TBT 2016 September. Argentina

I made it to Argentina on a dream trip, accompanying my then husband on a film shoot in the Andes mountains.

What did I know of Argentina except the Nazi connection, gleaned from all my World War II readings, and Eva Peron so elegantly played by Madonna. Don’t cry for me, Argentina played on loop inside my head through the fourteen hour flight.

There are many, many stories about beautiful Buenos Aires but my favourite is just the one where we walked around with our friend Elisa and went to a local tango club.

The moment I heard I was flying to Argentina with my husband, I wanted to dance the tango there with him. Now I am hardly an accomplished dancer, but I do love to boogie. He, however, has twinkly toes in his genes. Well, it was a wish I hoped to fulfil and file away in my book of romance, something to be pulled out and cherished over the years ahead!

The club was in a basement, as local as it gets. The entrance sidewalk had an imprint of tango steps on them and we tried to follow them, with much hilarity. We were four women and my poor husband, dressed as nicely as possible in the cold September weather. It was still winter in Argentina and we bundled up warmly.

The basement had a very large wooden dance floor, and many locals milled around, in some sort of tango, exchanging partners after a few numbers and switching back and forth. It was mesmerising. People of all ages gracefully and mournfully marched to the music, twirling and stepping with aplomb. The older generation were elegantly dressed in suits and dresses, with dance shoes, hair elegantly swept up. They partnered one another with easy familiarity. The club was as local as it gets, where members just go to dance there for a few hours after work or in the afternoons.

I was fascinated by the old men, in their suits and their inner rhythm, old and gnarled but ever graceful.

I never got my dance with my husband but I did walk around the dance floor and get a few photos.

Here they are.