I took me dancing

I took myself Tango dancing last night, once again disproving a common misconception. Here’s to the solitary observer, breathing the life of the city night, well connected without any friends. I took the Metro to Chueca, walked ten minutes down Fuencaral and road the elevator up to a third-story dive.
At mid-night the place was still fairly empty and only a few dancers took the floor. None of them caught my eye. I stood in the doorway watching for a while, not sure if I would pay the entrance fee and stay. My attention was drawn to a woman on a sofa in the corner, attentively and perfectly applying eye-makeup with one hand while the other held a compact mirror to her face. She wore immense dangling earrings, setting off her long neck. She was almost completely bald, with a few soft patches of hair remaining. It struck me that despite the baldness due to some apparent illness or deficiency, she looked exquisitely healthy and well composed. Her posture was that of a born dancer and her bare shoulders were muscular and dramatic. A man approached her and asked her to dance. She stood with grace and accepted with an inviting smile. She took his hand and pressed her cheek to his and they set off. Whether they were both good at dancing or her composure made him look good as well I wasn’t sure. The woman’s expression was grave and her eyes were deep and black. The man’s showed absolute delight to be dancing with her. When their dances were over, in Tango you dance at least three, she settled back softly on the sofa and started where she had left off with her make-up.
A man passing through the doorway turned to me and said several words in Spanish and caught unaware, I did not understand a one. I instinctively replied, “No hablo español.”
And so I’ve been like this a lot lately, observing but not participating, soaking up, taking in, storing up for one day when I can finally speak again.
***
A few weeks back I went to the courtyard sale of Trash and Treasures at a new friends old apartment. The complex where she once lived, a rustic white building and former inquisition prison, was being shutdown and renovated for one purpose or another, forcing out all the gypsies and artists who had been living there for years. The courtyard was filled with clothing racks and furniture, old junk and valuables, pieces with a once sentimental value. There were jewelry and plants, sports equipment, hula-hoops. You name it, they’ve got it. Come on in and take your pick for a low low price, plus fresh juices made by Nacho and vegan chocolate cake by Alison, a Scottish recipe I think.
A group of us lounged away the afternoon on cushions and hammocks, watching the customers pass, pick through the stuff and find their soul mate of a pair of boots. The Spanish conversations bubbled, the day grew hot, the heat got heavy then the evening came and cooled us comfortably. The flow of customers slowed, someone turned up the music, an eclectic mix of Latin and Spanish and whatever else. Broke out the wine and rolling papers, the drums, maracas and bells, played music and danced until someone had the idea to play dress up. We ran for the clothing racks and threw on some costumes. Anything went but was best if you made it something it wasn’t. I wore an Indian sari and a kneepad for a hat at a stylish tilt. The men went for the women’s clothes, pants with a lace up fly and mini-sweater vests in colored heart patterns, enormous sunglasses and long beaded necklaces. Wearing funny outfits, we beat out a rhythm on a bongo drum and some women in summer dresses tied bells around their ankles and danced.
Eventually I drifted away from the party unnoticed, climbed the old staircase to the third story where I could look down on the courtyard and take in the evening from afar. Sometimes more easily digested that way. Then I looked up to the opposite rooftop silhouetted black against the pale grey sky, and the sliver of a silver-blue moon half hidden by a single translucent cloud.
***
“Bailas tú?” I think that’s what he had said. That must have been what he had said. The Tango dance was beginning to get crowded with more young people. I just sat near the dance floor, observing the dancers… Observing, always observing now… Another man came up and asked me to dance. “Hablas ingles?” I asked because I couldn’t really explain in Spanish why I wasn’t very good at Tango but I was alright enough to try. He turned out to be from Australia. The dance was quite nice and after it was over, I returned to my chair feeling more confidant and belonging than before. The man who had spoken to me in the doorway earlier turned to me and said, “Por fin, tú bailas.” And finally, you dance.

And by the way,

how are you?

Madrid month blues

And then there are times when I’m afraid of being alone, afraid to stop moving for even a moment. The world is moving around me and I feel like a walking shadow surrounded by human life that I am not a part of. I walk in the streets at a pace that’s hardly transporting me just so I look like a person walking down the street. People pass with their groceries and their friends and lovers and their strange habits. I watch a man produce a jar that most definitely looks like mustard out of a shopping bag, unscrew the lid and take a sip.
I unlock the door of my apartment that’s dimmed with the light of the day and I want to fall asleep forever, disappear because there’s nowhere on earth I can escape this sensation that creeps up from the depths and paralyzes my ability to be or scream or feel. I could absently drink a jar of mustard too or walk around with one shoe on and the refrigerator door still open and my laundry piling up for weeks. The trash needs to be emptied and the dishes need to be washed but all I can do is sit with my legs crossed on the sofa and my eyes focusing unintentionally on a crumb that must have fallen yesterday on the floor, or the day before, or the day before that.
All the dirt seems to be accumulating at a faster pace than I can move to collect it and throw it out the window in a storm of dust and memories and emotional baggage from years and years of regrets I continue to deny I have.
When I sleep at night, my sleep is filled with the hubbub of dreams and the dreams are filled with images of friends whose friendships were deep rooted and solid as steel once. And an unrequited love, which is the best kind really. And I’m longing for a place across the sea that I couldn’t wait to leave because this part of me was a part of me there too and I thought I could leave it behind.