All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [58]
Back home in San Francisco, the tango scene is less inviting than in B.A. In Argentina, the men understand that the point of dancing with a woman is to make her look beautiful, to dance well together, so they lead at your level. With a strong leader who has nothing to prove, even if all you can do is a basic step and a few forward ochos, you look and feel graceful, transcending the steps and sliding into a subtle sense of rhythm, connection, and, for small, restrained moments, passion. Not so in San Francisco, where men tend to learn complicated routines in classes and force you to stumble through them without establishing a basic connection, then slowly leading you to something a little trickier. There’s also an atmosphere of formality and strictness at the milongas and an emphasis on technique that isn’t quite suited to my personality.
As much as I love the elegance and glamour of tango, as well as the tragic romance of the music, I start leaving my tango shoes in the back of the closet. I’ve learned something about letting go of control, holding on to my space, and making myself receptive to a man’s lead, but I’ve also learned that tango really isn’t my dance. For me, dancing is an expression of joy, music entering your body like spirits, releasing them through movement. Tango is too restrained for me and not enough fun; any dance where you aren’t supposed to shake your ass is clearly made for someone else’s body.
Instead, I think, I’ll sign up for salsa lessons.
AT HOME, EVAN calls to invite me to a baseball game. I walk to the ballpark under a clear San Francisco sky, watching people happily making their way from downtown offices to the stadium by the bay. Evan meets me with Mardi Gras beads in the Giants’ colors to wear and takes my hand to lead me to the bleachers. I love the crowd’s good-hearted cheering, stomping, and booing and the friendly way everyone in the bleachers chats with one another. I spread out a little tablecloth on the bleachers and surprise Evan with a picnic: Australian wine, Italian prosciutto, pecorino, and olives. He turns from the ball game, takes a few bites, and groans with home-run enthusiasm. “I love you,” he says, which I take to mean “I love this picnic,” and he kisses me on the lips.
Later, walking toward the Muni bus, the Bay Bridge glittering in the background, Evan puts his arms around my soft, custom-made Argentine leather jacket. “I would love to go traveling with you,” he says. “Where in the whole world would you like to go?”
I put my hands in his pockets. Nepal? The Seychelles? Back to those Sicilian islands? I rest my head on his shoulder, still jet-lagged, and he strokes my hair.
“How about dinner at my house?” I say, and he gives me another kiss.
I decide to stay at home for a while to see how things develop in my personal life, if given a chance. I sort through my closet as a vicarious way of rummaging through my personal issues, creating some order in my life. I feel the need to toss out old stuff, pare down to things that are really important to me, let go of things I’ve been hanging on to, like jeans I bought ten years ago, hoping I’d lose fifteen pounds. Maybe I should figure out how to do this process internally, but for now I’m just cleaning my closet.
I come across my old wedding dress, a simple, tea-length chiffony frock that doesn’t scream “bride;” I wore it to my friend Cecilia’s fiftieth birthday party at a winery with a big garden hat and flip-flops and no one had the slightest clue about its former, now-tattered glory. Eyeing my pile of clothes to give away, I have to acknowledge that floaty, off-white dresses in general have limited use but am reluctant to part with it. In the spirit of renewal, I have the bright idea of dyeing my old wedding dress to wear to a party. This strikes me as a good idea, like when I swapped the stones in my wedding ring, added a few more bands to symbolize more happy relationships in my life, and