paris

I wrote these for an assignment, which was first to write a love poem without any pronouns, and second to make a series in which only 25, 50, and 75% of the poem is represented. I'm not so sure about "experimental poetry," but because I decided to write a bit about Argentine tango (getting rid of pronouns by making people into shoes), and to some extent the cliché (oh, the very real cliché, what's with that?), you get to read it... Et voila.


IN PARIS
I.
In the Argentine tango one shoe longs for a partner,
Seeking always the displacement of a sole
In the slow brush of a leg, the grip of a thigh.
Separated by languages and nations –
-- hecho en Buenos Aires
fabriqué en France –
Leather, suede, gold becomes flesh and finds
As flesh never fails to find
A shadowed counterpart in a heel, a strap, a lace…
…
…
… A milonguero is a lonely man,
A milonguera a troubled woman.
At the end of a dance
To remember a name is useless,
While like a panther the leather flesh senses across the room
A new lover: more stylish, younger,
Perhaps more experienced, burning eternally
To step in the space of a sole
On a night of champagne and violins.


II.
The Argentine longs for a partner,
Seeking always in the slow brush of the grip of a
Buenos Aires
France –
Leather, suede, gold
never fails to find
A counterpart in a heel, a strap, a lace…
… A milonguero is
A milonguera is useless.
Like a panther the flesh senses across the
Lover, younger
Perhaps more
To step in the space of a night.


III.
Displacement
In the grip of languages and nations –


fabriqué en France
A shadow…
a lonely man,
a woman.
a dance
a name
a panther
A new lover
in the
night.


IV.
In the one shoe for a partner,
Seeking always the displacement of a…
…In the slow brush of a leg, the grip of a thigh.
Separated by languages and nations –
-- hecho en Buenos Aires
fabriqué en France –
Leather, suede, gold becomes flesh and finds
As flesh never fails to find
A shadowed counterpart in a heel, a strap, a lace
is a lonely man,
a troubled woman
At the end.
To remember is useless.
While a panther, the leather flesh, senses the room
A lover more stylish, younger,
Perhaps experienced eternally
To step in champagne.

-j.a.

dancing tango under the occupation

Paris, 1943;

(thus spoke youtube).

Black & white photographs of artists, France, and tango, and you have me hooked.  I notice that in France during the tango craze the trend is for women to sing & record tangos (in French of course), while absolutely none of the singers from Buenos Aires any time before the 70s are women... These could just be the recordings I have, but all the old Gardel, di Sarli, Pugliese, d'Arienzo, Canaro, Troilo songs that have words are all sung by men.

It seems only natural given the nature of the tango and tango lyrics ("oh i loved a woman, she forgot me, now all i do is drink wine and so i will probably die tomorrow" &etc)  ...So I wonder, who twisted tango in France into a woman's chanson?

it's been so long

Lack of (s)inspiration in my life right now; tango trials making me want to hibernate, meditate, and return with a clear head.

I am choreographing (yes, oh la la, choreographing) a solo Borgesian tango for a university project.  I'm making a dance film.  Inspired by the Borges stories "The South" and "The Zahir." Ever mixed tango with sufi dancing and kabbalistic maps of the body?

I know it's probably extremely politically incorrect to 1) choreograph a tango 2) choreograph a tango in which there is no lead, but one follow following herself 3) make tango something that it's not,

but this thing is going to great, involving a red ribbon, a compass, a jaguar ring, sufi spinning, and death by planeo, all to the Gotan Project's "Vuelvo al Sur."

..any thoughts?

rescued by egyptians

Bad tango night = worse night, every time.


Do you ever get claustrophobic at a milonga?  I don't mean because of the crowds of people blocking you on the floor, maneuvering as best they can because the place is so packed with tango dancers...  Tonight, after about two hours, all I wanted to do was dance, but the last thing on earth I wanted was for someone to look at me, approach me, and ask me to dance.  I was almost panicked, and that doesn't make for good dancing.  Even the idea of having a pleasant conversation with someone at one of the tables was horrifying.  I wanted to dance, but I wanted to disappear even more (but no, not like that scene in Flashdance).


So, knowing nothing good could come out of this emotional state, I put on my street shoes and called a taxi.  My whole being put up a sign: don't approach, see?  I even put on my street shoes to keep you away from me while I wait for my taxi.  A Russian came up to me and said, "That's it?"  The milonga was supposed to go to 3am.  I tried to convince myself that I wasn't feeling well, that was why I was leaving, and I suppose I really wasn't feeling well.  God, if tango brings me a whole new set of neuroses, I won't know what to do...


I left, and when the taxi let me off I stopped into a local café (ha, starbucks) to drown my sorrows.  I thought about how I was too poor to buy a bottle of wine (it's the end of the month and my money flew away on tango classes, practicas, and milongas) and I felt worse.


Then, like a sign from heaven, I sit down with my hot chocolate (very self-destructive, I know, I need to stop drinking) and there are two men speaking Arabic on the couch behind me.  I know, like it's in my blood, that by the way they are talking, they are Egyptian.  Mish maA'oul, yani, ba'oulak eie, mafeesh wa'at; ah, yani, helwa kidda, and all of that.  I am suddenly at Pastroudis again.  Or Arabica.  Or Om Kolthoum.  Or Stiletto.  Or anywhere in that dusty, insane place that I call home.

I turn to them and say, "low samaHt, inta min misr?" to one of them ("excuse me, are you from Egypt?").  Ah, min misr! yes! inti misreya? ("yes, from egypt! are you egyptian?") -- no, I am not Egyptian, I explain, I just... am Egyptian.  They couldn't believe I wasn't born in Egypt, or had Egyptian parents, and I spoke with them for a half hour in Arabic about cairo, boston, molokheya, traffic, alexandria.  So I left starbucks feeling happy, a little cold in the winter weather, but still with a smile on my face.  


I tend to be continually pulled by two things in life: Egypt and tango.  When one "life" disappoints me, the other fulfills me.  When I was suffering in Egypt, tango reminded me that there was incredible beauty in the world.  Now it's Egypt's turn to pick me up, but I still have to live with the fact that I will be a foreigner in every country I go.  I will never be truly Egyptian, I will never be truly American, I will never be French even though I speak like a Parisian, never Russian nor Argentinian or... anything, really.  I'm a stateless emigrée.         


"We find a country in these words..." I once wrote.  But now I'm beginning to think we find a country in these embraces, these sad, lonely little bodies that search for a love that lasts 3 minutes.  Sometimes it's beautiful; sometimes it's just awful.  Who ever said any of this is easy...?  Anyhow, I'm sleeping in my AUC sweatshirt tonight.

j.a.

take care of your tango toes

I have great shoes.  They have wonderful support and feel light and lovely.  


That doesn't mean, however, that I don't develop blisters on my feet, and especially calluses on the inside part of my big toe.  At this point these calluses are unavoidable, because I dance all the time with my feet turned out and it's only natural that most of the resistance develops on the inside parts of the toes.  But it's gotten to the point where my toes are so sore that the pain keeps me from turning my feet out as much as I should.  Now this is a problem.


Apparently the best thing to do to these rotten calluses is use a pumice stone and DESTROY THEM.  And also to wrap your toes when you aren't dancing.  For the ballerinas out there (merkel) this is old news, but tomorrow I will give my feet the royal treatment with a long shower, pumice attack (!!), wrapping, and a nice, cushy (but stylish, mind you, who do you think I am?) shoe.

Just dance, gonna be ok... (I love this record baby).

j.a.

celebrate extreme colour

Do you ever have wonderful tango nights, but you barely dance at all?  The milonga on Friday night was fairly normal, not too many people, but something miraculous happened that makes me think the universe has its eye on me: give me a bottle of wine and I am the happiest girl on the planet.

When somebody opens a bottle of wine, I can't help but feel joyous even before I taste it.  The popping of the cork set against an old Gardel recording and soft, dim orange light is one of those beautiful images that isn't exactly rare at a milonga, but it still sends my romantic soul swooning.  I barely danced, just sat with the DJ/instructor and some friends watching the others dance; we got to know each other better under the truth-telling influence of a happy Malbec.  Vino veritas.  At the end of the night I shared a great dance to one of my favourite songs (Paris Texas, Gotan Project) and left, wined-up and feeling great.  Wine - don't ever forget it.  How can you?

Other news.  In the last few days I have purchased a few pairs of leg warmers (very practical for both dancing and the winter wind), one of them HOT PINK (definitely not my style but complements my style perfectly, since I wear usually black, grey, white, & beige), and I'm just obsessed with them.  Really.  I look at them all the time, sitting contentedly in my sock drawer as they talk casually to my other socks (yes, my socks have personalities, all of my other clothes do not), I put them on, I spin around, I laugh.  I'm wearing hot pink for the first time in years, and I'm loving it.  I must admit I found it a little strange that some of the people covering NY Fashion Week seemed to talk about leg warmers as the "new obsession" for spring - I thought people have always been wearing them?  And especially in the last 4 years, revived? etc?  

And another thing I'm doing that I haven't done in years -- I'm eating a packet of M&Ms!!  Seriously, it must be 3 years now since I've had an M&M - for a chocolate-lover, this is strange, non?  And I'm in loooove again...

LOOK AT ALL THE COLOURS!!!

j.a.  

eva and che dance a vals

There are two things Madonna can't do (yes, just two) - the first is, of course, act -- Madonna can't act.  The second is dance Argentine tango.  Look, Madonna can do practically everything better than I can (except act & dance tango), so let me make fun of her gancho/boleo combination at around second 59 of this video:

I'm also astounded at how unnatural she makes the most basic hand gestures look.  "Evita" is arguably the worst music video this woman ever made.  But all the others are just fantastic.

j.a.

nothing else matters

Can someone enlighten me on the subject of the TANGO OBSESSION with the song "Nothing Else Matters"??


Here is a video of Junior Carvalho and Mabel Rivero dancing to "Nothing Else Matters":

And here we have Daniela Pucci and Luis Bianchi dancing to... "Nothing Else Matters":

And my absolute favourite is the video of Ismael Ludman and Maria Mondino dancing to... Nothing Else Matters (Metallica).  I have this video on my computer, but it was given to me under strict confidence that I would NOT publish it... I searched all over the internet for it but alas, it doesn't appear to be published.  

Tonight in my class, which was a basic review of close embrace & ochos, the instructor played one song for us to practice to for an hour and a half.  Can you guess what it was??  NOTHING ELSE MATTERS!!  Has anyone else encountered this song over and over and over again in the exclusive and eccentric world that is the Argentine tango?  Please, someone enlighten me!

And because I robbed you of Ismael y Maria (who are my absolute favourite tango couple ever) dancing to this mysterious song, here is another video for you to enjoy.  I love watching them dance because they are so theatrical, their technique is practically perfect, they happily dance to electronic tango, and yet remain so faithful to the spirit of tango that it makes me want to cry (with joy).  Before I go on too long...

Well, I'm off to write a paper on the Hypostasis of the Archons... Gnosticism.  Wish me luck.  Maybe I can relate it to nothing else matters??  Oh wait, that's just tango...   

tango en ciel de lit

Sometimes when I'm bored and have not so much to do, I put on my tango shoes.  Then I start moving around, sometimes I get the idea to film myself for technique correction.  This is a very useful thing to do!

But lately I just dance around to Brigitte Bardot like an idiot, because my nights are ever so eventful, and so I decided to combine forces: a tango video to Brigitte Bardot.  I was practicing boleos (continuing instruction from Fernanda Cajide), and you can see by the end of the video I get a bit carried away and my technique & form COMPLETELY die.  But I don't really care- who doesn't secretly wish that at a milonga once in awhile, they play 60s french pop?  And not just for the cortina...

boleos for one - tango en ciel de lit

j.a. 

in tango, attention to detail

I know it's poor form to take tango videos without the dancers' permission, but since there is very little dancing you see, I want to post it because I want to make a different point with this video.  I took it, sneakily with an iphone, at Providence Tango before Fernanda Cajide taught an excellent class on boleos.

 

There isn't much going on in this video - the dancers are doing back ochos, the instructor is watching them.  The reason why I love this video is because it shows why I love good tango instructors -- attention to detail.  Perfectionists.  Form.  In the video, the instructor stops the woman while she is doing her back ocho and adjusts the position of her leg.  The angle of her foot.  Anyone can do an ocho, a boleo, etc., but when I take a class with an expert, I want that person to tell me all of the things they see wrong about my dancing.  If my foot is not turned out enough, I do want them to stop me and turn it out for me, so I have the physical memory.  I want my instructor to be just as obsessive about my form as I am, and whenever I see someone adjusting someone's body position, the turn of their foot, the setting of their shoulders or turning of the torso, I am inspired by perfection and connection.  

I suppose that's the paradox of tango... Connection is always imperfect because it involves two human beings... and yet each of us individually strives for a perfection of form that can only come about through the trials and errors of embrace.  And together, through our imperfections, we try to dance a beautiful tango... 

Alors...  Vous avez mon salut...!

j.a.

farewell to arms

So ends my brief encounter with Portland tango.  I was reluctant to get too involved in part because I only had 1 month to spend, but mostly because I didn't have the energy to go out and dance in a place that I knew I was going to be leaving so soon...  

I did end up taking great lessons with Jake and Dana Rae on Monday nights -- two and a half hours of tango lessons in one night!  What I appreciated most was their attention to detail.  For the last hour of the class we worked on front boleos one week, and barridas another.  But for the first hour and a half it was all technique, and all basic technique that most people think they get over and done with during their first year of tango lessons.  On monday we spent an hour and a half on side steps: the balance involved, the subtle torsion, which muscles should move when and in which leg...  A monday before that we walked the whole time, by ourselves.  It was great, because I'm of the opinion that anyone can learn how to do a gancho, but only really good tango dancers ever learn how to walk properly.  I'd rather walk like a professional than make a fool of myself  

So, there are some excellent teachers of tango in Portland.  The milongas/practicas I went to (Bamboo Grove, Berretín) were small, some with an old crowd and some with a young crowd, and it seemed like most people were passing through on their way to somewhere else.  Is Portland a tango transit-zone?  I don't know, can someone answer this for me?

Unfortunately I don't have any pictures of the milongas.  Bamboo Grove was a beautiful studio and definitely the most creative space of the bunch; I'm biased though because there was a younger group of dancers and Chinese water-colour style nudes on the walls.  But I spent most of my time this holiday going to cool cafés and shopping for shoes:

jade - a café-restaurant in the sellwood district, serving tea, hum-bao, papaya salads, and truffle oil french fries...

ether, a shoe &etc store on nw 23rd avenue. thanks to my sister for trying on the purple boots... i bought them in silver.

j.a.

finally, my shoes, and a strike out

Finally, elhamdulillah (!) my tango shoes were made!  Yes, custom made, custom fit tango shoes from Cairo, Egypt. 

Oooh, they fit so well, and look so good!  But honestly, it's just so nice to dance without feeling like I'm going to fall over.  My other shoes just weren't cutting it --- the bottoms had been worn down and the straps stretched to the point of no return and my foot was never stable.

I struck out on the milonga tonight.  I confused the days and the venues from the Portland Tango website and some recommendations I got, and I ended up walking in on a ballroom tango lesson.  When the woman asked, "Are you here for advanced ballroom group tango?" I could not hide my disgust.  Ok, it was a comical kind of disgust, but it prompted her to say: "Yes, this is definitely not Argentine Tango if you're looking for a milonga..."  I hate feeling like a tourist!  Instead I ended up going to a few art galleries and having a hot chocolate.  I suppose bread and chocolate are the only suitable alternatives to tango...

p.s. it was new year's. no resolutions. not one. you?

j.a.

warning: the effects of tango withdrawal

I just finished one of the most stressful weeks of my life, and it seems that everyone I know is, from day-to-day, going insane or is utterly miserable, despite being generally happy.  This is probably just daily life in Cairo, where I spend 3 hours in a car or bus every day trying to get from one place to the next.  The following exchange has become a common greeting among me and my friends:

Double Kiss

"How are you?"

"I'm angry. You?"

"I'm anxious."

"Good, let's go get dinner."

Needless to say, I barely danced any tango this week, trying to balance exams with royal engagements (no joke, the prince is in town) and time lost to traffic jams.  And in my moments of stress I realized that I hadn't had a tango high for about two weeks.  

So, the first free moment I have, I schedule a private lesson.  Thursday 3pm.  That's simple enough.  I planned ahead: wake up at 7am, catch the 8am bus to New Cairo to make a 10am hieroglyphics exam, take the exam (translating, transliterating, and commenting on the Old Kingdom's Shipwrecked Sailor), wait for the 1pm bus, take it downtown, take a taxi to Zamalek, arrive in Zamalek 2.30pm, sit down for 15 minutes, then take a taxi to my tango lesson. 3 hours of traveling, mais c'est la vie en caire (absolument pas la vie en rose).  

...All went as planned, until when I finally got into the taxi to go to my lesson, the taxi driver refused to take the bridge I wanted him to take.  He was trying to take a longer route to argue for more money, so I was stuck in traffic for 30 minutes, making myself 30 minutes late to a 1 hour tango lesson.

I lost it in the cab.  Talking to myself, crying, sobbing in the cab driver's face asking him "lei?? lei?? ana mish fahma! mish fahma leiiii!" (why?? why?? I don't understand! Don't understand whhhyyy!).  He started freaking out and when we finally got to the studio, I said, "I'm sorry, my life is falling apart right now, please forgive me, you should've taken that goddamn bridge" and threw 30LE at him, still sobbing.  Normally I pay 5LE, but I was having an existential crisis, and I watched unbelievably as he took the money and drove off happy.

I walk into my lesson.  Mourad sees that "I'm still asleep" but then, no, "I'm upset."  

...  All he said was, "Do you need a hug?" And he gave me a wonderful tango hug, we started dancing, and by the end of the hour my body and mind were totally at peace.  The weekend took off from there: I played tennis at the Marriott, went to Puccini's Tosca, cooked breakfast, and read Harold Pinter's "Betrayal" over an espresso at Arabica.

The moral of the story is, never pay these cab drivers more than they deserve, and if you're feeling like a terrible grumpy person with no reason to be breathing, it's probably because you're neglecting your ochos, your boleos, and the embrace which makes the world a livable, beautiful place.

j.a.

tango: the art history of love

TANGO: THE ART HISTORY OF LOVE

by Robert Farris Thompson

A beautifully written book about the origins and development of the tango, from early musical styles and dances like the habanera and canyengue to writers of tango lyrics and the famous originals, their style and their story.

List of chapters:

1. Tango in Hollywood

2. Tango as Text

3. The Cultural Preparation

4. Habanera: The Call of the Blood

5. Milonga: The Great Buenos Aires Conversation

6. Dancing on the Edge: The Early Tango Called Canyengue

7. Tango as Music

8. Tango as Dance

Pictured with Montgolfier Cabernet Sauvignon, 2008.

...Purchased in Cyprus on my way back to Cairo, where French wine is rare and (g)astronomically expensive.  What can I say of this wine?  Not much, only that I am thrilled it is not Egyptian.

j.a.

a conversion to osvaldo pugliese

Et voila... Fall came overnight.

Ismael Ludman and Maria Mondino have left Cairo after a beautiful weekend of classes and dancing...  And the few of us who are obsessed with Argentine Tango here in Egypt seem to be feeling an acute withdrawal after such a high. Or I am, at least. Photos went up all over facebook, people were excited, and everyone's iPod went on Piazzolla overload. For the first time in months, I was happy to wake up in the morning: I quit everything for 4 days, skipped my Egyptology courses, and surrendered to the world of tango. For 4 days I dreamt that I had nothing else to do with my life, and by the end, was convinced that there is nothing else to do with my life...

Now some are asking the question: how do we keep the tango community alive in Cairo? Not only alive but passionate, humble, beautiful...? I am now asking, how do I keep myself alive when I am NOT dancing tango? It sounds like awful melodrama but I find when I am not dancing tango, listening to tango, thinking about or talking about tango, I am moody, generally pissed off, and bored. I spend my time looking up videos on YouTube, perusing studio websites of all the places I will be in the next 6 months, and stretching my feet, my legs, my hips, and my back.

On Friday, I went to Pelusiam, close to the Suez Canal, where the Egyptians chopped off Pompey's head while he was fleeing the armies of Julius Caesar. The Egyptians then presented the head to Caesar, who feigned disgust and then shacked up with Cleopatra.

On Saturday, there was a milonga at Bian Caffé in Mohandiseen.

j.a.