Sultry and emblematic of Argentina, the tango is a presence everywhere in Buenos Aires. On street corners in San Telmo, the tango quarter of the city, you will find tanguistas playing lush tunes on the guitar and bandoneon (an instrument similar to the accordion). Pictures of Carlos Gardel, beloved early 20th century superstar of the form, are on walls, postcards and windows. We watched spectacular renditions of the dance in Michelangelo, an elegant bar.
Step up: A spirited tango transcends dance to weave narratives about love, lust and passion. AFP
But nothing prepared us for the young couple in a sunlit plaza, whirling through dance after graceful dance. Each time they started one, they would hold up a tiny sign with its name (milonga, foxtrot, tango) and strip off another layer of clothing. So we always knew what the dance was, but more interesting to me, they were always appropriately undressed each time. By the time they tango-ed, she was down to a barely-there skirt, tight top and elbow-length black gloves, long nylon-clad leg wrapped gracefully around his hip as they twirled past.
The chemistry they shared was obvious, tangible. As she feathered her fingers across his cheek and looked languidly into his eyes, as he nuzzled her neck and drew her closer, as their sensuous movements played out emotions and longings like a violin, the questions came to me. They haunt me still. Are they dancing? Or is this a scene from their lives? Is this the tango? Or is their passion the real thing? And my god, are they playing my song? My story?
The tango, it’s like that. Somehow, its sensual essence, its capacity to set pulses aflutter, turns Buenos Aires into one vast mellifluous hymn to passion and lustful memories.
Geneva, no offence meant, is the antipode of that. Pleasant city, even a massive jet in the lake, but sort of placid and staid, you know? So when a Bollywood director and I were there together for a week, and we grew swiftly tired of sitting around downing tasteless beer through the evenings, we decided to hunt out the topless district. I mean, even a staid city must have one, right? Sure enough, we found it, tucked away only blocks from Cornavin station.
Now we sat around downing tasteless beer in a plush bar, in the elegant company of several constantly pirouetting and sashaying women wearing nothing much and removing even that, full speed. It was fun, if a little dizzying. At some point, I tore my eyes off the bare nubile flesh to look at buddy director. The man was snoring gently.
The owner came over and in a curious pastiche of French, German and English, suggested a “private show”. Pick any young lady, she dances only for you in a separate room, then you pay her fee. I checked my wallet, agonized for all of 5 seconds, and asked for the freshest face on the floor.