Of the aged and odd

Today I witnessed two fantastic incidents of old people, in two different parts of the city, doing weird and awesome things.

The first: Walking on 25 de Mayo just off the Plaza de Mayo was a woman, probably in her mid seventies, who was literally and purposefully leaving a trail of breadcrumbs behind her. There were no birds to feed or anything of the sort but every few steps she’d reach into a grocery bag and scatter a handful of crumbs beside her. She was walking very slowly and deliberately but the expression on her face suggested total distraction.

The second: Walking on Avendida Cordoba was a man, also in his mid-seventies, dragging a very old, bright orange vacuum cleaner behind him. There are more obvious explanations for his behavior than there are for the trail of breadcrumbs (perhaps he was taking the vacuum to be repaired, for instance) but it was still an odd thing to see on a crowded street, particularly given the garish color of the machine.

Both of these little vignettes were made all the more arresting by the drizzle that has, as of just moments ago, become an all-out rain.

May I pause to pontificate*: Old people doing weird things are so much better to watch than young or middle-aged folks doing weird things. It has something to do with the way in which we tend to attribute great wisdom and calm to the elderly and something to do, at least for me, with a strong desire to believe that the freedom to discard basic social norms afforded to the very young will resurface when we reach our twilight years. When I reach a certain age (perhaps 76) I, for one, have every intention of chain-smoking in public places (which by then will surely be entirely illegal), owning a veritable mountain of hairless cats, yelling at passersby whatever comes to mind as relevant to them or to me, drinking gin martinis at all hours and eating anything I want whenever the hell I want it. Considering today’s observations, I also think it an excellent idea to traverse a large city leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in my wake–just to see what that feels like.

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*It seems to me somewhat superfluous to write this phrase in a first-person journalistic endeavor such as a blog. Of course I’m pontificating. That’s all I do when I blog. (Caveat: that’s sort of all I do anywhere.)

Of el Tango

Last night I went to a milonga. These are a kind of party held in halls where people congregate to dance tango. Typically you see a large central dance floor surrounded by tables where people sit and drink and look out for partners to dance with as they watch those already on the floor. This particular milonga was part of a tango festival so in addition to the normal dances were a few “shows” (pronounced ‘chose’) where a well-known couple takes the floor and dances, ellos solos, for a song or two. Sometimes the music is live, and this is always fantastic–especially so if there’s a good accordion player. Last night the music wasn’t en vivo, although there was a brief interlude in which an accordion virtuoso offered a solo.

There were four couples last evening who danced for the benefit of a happy audience. Two young couples and two much older couples. All were wonderful to watch. There’s something particularly great about watching the older couples for no reason other than you get the sense that they’ve been dancing this way for decades, that they know something more about what it means to dance the tango.

For lack of a better way to describe it, the tango looks a lot like a performed interpretation of foreplay. It’s all hesitation and delivery and hesitation again. I have been watching for weeks now, trying to figure out how the women know when to move and in which direction and as of yet I haven’t a clue.  The torsos of the dancers remain very close to each other and somewhat rigid but the their legs move fluidly and there are all sorts of sweeping gestures and kicks, little flourishes that vary with each dance. Imagine the dance version of a woman lifting a single leg as she kisses a man.

What’s most enjoyable about a good milonga is the variety of people in attendance. Last night the crowd was a little cheto, which is to say wealthy and potentially a bit snobby, but there were nonetheless a sizable portion of young hipsters, foreigners and the like. These dances go all night as well. When I left at 3 a.m., it was still standing room only in the hall.

Tango originated in lower class, immigrant neighborhoods at the close of the 19th century. It was appropriated by the Argentine aristocracy and thus became a more broadly practiced dance and more commonly played music in the early years of the 20th century. But, at least according to a friend of mine, as a popular pastime it was mostly absent–which is to say dangerous and more or less prohibited–during the years of the dictatorship. It, like any folk practice, falls in and out of favor. At the moment, though, it seems a legitimately popular way to while away the night. And while I don’t know a step, I love to sit and watch.