First off I’d like to report on the founding meeting of the New Seattle Writers and Readers Assembly.  It was a somewhat less than resounding success.  I blame the weather.  As you are no doubt aware from my constant reminders, the weather is actually pretty nice out here in Seattle, despite what people think.  The flip side of that conundrum is that during the few brief periods of inclement weather, people tend to stay inside.  They’re just not used to the rain, even though they think they are.  You should see what happens when it “snows”.  Nevertheless, four hardy souls braved the 1/10-inch per hour downpour and arrived, barely damp, at the meeting.  There were two other writers there and one waterproof reader.  The meeting itself went well with some great examples – for me anyway – of how writing should be done and how stories are properly told.  I left depressed.

I have, however, been remiss in keeping you apprised on the progress of my first great attempt at becoming a “Joiner” here in Seattle: Tango Lessons.  The first part  of the story is contained in the original It Takes Twoposting which, had I known there was going to be a follow-on, would have been more appropriately named It Takes Two One.  That tale told of my shocking experiences on the dance floor and of my ultimate, though prematurely described, redemption at the hands of my talented instructor, Max Kepler.  At the time I wrote it my reaction was: YES!  I had made it all the way to being able to walk around the room backwards while, at the same time, there was tango music playing.  The underpinnings of a success story if ever there was one.

After the first week, Max – she of infinite patience and unstompable feet – had brought in a cadre of “volunteers” to even out the group and let everybody have a chance to dance.  The “volunteers” were all talented dancers with eons more experience than we mere beginners.  I attempted to ascertain what motivation the “volunteers” would have to come out and dance with a group of tyros.  From my point of view I don’t think Mother Theresa herself had ever sacrificed as much for her flock as these fine “volunteers” had done for us.  By this point the crafty-eyed among you have noticed that, atypically, the smart-ass quotes around “volunteers” are still in place.  Indeed, after a couple of weeks the tales of altruistic motivation had slipped away like so much rain down the gutter.  Instead words like “bribery” and “blackmail” had crept into the discussion.  I was unable to pin down any details.  Regardless of the actual motivating factors, I think that this is really another example of the lengths our fine instructor was willing to go to ensure that our tango experience would be first rate.

Then there was me.  Early in the second lesson, experienced partners in place, the actual “dancing” began.  This seemed straightforward enough.  The “leader”, i.e. me, would walk forward whilst the “follower” would retreat away hoping not to get stepped on.  This was all done while attempting to move in time to the uncertain beat of the music.  Max instructed us that, in fact, the follower’s primary job was not to get stepped on.  Furthermore, she told the followers, if you do get stepped on it was “your own damn fault”, or words to that effect.  For me, this revelation was like a Catholic receiving deathbed absolution.  All of my tango sins, past, present, and future had been lifted from my shoulders en masse.  I raised my voice in song.  The others quickly reminded me that this was a dance class.  There was a subtle change in the “volunteers” after that.  The next week they had all swapped out their zillion dollar custom-made-in-Buenos-Aires tango shoes for Doc Martens.  I’m sure this was due to my unerring ability to direct my partner’s feet to the exact location where I would next step.

The lessons progressed and as surely as dancing is more than walking around the room Max started in with the tricky stuff.  The basic tango walk is performed by the partners alternating foot movements – the leader steps forward with his or her left foot and the follower moves their right foot straight backwards out of the way, and so on.  This can be visualized as both partners walking down the same pair of rails.  The tricky stuff began with what was described as the “three-rail system”.  In the three-rail system the nice walking movement is suddenly interrupted and the leader’s and the follower’s feet go out of phase so that their respective left feet are walking solo down their own rails while both dancer’s right feet share the same rail.

The Third Rail.

Now, I don’t know about you but I grew up where there were subways and subways had two rails for the wheels and The Third Rail, which is where the electricity came from.  Mothers would take small children by the hand and drag them underground, put their toes right up to the edge of the yellow stripe and point at The Third Rail.  “Don’t-you-even-look-at-that-thing! You-will-get-electrocuted-and-I-will-have-to-pull-your-charcoal-grilled-corpse-off-of-the-tracks!” At which point the children would start crying and promise never-no-never-ever would they even think about The Third Rail.  The little old ladies who taught Sunday school, and promised us an eternity of fire, brimstone, and endless consumption of Starbuck’s coffee for our sins, could not instill a fear of Hell as deeply programmed as our dread of The Third Rail.  Which explains a lot.  This primal fear is the reason why, in the movies, every subway scene features a close-up of a character perilously adjacent to The Third Rail and most likely about to get fried. 

For my longsuffering partners the “three-rail system” quickly devolved into the “third-rail system”.  This is because you have to switch from two-rail into three.  Switching is never a good thing for me.  There are two ways to accomplish this.  First we learned about the check-step, or rock-step, in which the leader suddenly, and without warning, reverses direction for a half step.  This action throws the follower off balance.  Then the leader suddenly changes direction again, the partners are out of sync, and off they stumble down the third rail.  The other transition method involves what is called the “sneaky step”.  I did not know this at the time but, for obvious reasons, many of the moves in tango are called by their Spanish names.  “Sneaky step”, I learned, in Spanish means “trip and fall”.  In this move the leader is responsible for losing balance and getting out of step with the follower.  This is done by attempting to do two steps in the space that is usually taken by one.  It’s like a little skip.  But Physics teaches us that two things cannot happen at the same time, in the same place.  For me what happens is that my little skip ends up with me standing on the foot that is already there.  Your imaginations can complete my plunge to the hardwood.

As none of the other students were experiencing any difficulties with these moves the class progressed to the penultimate skill we were to learn: the Ocho.  The ocho comes in three basic variations: back, front, and cortado.  The names derive from the perspective of the follower.  In the back ocho the follower is moving backwards; front, forwards; and cortado – which means “cut” in Spanish – the follower’s movement is interrupted half-way through the move with an abrupt head-snapping stop.  In legend the move was named ocho – eight in Spanish – from the graceful figure-eights the follower’s feet would trace on the floor.  For me ocho came to mean the approximate ratio of failed attempts at the move to successful ones.  A ratio which hasn’t changed with time.

At this point Max came over to me and said: “I’ve been following your progress.  I think you need to come out to the practica this Thursday.  It’s the one for beginners.” – practica being Spanish for practice.  With intentions worthy of the road to Hell I planned on going.  My plans were disrupted by the rock band that bought my trailer and came to pick it up just as the bus downtown was going by.  Darn! I’ll just go next time.  At the next-to-last class Max assured me that this week’s practica – while not strictly intended for beginners – was still very “beginner friendly” and that I should make every effort to go.  This is the only time I’ve known her, if not exactly lie, at least, to distort the truth. 

I went.  It was a train wreck.  Think back, if you will, to the very first day you had your driver’s license.  You proudly climbed into the car and off you went, driving here and there, until the gas gauge pointed to “E”.  Now imagine, after a series of blind turns just for the fun of it, you suddenly turned right and found yourself in the traffic at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway on Memorial Day.  That was what the practica was like.  The other dancers were all way beyond good.  The couples were spinning and swooping and catching each other’s feet in mid-air.  It was amazing to watch – and terrifying to be in the middle of.  I did get in a few dances which helped me with my “how to minimize damage in a collision” technique.  But, as you might at Indy, I felt much safer just sitting in the stands.

Which brings the story up to last week and the last class in the series.  This class introduced “circular movements”.  Specifically, the molineta.  Which, of course, requires a translation: little windmill.  In the molineta the leader takes the follower round and round and round until better judgment reasserts itself or the partners fall to the floor.  For nearly an hour we practiced the move until, with a final dizzying spin, the music stopped.  I clutched at the wall to keep from falling and closed my eyes against the spinning room.  Max came over to me and I tried to bring her into focus with one eye.  I was dazed and confused about my place in space and time – disoriented as never before.  Max said “Next week we’re starting the follow-on class.”  I gave up trying to figure out what she said after three tries.

“Sure,” I nodded equivocally.  “You can count me in.”