A Saturday with Pam and Brent Part II

I will take the memory of the Saturday night of the Tango show with my parents wherever I go for the rest of my life.

We arranged for a driver to come pick us up in Recoleta to take us to El Viejo Almacen in San Telmo. Carlos, the driver, ascertained (give me a break, it’s just so I don’t forget my English) that we were not Brasilian as he’d guessed and switched his mixed tape to an American collection that included Elvis, the Rat Pack and many other artists my parents were better at recognizing than I was. Carlos spoke to us in broken, but enthusiastic English and switched from one track to the next as he spent more time making eye contact with his passengers than the road. But we didn’t care, because he had us laughing – hard. Before we knew it, he’d dropped us off at the show and promised to pick us up after the tango performance – okay.

Next, we find ourselves seated at the foot of the small stage as the small band of musicians took their seats: a pianist, two accordionists and two violinists. What ensued was some of the most impressive and intense tango I’ve seen since arriving in Argentina – the birthplace of this dance. The coordination not only between the partners dancing, but in between all the couples on the small stage was awesome. It was like they were all speaking a non-verbal language coordinating every movement perfectly together. However, not every moment of the show was serious, at least not to me.

An eager tourist and photographer who’d been leaning over the rail on the second level that looked right over onto the stage had been snapping away all night with his camera. On several occasions I thought he was going to get his camera knocked by some of the elaborate lifts that the dancers were executing. Turns out I was half right.  One of the pairs did a lightning fast lift on the side of the stage with the overhanging balcony and the woman did a leg lift up and over this tourists’ head. The man’s reaction to getting a face full of legs and dress was hilarious he jumped backward and sat down – obviously startled into realizing just how close he was to the stage.

At the end of the great show, Carlos met my parents and I to take us home. He was jubilant as the way over and the music was taking my parents back – and took my dad, WAY back. Never will I forget my father belting out, “It’s my party, I can cry if I want to,” if I live to be 200! My mother and I were laughing so hard in the back seat that I’m amazed my father could still hear the music well enough to carry on.