I began my evening with dinner. I suppose I was a little early; I was kind of wandering around the downtown area, looking for restaurants in general when I came across "La Chacra", a fine restaurant that had been recommended by Gwen. I went in, and although it was around 8, it was almost deserted. Seems even 8 was a bit early for the Argentines. I had the special salad "Chacra", which had walnuts, lettuce, palm hearts, avocado, and artichokes, all covered in Roquefort dressing. For the main course I had two medallions called "Lomo", a very tender cut of beef. With this I got a half bottle, plus later one glass, of red wine, and finally, for dessert I got the dulce de leche crepes with a double coffee. With tip and mineral water, etc., the whole meal came to 88 pesos, a big sum for a meal here. At the current exchange rate of 3.6 pesos to the dollar, that's about $24.50.

Tonight, I was going to go to the milonga "Niño Bien", and when I asked the waiter for directions, he said it was too far to walk and he'd call a cab. I waited for awhile and no cab appeared, so I figured I'd walk in that direction anyway. As I walked in the direction of the street where the milonga was held, the cafes and bright lights became less common, and I saw more and more people scurrying around collecting trash. A few times people asked me for money, and if I had any change I usually gave them some. One sees this now, and, I'm told, not so much before the economic crisis. It's kind of strange, because in many ways this place has a fairly prosperous look. Lots of cafes and restaurants, with people in them, a good variety of magazines catering to special interests like model airplane flying and woodworking. I've seen advertisements for diving classes. Who can afford to take a diving class who doesn't have some money to spare? But then there are the beggars, and people on the subway trundling their child on their back as they wend their way through the crowd, asking for money. Sometimes they tell you the sad story, sometimes they sell something, sometimes they play music or sing, and sometimes they just look pathetic. I suppose if one is exposed to this often enough, one becomes a kind of connoisseur of suffering as performance art.

I pass parks in which there are trees with strange, bottle-shaped trunks and thorns. A reminder that no matter how European the city may appear, we're still in South America here. I cross the highway. By now I've decided to walk the whole way. The streets get more and more empty. They do look a lot like a European city - Italy, probably. After last night going to "La Nacional" I'm not dissuaded by the abandoned look; these milongas are frequently in areas otherwise shut down. Sure enough, I finally see an open door in the block where the milonga is supposed to be held, and ask the guy standing out front. It's Niño Bien.

Inside, the building has a rather grandiose look. The bottom floor is deserted, but to the right a smooth stone staircase with a wrought iron railing winds up to the second floor, from which I can hear the sounds of Tango music. I go up, pay my 5 pesos admission, and I am there. A big room with a high ceiling, a stage in front, a wood floor in the middle, and tables all around. I look for a single table that's not either occupied or reserved, and finally end up in one corner. I'm trying to order a water, but get totally ignored at the bar, so I figure that no matter how long it takes the waitress, that's the way they want you to order drinks, so I return to my area, flag down the waitress, and order my water.

As is my custom and tendency, I scope out the scene. Not all that crowded on the dance floor, but it's still a little early, maybe even before 11. Things don't get really busy until around 12. I've noticed that I keep seeing some of the same people here at these milongas. There's the thin blond woman who might be German, there are some teachers that I recognize, there's a black guy, who I think is the only black guy I've seen at the milongas and one of the few black people I've seen in Buenos Aires at all. Usually there's the beautiful Asian woman, but not tonight; maybe later. A long- haired Japanese guy. Some Argentines I recognize from classes and milongas. And at the table right next to me is a guy I practiced with at a class at Porteño y Bailarin on Tuesday. His Spanish is, believe it or not, worse than mine, but it turns out he's from Japan. He's not that experienced, and is here to learn Tango. I ask him who his teacher is, and he tells me someone I don't recognize.

People are pretty good Tango dancers here. The less experienced look pretty much the same as the less experienced anywhere else, except that they seem to have a better sense of the rhythm; I don't see much of that totally aimless shuffling that I've seen in the States in beginners. The better dancers are really good at interpreting the music, and they're also good at doing a lot in a small space, with no fancy steps. They tend to dip and sway some, as they respond to the music. It's not the up-and-down bobbing with every step that we are enjoined to minimize in our dancing; it's more of a response to occasional longer steps and musical events.

A woman at the table in front of me asks for a match, but I don't have one. We talk a little. Nothing too extensive, because most questions she has to ask me twice, but she does comment that my "Castillian" is pretty good. These porteños can be so kind!

I figure before long I should dance some. I usually watch way more than I dance, partly because I don't feel all that confident, either with the dancing or with the social scene in general, partly because I get bored with my dancing after awhile, and partly just because I like to watch and I figure I can learn a lot by watching, too. By the way, this famous "eye contact" thing is not always as subtle as we are usually led to believe. I've seen guys get up and walk over to a woman's table and even say something to her. And she danced with them. Furthermore, it's impossible to even see the people sitting on the other side of the room from you, so you've got to travel a bit if you want to expand your dance partner opportunities beyond your immediate vicinity. But it is true that some non-verbal indication such as a head nod, hand motion, or maybe even just eye gestures is used more than a formal verbal overture. It's almost as though everybody knows each other and they are just saying, "Let's dance".

Women don't usually refuse an invitation. I'm surprised at this; I expected more of the snobby rejections that I've received in the States. I guess the women are actually here to dance. As you have heard, it is customary to dance a "tanda" which consists of four or five songs, before returning to your seat. If the woman doesn't like your dancing, she'll say thanks and go back to her seat before the end of the tanda; that's how you'll get rejected. More on this later.

Pupy Castello comes by, distributing his pamphlets. I saw him Tuesday night at Porteño y Bailarin, where he took me for a German (the consensus seems to be that I look German), and where he made the universal, "Why aren't you dancing?" gesture to me, whereupon I made the universal, "No available chicas (girls) sign to him. Anyway, again he asks me if I'm German, and again I say no, from US, from San Antonio. I guess that fact didn't make much of an impression on him the first time.

I ask a woman at a nearby table to dance. She says "Me?" and I'm like, yeah, you. She says she doesn't know how to dance Tango, so I go back to my seat.

It's 12:10 and the floor is crowded now. I order a beer (litre bottle), and ask another lady at a nearby table to dance. Turns out she's from New Zealand, here for her fifth time and leading a group of people. There's a lady from Montreal, a woman from Chicago, and two women from California.

It's so crowded now that people are waiting for tables. Two women are standing there near me with a bare table between them, and no chairs, so I offer to share my table with them. We put the tables together, and arrange the tablecloth. I eventually ask the younger one to dance, and she tells me about her Tango teacher. I guess people here have Tango teachers the way hippies in the sixties had gurus. We talk some, and discover that we both have an interest in culture and the arts. I tell her that life in the US is not absolutely better than life in Argentina, in spite of the crisis. For example, I say, there are nice cafes and restaurants here on every corner, the kind that would be quite expensive in the States. I'm not referring to the current favorable exchange rates; I mean that there is a quality to them that one doesn't find in the States unless one can spend some money. On the tables are real cloth tablecloths; a variety of good food, coffee, and pastries is served. The ambience and design of the room is stylish and pleasant. You don't have to drive twenty minutes to get there.

But she tells me that most Argentines can't afford even the cafes, and explains other things I can't understand but pretend to, partly to be polite and partly because once in a while I do catch something that sounds like something I understand and I'm trying to encourage it, help it along. She gives me the name of teacher she says is even better than Copes, but doesn't have his number, so she leaves hers. She can give it to me if I call.

Around 1:30 there is an exhibition; the floor is cleared and a couple dances a few dances. Very nice.

I dance with the lady from Montreal. I ask if she knows Eric Lanoix, and she says she has met him. She told me that she found it more difficult to dance in Buenos Aires than she had expected, and I told her I found it was easier than I had expected. Although there are missteps and occasional sideswipes and collisions, I find that the followers pretty much follow what I lead. She says that she finds the close embrace style to be difficult, and I agree. Last week I had a private lesson in the close embrace style, and it was a combination of Rolfing, Chiropractic therapy, Zen, and learning how to walk all over again. I think I might have picked up some useful knowledge, though.

Overall, the style of dress varies quite a bit. Most people, especially the younger ones, are quite casually dressed. Not as spiffy as I had imagined. I notice that a lot of the women are showing strips of their belly. This is a style, of course, but it's enhanced somewhat because when they are leaning into their partner with their arm wrapped around his neck, their backs are curved in such a way as to bend their bellies forward.

Around 3 AM there is a tanda of Rock & Roll. The Argentines enthusiastically get out there and jitterbug to some classics like "Blue Suede Shoes". This crowd is not as animated with the Rock as the crowd at Porteño y Bailarin was on Tuesday, though.

After the rock they go back to Tango; this time Pugliese. It's very dramatic, dynamic stuff. Chicho Frumboli is out there doing a great styling of "Gallo Ciego". Maybe I should go to his class after all, but the styling is something I don't think you can really learn in a class.

I ask a woman at the next table who appears to be Argentine to dance. As we are walking to the floor, I congratulate myself on, if nothing else, having asked someone who, now that I think about it, looks like a pretty experienced dancer. We "embrace". There's a little shuffling, and we're off. But I notice that she's starting to fidget. She's probably trying to adjust something about the dance frame, and she's fussing with the left hand. I hate it when they do that - you know it's bad when they start fussing with the left hand. She tends to let her free leg hang out and kind of swing, and I get the impression that there are things I could be doing that I'm not. There are a few things that I lead that she just doesn't follow, like back ochos (!). Another bad sign. After the dance, she says "muchas gracias" and takes off. I've been shut down!

I go back to my seat, take a swig of water, and wander around, a bit stung, checking out the dancers. I suppose it had to happen eventually. Now that I think about it, I can see lots of signs that I was aggravating my other partners, too. I see all my dances through a glass, darkly. All those little missteps and awkward moments were lowering my score the whole time. What the hell was I doing here anyway. What had I been thinking? After a milonga with the lady from New Zealand, she had apologized for not having followed me, even though my lead was good. Said she was used to a different style. Translation: you are a bad lead! The Argentine woman I shared the table with had made teacher recommendations after the tanda. Translation: you need help! See what I mean? You start seeing everything in a very negative light. But what can you do except quit totally? That's one of the dilemmas with being male; you've got to keep on, even though you know you might be irritating people. If you're too sensitive, you never get good, and eventually get removed from the gene pool. Ancient man was probably, contrary to the usual image, a very sensitive creature. It's just that the only ones who survived were the ones who could tolerate the rejection. Hence we have the current situation with women complaining that men are so insensitive, and the whole Mars/Venus thing.

I stick around a little while, figuring I should try to dance again and not let that rejection be the last dance of the evening. The black guy sees me and nods and smiles; he's always smiling anyway, but I feel acknowledged and that feels good. But after awhile I realize that there really isn't any woman here I think I could ask to dance, so I leave. As I walk through the lonely streets I see a working girl plying her trade on the street corner.

Soon I come to a veritable nest of taxis. Most of the drivers seem to be sleeping in their cars, and I'd rather not disturb them, so I find one that's tanking up on some kind of natural gas, and we head for home. On the way we see some more prostitutes on the streets, and the driver tells me it's the red light district, he calls it the "Zona Rosa". Apparently it's the area where prostitution is semi-tolerated. I get home, go to bed around 4:30 or so, and so ends my Thursday evening.