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.