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Solo Tango in Buenos Aires
by Cherie Magnus
      

     It is just before dawn, and our small group of Argentines and Americans is tired and filled with reverie after a night on the town. We’re drooped over cafés con leche at an old wooden table in a rundown 19th century coffee shop. A large party over by the dark windows also looks like they’ve been up all night having a good time. The men are wearing jackets, the women décolletage, and they’re all somewhat portly and of a “certain age.”
     Suddenly, one of the men stands up and begins to sing – loudly, proudly, passionately. Heads nod with approval. A woman in gold beads joins in. Several others, our table included, brighten with the music and begin to clap along. I don’t understand the words, but I know it’s tango – music of love, life, disappointment, desire, joy and sadness.
     Marcello can not resist the siren call of the emotional song, even after dancing all night. He’s Argentine. He looks at me purposefully and we tango across the cracked black-and-white marble floor, circling around the men who’ve stopped here to eat breakfast and read the newspaper on their way to work.
     It is a normal morning in Buenos Aires. . . .

 


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