Tango in Toulouse--Part 6 Le Bikini Ramonville Saturday, July 4, 2009 11:00
Janet, Robert, and I get lost on the highway again, trying to find "Le Bikini." You'd think our misadventures arriving here a couple of nights ago would not be repeated, but they are. I don't know why. I almost believe the French have changed the signs on the traffic circles just to confuse us. We do arrive, but only just in time. The concert is in full swing. We show our tickets to the doorpersons and hurry on in. Janet goes directly to the dance floor. She's been a popular partner at the festival, and is eager to build on her success. Robert and I want to focus on the music, so we climb up onto the catwalk to enjoy an unencumbered view of the orchestra on the stage. Tonight the featured orchestra is Stazo Mayor de Luis Stazo, with a special appearance by Alfredo Marcucci. Marcucci, who began playing with Di Sarli in 1945, has to be helped on and off the stage by the younger members of the orchestra, but once seated, he plays his bandoneon with vitality. There is something compelling about a group of young and old men playing powerful, passionate music together. I think that this is one of tango's attractions. It crosses those cursed generational boundaries, bringing us together again, as we should be. Culturally, too, tango unites us. Born and raised in Argentina, nevertheless it belongs to the world now. Speaking of generational and cultural boundaries, I notice a pretty young woman in a burgundy colored dress standing near us on the catwalk, leaning forward on the railing, entranced by the orchestra. I am entranced by the orchestra too, yet I manage somehow to admire the her rich head of black hair and her slender brown arms. During the break after the set is over, she turns to introduce herself. "Pardon me for interrupting. My name is Christine," she tells us. "I heard you speaking English, and wanted you to know that I am always glad when I meet Americans traveling in Europe. America is a great country, but you need to see the world more. You need to be...what is the word...in French it is ouvert." Ouvert. Overt. This one isn't hard to figure out. "Open," I offer. Robert speaks much better French than I do, but he seems willing to let me carry the conversation. And she does seem to be speaking primarily to me. "Open, yes, exactement!" Christine says brightly. "It is a good thing for Americans to be more open to the world. Have you been to Argentina?" "Sept fois!" I boast. I have this obsession, when traveling in a foreign country, of trying to speak the language, no matter how badly. Christine plows on in English. "Then perhaps you know the expression, 'Tango is a sad thought that dances?'" "Un pensamiento triste que se baila," I say in Spanish. "Un pensee triste que danse," she says in French. We smile at each other, not the least bit sadly. "Where are you from?" I ask, hoping she won't say something sarcastic, such as "from France." "I grew up in Marseilles, but I live in Toulouse now. I teach at the Universite." "Vraiment? What do you teach?" "Developmental psychology." "You mean, Piaget?" "Yes, of course. I studied with his protege. And one time I saw Bowlby in person." I look at her doubtfully. "He must have been a very old man." "It was shortly before he died." I tell Christine that I have studied Piaget too, during my teacher training. To describe my occupation, I use the same word that she uses--"professeur"-- but I suspect that there is a different word in French for someone who teaches at an elementary school. I don't know the word for elementary school, either. As we talk, the dance floor clears for a fashion show. Tango dancers, both men and women, parade across the floor in a defile de mode, dressed in what looks to me no more exotic than their street clothes. The show is interminable, but I am enjoying Christine's company. After the fashion show, a couple of Parisians perform a cute, "rainy day tango," complete with special effects: sheets of stage lightning, "rain," and thunder. Then local performers have their turn. Most are unexceptional. Only one makes me lean forward on the catwalk railing to watch. It is a stocky, bald-headed man with an absolutely perfect center of gravity. He seems born to the tango. "That's my teacher," says Christine. "If I lived in Toulouse," I tell her, "he would be mine too." More to come... Copyright 2009 by Randy Cook _______________________________________________ Tango-L mailing list [email protected] http://mailman.mit.edu/mailman/listinfo/tango-l
