Learning to Tango in Buenos Aires

Do not dance.

Never have. Never will.

That is what was told before Buenos Aires.

San Telmo on a Sunday. Street performers. Tango dancers. Tourists throwing pesos.

Watching. A couple dances. Close. Intense. Feet moving faster than can be followed.

The woman notices watching. Smiles. Extends her hand.

"You dance?"

"No."

"Everyone dances."

She pulls in. Stepping on her foot.

"Sorry."

"Do not think. Feel."

"Do not know how."

"Everyone knows how. You forgot."

Going to a milonga. A real tango hall. Not for tourists. For locals.

Sitting in the corner. Watching.

The men sit on one side. The women on the other.

They do not ask with words. They ask with eyes.

A nod. A glance. A cabeceo.

If she looks away: no.

If she holds your gaze: yes.

Trying. Failing. Trying again.

A woman finally nods. Seventies. Silver hair. Eyes that have seen everything.

Dancing. Stepping on her foot three times.

"You learn."

"I am terrible."

"Everyone starts terrible."

Taking lessons. Ten of them.

The instructor is patient. "Tango is conversation."

"Who is leading?"

"Sometimes him. Sometimes her. Sometimes both."

"That is confusing."

"That is life."

The last night, dancing with a woman named Maria.

She does not speak English. Do not speak Spanish.

Dancing for three songs. Did not step on each other.

At the end, she kisses the cheek. "Bailas bien."

Understanding that much.

"You too."

She leaves. Never seeing her again.

Leaving Buenos Aires knowing how to tango.

Not well. But enough.

Enough to understand:

Some conversations do not need words.

Some connections do not need forever.

Some dances are just for one night.

And that is enough.