Mano a mano: tantra & tango

It is inevitable: no sooner has it begun than the hot, steamy air suddenly cools and I let go, while the room again bubbles with talk and champagne. As he leads me off the floor with a half-smile, the warmth of his embrace still clings to me like the fading scent of a forbidden fragrance. My eyes whisper as he walks away.

It echoes in my ears – Manejar la pasión.

¨You must learn to manage your passion. It could get you in a lot of trouble.¨ Pedro voices brusquely, his fist hitting against the other open palm to drive in each point. ¨La esencia del tango es amor. Every move you make must be done with amor. Por amor. Siempre.¨

He lifts his arms to take an imaginary partner and begins to dance, threading a melody with his feet to a few snatches of lyrics he sings.

¨You dance with a lot of emotion, with an open heart. You have to learn to channel your passion...¨ Seeing the flash of questions on my face, he shakes his head and wags his finger at me, adding: ¨I don´t know how. This is something you have to teach yourself.¨

I sigh, torn with frustration by this impossible riddle. I feel the itching impulse to argue, but then I laugh when I look at Pedro, his amber eyes crowded with one pair of glasses on top of another. He takes off his ´bifocals´ because his eyes are tiring.

The tango lesson over, we leisurely walk outside in the twilight. Pedro´s graceful steps to avoid the broken cobblestones and mierda on the street remind me of the way he intuitively glides across the dance floor. A milonguero through and through, cadencia flows so effortlessly from him: tango is truly a part of his life´s blood.

The scent of roasted coffee draws us to a quiet café tucked underneath a few trees. We sit outside, my bare shoulders still warm from the day.

¨When I dance, I am all love. In that moment, estoy enamorado. I am in love with the music. I am in love with the woman I am with. Puro amor.¨ Pedro declares simply, as he savors his coffee. ¨I enjoy la belleza, the beauty of life. I dance with my entire body and I am alive.¨

I smile, amused by his sudden romantic mood. ¨And passion?¨

He replies in a sing-song phrase, the few words he knows in English, ¨Take it easy. Listen to the music.¨

(¨Flamenco Flower¨, Getty Images - flickr.com)

Osho on Love and Tantra:

Become loving. When you are in the embrace, become the embrace. Become the kiss. Forget yourself so totally that you can say, ¨I am no more. Only love exists.¨ Then the heart is not beating, but love is beating. Then the blood is not circulating, but love is circulating. Then eyes are not seeing, love is seeing. Then hands are not moving to touch, love is moving to touch. Become love and enter everlasting life. Love suddenly changes your dimension. You are thrown out of time and you are facing eternity. Love can become a deep meditation, the deepest possible. Lovers have known sometimes what saints have not known.

La vida es una milonga

“This is Buenos Aires.”

My eyes turn to Juan, who inches slightly closer as if to reveal a secret. His black eyes furtive, he presses his worn hands on the table. I see the lines on his face, the dark circles underneath his eyes like half-moons casting a shadow over his expression.

“The people here are hysterical. We never know what’s going to happen next. We wake up con el ojo.” His finger points to the corner of his ever watchful eye, an emphatic gesture. “Here there is a tension that exists nowhere else in the world.”

“No entiendo. I don’t understand.”

Rubbing his hands together, Juan asks, “¿Bailas tango, sí?”

I nod my head. He leans back as if to relax, or really, to assume the attitude of being relaxed.

“Well then you will understand, one day.”

We sit outside of a café, as the neighborhood of San Telmo yawns in the lazy warmth of the afternoon. But even in the hush of the siesta, I still feel a frenetic energy humming in the air, a wistful melody permeating the streets: it is what makes this city unlike any other.

Walking with my girlfriend Tina to my first milonga, I concentrate on feeling each footstep hit the pavement, still in disbelief that I am here in Buenos Aires – that this is now a reality, not a dream.

Across the street are several men and women crowded around sacks of newspapers and heaps of scrap piled-high. In a quiet voice, full of reverence and compassion, Tina takes my hand: “…And of course you know what this is?”

“Yes.”

Los cartoneros.

They eye us silently as we pass by in the half-light. A tango unfolds. Juan’s words linger in my ears: “This is Buenos Aires.”

Shocked by this realization, I suddenly find myself outside a door washed in the faint glow of street light. Though the entrance is unassuming, a passionate red splashes the walls and upstairs plays the music of Fresedo, cooing softly like a lover.

Tina ambles up the steps, her dark blue dress fluttering against the red. I pause at the bottom of the staircase, overwhelmed by the siren-like music and the intense saturation of colors. Already I could sense the tension in the air, melting into the warmth of the embrace.

She turns, her curls kissing her cheeks, as if to say “Well?” Our eyes meet for a moment, and I spring up the stairs after her.