Crossroads

When I came back to Buenos Aires, first thing Javier told me was my tango had became 'weak'. It was too sweet and lacked a lot of energy. He was right, eight months away from Buenos Aires and I've lost the spiciness and 'dirtiness' of tango.

But for the following two weeks my dancing went on a downward spiral. I would alternate between trying too hard to be energetic, being rough, or attacking only the beat. Problems followed; not being able to follow the music, losing the depth and emotion in my dance, throwing my partner off balance at times, unable to control the navigation very well.

I was feeling quite demoralised about my dancing then an offhand remark by Javier sparked something in me.

It was after a private class with him and we were chatting about the attitude between the leader and follower. The discussion got a bit off tangent and Javier related a question posed to him by Gustavo Lin during a Taipei Tango festival some years back.

"Gustavo asked me a question that was the hardest question I had to answer in my teaching career." Javier began.

"Gustavo asked, 'Now that we know the steps and all, we know how to lead and follow comfortably, and dance muscially, what is it that we (orientals) still lack?'"

Javier paused and looked at us, as though we was right there, thinking long and hard, "I thought long and answered: 'You orientals look to suffer too much in the dance. Putting too much thought into technicalities, how to move, how to step, how to do this figure exactly, how to do exactly what this teacher said, what that teacher said, trying so hard to copy exactly how every teacher moved.'"

"Actually not just you guys but everywhere else in the world. So they are trapped and they can't enjoy the dance. When they dance they are not free."

Javier stood up to gesture to make his point, "But the argentines, when they dance they look for happiness in the dance, they look to enjoy when they are dancing."

"Your everyday argentine on the street, they're not rich, they lead a hard life. So its only during the time dancing, they can forget about their daily harshness and be free and happy."

"When they embrace, man or woman regardless, they don't tear their hair out trying to obsess in technicalities, posture, figures or the teachings of tango teachers."

"Instead they indulge in the shared embrace, listen to the music, to the singing, let the body move naturally and have fun; be happy together! They just want to enjoy the music, enjoy the partner and dance!"

"Why agonize over a perfect side step, or a perfectly led giro? As long as you don't throw each other off balance, and two of you get from point A to point B together, let whatever happen in between happen!" Javier dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"So the bottomline is: you guys are not free when you dance. Trapped in the little boxes you drew up to help you learn tango; unable to be happy. The argentines, on the other hand, do not have these boxes, they refuse to let this dance of theirs' be tainted with obsession over technicalities; to them it's still a dance where they can forget and be free."

Being free, this concept resonated in me. All my life I had wanted to be free and to explore my limits but subconciously I was putting myself into a little box called 'learning tango'; trapping myself. Javier's words were like a slap in my face. A wake up call.

That night I went out to dance, and changed my attitude. At times, I was aware of my turned in feet, my slightly off posture. But I ignored them and focused on having fun instead. For the first time in two weeks, I felt like I was really dancing again.

Your last words to me, "Goodbye, I should go. You take care of yourself, remember to eat well & sleep well."

The last smell I had of you, from the last hug; a mixture of your shampoo, your familiar body scent. Faint, like spring time flowers from faraway.

My last feel of your touch, soft like always, with so much warmth of love. Your head buried into my shoulders. Your silken hair caressing my face. Your arms, your hands, your embrace enveloping me; pressing me into you. How I wish you'll hug me forever like this & not let go; this I know is impossible, but at least God has granted me a final hug to be remembered.

My last image of you. In your faded white budwiser t-shirt, which reads 'this bud is yours'; brought a smile to my face always when I read it; "Yup. This babe is mine." In your brown semi-hippie cargo pants. Your small stature, looked even smaller from a distant, as you walked further and further from me. You showed the security your boarding pass and your passport and then, dragging your black samsonite bag along, you strode into check in gates. Every centimeter you take away from me, I found it harder and harder to breath.

Before you turned into the corner where I would lose sight of you forever, you paused and looked back. My face, which was frozen into an awkward smile; that kind which was designed to suppress tears, mouthed a 'goodbye' and you disappeared. Not wanting to lose sight of you I went around the check in counter and my last image of you, was you striding in till the partition obscures my view from you.

As I helped myself along the railing, I thought to myself, "This is so painful! But what a masochist I am! Three airport farewells with three different girls, in a little more than a year?!"

But this time it was worse wasn't it? For this time, for there was no mention of when we'll meet again. Where at least, my last partings had some hope, however false it turned out to be. This time, it is indefinite. After two failed long distance relationship, reality weighs heavily upon my heart.

You came here, to take a break from your normal life and now you left, to go back to your normal life.

But I, I had to come back to a home that looks exactly as the same as before you were gone. Walkthrough the same corridor, just this time without you my side. As I opened the door, I could almost imagine you behind me, reaching out any moment to hold my arm to get some warmth from the cold Buenos Aires evenings; as I walked into the house, it looked surreal; same, untouched, yet different; your things were gone, you were gone, yet your presence was still around.

I smelled the towel you left behind; the bedsheets and pillow at your side of the bed; there are still untouched till now, just that now, even your smell has faded.

I looked around the house and it still feels you are here, just somewhere I can't see you; in the bathroom, bathing; in the bedroom, dressing up to go out; even as I type on the computer, it feels as though you'll come anytime to hug me from behind and then sit by my side.

I close my eyes and I can imagine your voice, your face; here in this house.

You are still here. Just that you are not.