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SALLY BLAKE
Sally is a 46-year-old Brit living in Buenos Aires. She first heard the words Argentine Tango in an Ulaan Baatar bar, while escaping a divorce to travel through Mongolia in 2006. Within six months she was dancing tango in Argentina and meeting the love of her life - he's called Carlos. She never left. Sally writes about her tango adventures, the reality of settling in a new land, and her determination to realise her writing dreams on her blog Sallycat's Adventures http://sallycatway.com. She hopes it inspires people to LIVE! This summer she will publish her first book: Happy Tango in Buenos Aires - A Guide for First Time Travellers.
T TIME IN BUENOS AIRES
My cab is stuck to the asphalt of Corrientes like its tyres are melting in the thirty five degree heat. The Obelisco looms up ahead from its restless bed in the centre of Avenida 9 de Julio. Horns hit my ears. The aircon blast can't mask the stale drift of cigarette from my taxista's clothes, as he shifts to stare back at me. He's just found out I'm British, speak enough Castellano to reveal all, and he's hot on the trail of Lady 'Dee': A conspiracy? What about the wicked Prince? The other woman? My answers flow pat, the minutes tick slow, and the meter racks up, but I can bear it this afternoon: my mind is on the new four inch stiletto heels in my bag.
On the pavement opposite Suipacha 384 I look up. I always do. The suspended sign that will glow red neon by night; the broken windows that cannot keep the beckoning melodies from the street; the stone balcony on which I have stood, and smoked, and caught my breath so many times. I delay. Buy mints at the kiosko. Drag out the seconds until I will mount the stairs and allow the music to drown out the background chatter of my life. It's my ritual: a calming; a buffer zone between the chaotic and bliss.
The steps to the first floor are worn to shallow smiles. Who has climbed them across the decades? Pugliese on the way to his piano keys; Pablo Veron en route to stardom; Sally Potter blazing the trail, the likes of me in her wake; and the strangers who now, this minute, wait to take me in their arms. A gust of hot wind blows the balcony curtain towards me as I pass, a caress of wine red velvet on my hand. I push my $15 pesos across the smooth counter of wood and exchange kisses with the hostess, You're late, I thought you weren't coming. How was your week? Are you alone today? I am. She guides me to my table, although I know it as a home: the layered cream and vino tinto coloured cloths scarred by cigarette burns and flung into unruly folds by the draughts from the huge wall fans; the two crimson leather chairs with their buttock-dented seats; the marble column around which I will have to peer with determination, to catch the farthest male eyes.
I do not look up as I prepare. Instead, I keep my gaze on my Cinderella slippers as they slide out of their silk bag. I focus only on my transformation, slip my naked feet into silver metallic snake-skin, adjust tiny buckles and thin straps, flex my ankles awake: unseen below the cloak of the table cloth. The waiter appears, all bow tie and apron, and I order my agua con gas and a cortado: coffee will heighten my senses and the water will cool me. I place my fan on the table. My Tic Tacs. Adjust the clip in my hair. Finally I'm ready. I raise my eyes.
On the smooth polished stone, pairs of bodies weave their unique and silent songs. Each close embrace carries two hearts and two souls in its arms. Music transports the soul. The soul directs the feet. The feet dance.
I see my regular gentlemen: I already know where we will walk together today. I linger over the men who I've never touched: how will it be to lean into their chests, their heartbeats, the voices of their dance? The clues undulate before me and I search them out: a body shape, a height, a hand touching a back, the smoothness of a step, an expression on a partner's face, even the way he escorts her from the floor when the tanda ends with the shock of rock and roll. I hold each man in my gaze, one after the other, and I smile because I find him quite easily today: the stranger I will accept if the music insists that I take a risk, and his eyes find mine.
The first notes of a De Angelis tanda surge into five o'clock and I decide. My eyes do not leave him as he sips his glass of champagne. He looks up, and straight at me. I glance away. I put down my fan. I glance back. His stare is constant. Me. He wants me too. He inclines his head. Slowly and deliberately, I nod my acceptance. He stands and begins his walk towards me. I take off my glasses: I know that for the next four tangos he is mine. I am about to discover the story of an unknown soul.
MORE SHORTLISTED TRAVEL-WRITING COMPETITION ENTRIES
Dragon Boat Martin Alexander
Colours Unknown Kate Cantrell
Snaps Sophie Coulombeau
November, 2008 Jo Forel
The Night Kitchens of Zeida Andrea Kirkby
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