South of Noon: My Tryst with the Tango

Copyright © 2009 by Glory Lamb.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

La Salida

Prologue

Figure One

Figure Two

Figure Three

Figure Four

Figure Five

Figure Six

Figure Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

So many thanks are due to so many people who have enriched my life and contributed to the writing of this book, it’s going to be quite a job to mention them all, but I shall do my best.

To my husband David for his love and patience; my children, Scott, Gail and William for their suggestions and encouragement; Mary Jane Roberts for her brilliant first editing and for keeping me on track; and author/teacher Cork Millner and the members of his writing class in Santa Barbara for their inspiration and feedback, you have my deepest gratitude.

I could not have written this story without experiencing first-hand the world of the Argentine tango. So, to Londance Studio’s tango classes in Costa Mesa where I studied and became smitten with the dance, the Argentine Association in Burbank where my infatuation took hold, Linda Valentino who led the journey that introduced me to the fabulous Buenos Aires tango scene and to all the beautiful tangueras I laughed and cried with over the years, many thanks. I wish to acknowledge Israel Vela, my dashing partner on the back of the book, along with all the other handsome tangueros who have given me many tender and romantic tango moments. Gracias a todos, y viva el tango!

Glory (Brendle) Lamb

Art and Music Credits for South of Noon

COVER ARTIST: Ruth Ellen Hoag’s Red Tango received an award in the San Diego Watercolor Society’s International Exhibit in 2008. Ruth has been a musician all her life, and uses the musical qualities of harmony and rhythm in her paintings. She is drawn to the figurative genre, and her technique of using watercolor straight from the tube, as an oil painter would, results in the intense swirls of color that bring to her paintings a dynamic and sense of motion and drama. Red Tango is available at www.ruthellenhoag.com

TANGO MUSIC COMPOSER: William Brendle is a well-known performer, composer and arranger in the Latin music world. In addition to writing music for many Brazilian artists, he was performing and arranging for Sergio Mendez for 15 years. Most recently, his own group Sambaguru was on the top 25 list for a Grammy with their 2005 album Navegar ao sol. The tango he has composed, El Sur de la Tarde, was written expressly for South of Noon The song is available at www.bbrendle.com.

La Salida

(The Departure)

As the music beckons, the tango dancers enter the dance floor two by two; willing players in a unique performance. The men bravely face the women; the women in turn appear flushed, expectant, and ready to follow where led. After a brief moment of mutual acknowledgement, they take their positions as the music begins. Taking two steps forward, the man advances into the woman’s space, requiring her retreat. They pause briefly. Subtly but bravely, he continues his advance, pressing on, intent on his mission, mentally strategizing his next move. Formulating his plan silently, he maneuvers the woman into a side step. She complies and they complete their Salida—their feet together, toes touching toes—their bodies touching heart to heart. A hesitation—a breath—a gathering of forces, and off they go, abandoning themselves to the dance, their heartbeats in synch; the music intoxicating them like a tropical cocktail.

Prologue

Yucatan Peninsula: Spring of 1980

My name is Marie Jordan, and I have an addiction. I feed it regularly and passionately, which brought me to this place near the sunny meridian of the world during the not so sunny meridian of my life.

I’d heard that dancing the tango is a journey of the soul that’s led by the heart. But, not just any tango… the Argentine tango. If that were even remotely true, I wanted to take that journey. I knew I had to find out… to depart from my life of mediocrity. I guess, in truth, I came here in order to escape from myself. But as most journeys begin with an impetus borne of a need or desire which leads one to a destination suitable to the fulfilling of that need, mine was no different. So to make sense of it all, I’ll take a minute or two to begin at the beginning.

I had a need alright. Six months into widowhood, I was feeling alone and bored. I tried tennis… too tough on the joints. Bowling gave me a headache (too much noise); ballroom dancing was pretty expensive, although I did meet some interesting mature men (mature in age only as it turned out). Scuba diving nearly drowned me, and square dancing… well, those skirts… forget it. Try the tango, my adventurous friend, Dixie, suggested. A chorus of agreement arose from my well-meaning friends. It’s so romantic, and besides, we can go to the dances together. You wanted something different. Come on! I was curious, but apprehensive, having seen the flashy footwork and four-inch spiked heels worn by the glamorous and exotic tangueras I had seen in a show from Buenos Aires that came to L.A. My enthusiastic buddies had taken up the dance right after that show, and couldn’t stop talking about how erotic it was, and how I would love it, and how many great guys I would meet at the parties. Right. Then, as fate would have it, I received an ad in the mail, for a class being held at the studio they were attending, with an attractive discount if I would take a chance and experience the intrigue of the Argentine tango in ten easy lessons. Normally skeptical, and with some misgivings, I nonetheless paid the fee, (always up for a bargain), took the classes, enjoyed myself immensely and must admit to having mastered the dance with a modicum of style. As an added bonus, I found my classmates to be a fascinating and lively lot. Doctors, psychologists, teachers, and several ardent lotharios danced with me as the instructor announced after each new step was taught; change partners, please. We concentrated earnestly, gradually learning the intricate floor patterns, and trying at the same time to embody the tango attitude we had seen displayed on T.V. and the stage shows. I did fine, and even enjoyed the process. I was feeling accomplished and exhilarated at my progress, and even a bit cocky, until I discovered how wrong I was, as my first humbling experience thrust itself upon me at our tango initiation in an out of town tango club.

So, now I’m getting dressed for a "milonga". It’s a dance, not a drink, and it’s a dance party. I decide to wear my red chiffon with the tight bodice, un-box my red silk dance shoes, and proceed with the underpinnings. On go the bra, and the matching red panties, the sheerest of stockings and then the dress. Oops… too tight… damn! Off it comes, and the bra, and the panties. What am I thinking? It’s just a dance—maybe it’ll help me lose weight. I settled for a basic black number, plus accessories, twisted my hair into a sophisticated bun, and added a flirtatious red flower, just for effect.

As my ardent friends and I arrived at the dance on that fateful October night, a group of guys were just ahead of us, making the evening promising. I paid at the door, had my hand stamped with the outline of some strange red animal, and entered a dimly lit room. I strained my eyes, adjusting to the candlelit interior, trying to spot my friends at one of the tables surrounding an impossibly small parquet dance floor. I stood mesmerized as the dancing couples passed by, totally oblivious to me, seemingly lost to the deft maneuverings of a sensuous choreography. It seemed as if the dance took them away, setting them apart from the rest of us, to a destination known only to them. One look and I was hooked. I didn’t know why, but at least I knew. I wanted—that—whatever that was. Of course, I knew it was all an illusion. Supreme efforts look effortless, seemingly devoted couples part hastily when the music ends, and trusted alliances are breached all the time. At the start of each musical overture the curtain rises, there are new players, and it all begins again. Nevertheless… even for a three minute thrill… I wanted—that.

I’m not considered beautiful, but at the least I’ve been told I’m attractive. I waited expectantly through a number of dances, while several men promisingly looked my way, but as I made a responsive move toward them, a girl to my left or right or from behind strode past me to their welcoming arms. I sat down again. What was wrong? What am I missing? Finally spotting Dixie, I joined her at the table, and humbled myself to ask her to enlighten me. What is going on with these guys? I want to dance, and nobody’s asking me. How do these other women know they want them? She smiled Dixie style and told me to watch closely and she would teach me about the come-on.

It took me a bit to catch on, but soon, I observed the barely perceptible nod that a man would send in the direction of a woman to signal her to come and dance with him. Why don’t they just ask, I wondered. But, I gamely waited, and watched, and waited. Aha! I think I’ve been nodded at, finally. As fate would have it, my one and only tango dance that night was with a dear fellow, who could barely