DANCING WITH THE SCARS!

Life being the embarrassment that it is, I decided to take dance lessons and give the public a good laugh; these days, there are so few comical moments. I stopped dancing about 20 years ago as none of my boyfriends knew how, so instead we did guy stuff like action flicks, camping and washing his car. I recently discovered a girl can still go dancing without them! Just like in high school.

Forget the waltz; I look awful in a ball gown and, face it, Ginger Rogers I’m not. Tango looks too intimate to practice with some stranger breathing way too close. Yet I wanted excitement, fun, a challenge, a new me -- so I picked Zydeco. Oh, the music! The bands! The quasi-rock, quasi- roll, quasi- foot-stomping, fast and dirty boogying of Louisiana.

Glen Echo offers lots of dance classes. Sadly, at most Washington events, it's all women all the time. And even though that first night was a sad sight, seven men presented themselves! Shy, standing alone, nervous, sweaty palms - and that was just me - we actually had an even count.
The teachers were lively and charming, urging us to form lines and follow a basic count. "And-a-one-and-a -two and a shuffle-shuffle, step." Oh dear. They lost me there.

Let's get back to 'foot-stomping' for a second. We rotated partners every few minutes, giving me the full panoply of sizes, shapes, and styles. Let me apologize right here and now to all the poor fellas who hobbled away from me, grimacing, brushing aside a few hidden tears. I like to think they were they just sad our turn was over.

By the end of the first lesson, we girls were in pretty good form. But the guys were still stomping around, no rhythm, bodies stiff, puzzled by the whole concept. Again, just like in high school except my father wasn’t waiting outside in the car. Oh well, there were still four more classes, and seven hopeful women rolling their eyes.

Dancing is strenuous exercise! Aching doesn't begin to describe my agony the next day; hernias were sprouting all over. Lesson two went better though; we picked up the pace and if one had any natural rhythm at all, it came out. A couple of the guys had obviously practiced and were able to employ simple 'leading' techniques to side-step my feet. But a couple of others still landed right on them. Notice how I project blame.

Our big break came at a real Zydeco dance a few days later, Dancing by the Bayou, and open to the general public. We newbies were encouraged to join in. They must be crazy! A brief lesson was offered first. Instead of 7 guys, there were about 25 attending the class. As I was handed off from one to the other, suddenly a small nervous man of incalculable age landed smack in front of me, wreaking of cologne so overpowering, I asked that we step a few feet apart. He calmly and logically reasoned "I sweat so much, I have to wear it to cover up my smell". As the song goes, “Know When To Hold ‘Em, Know When To Run!”


Then there were the really talented Zydeco regulars who hauled me onto the floor – not realizing they picked a rank beginner - where I was hurled, tossed, and lurched around the room, begging for relief, explaining I had only done this twice before. Forget it, they didn't hear me. Exactly a year after my rotator cuff surgery, one guy nearly ripped my shoulder bone from its socket. A small price to pay for basking in public humiliation.

And while I can certainly appreciate the appeal of public dances, one better recognize the hierarchy -- those who are experienced dancers and those who are wannabe's -- because it appears never the twain shall meet! If you're no good, you're wallpaper. So on that note, my dance lessons ended.

What's my next step, so to speak? Well, in response to television's hit show "So You Think You Can Dance!”, the answer is "Yes, I think I can!" Too bad no one else does. Tennis anyone?

DON'T CRY FOR ME, ARGENTINA

How did I like Buenos Aires, you ask? I liked it a lot. Mainly because it's cheap!
Let’s start with the important stuff:
A curling iron cost $5. But there’s a catch. After letting it sit for fifteen minutes, the rubber tip and rubber ring holding it to the handle melted. When I returned it, they said I should not have left it on for more than 10 minutes. Silly me! It happened to the second one also. OK, the third one too. For $5, I had to keep trying!

It's cheap to eat, too! Lunch in a parrilla in the best part of town, Recoleta, was typically great steak, salad and good wine for two for $11. Dinners averaged $20 including tax and tip. Though at one restaurant, we handed over a $100 peso note and got $50 back, which was fine until we tried spending it elsewhere and were told "Falso!" Guess this particular place saves the counterfeit stuff for us drunken, ignorant gringos, awash in cholesterol and alcohol. Our complaints to them only yielded their version of “How do I know it’s mine?”

Then there are the ‘all you can eat’ restaurants. Now, I’ve nearly bankrupted such places back here so I was up to the challenge. Great quality, massive choices. I played my hand, but the house beat me!

The 'white food' is delicious too – Atkins must be turning over in his grave: It seems almost everyone eats ice cream, meringues, cookies, lots of unusual breakfast pastries, along with the customary high tea at 5 or 6 p.m. with more goodies. So civilized. I ate it all and didn't vomit until the day before I left.

I only got dressed up once - to dine at a new restaurant just featured in Gourmet Magazine and located in Santiago, Chile (went there on a 3 day side trip). Unfortunately, El Jardin Secreto was indeed so secret it had closed down five days earlier. We made up for it at other local eateries by consuming huge and succulent quantities of ceviche and Chilean sea bass coupled with superlative Merlot. All meals began with complimentary Pisco - like a strong whiskey sour.
Being a much more expensive city than BA, a typical dinner in Santiago was $20,000 Chilean dollars – very scary - I still have no idea what it really cost.

The weather was fine - no rain at all - 80's for a few days then 50-60 the rest of the time. Mock me if you will, but I wore all 7 pairs of shoes (a pair at a time), all jackets and turtlenecks, often two at once to keep warm. "All black, all the time" worked well. When the feet gave out, taxis averaged $1.50.

I had heard BA was the leather shopportunity but I wasn't very impressed; lots of it but nothing worth trading in current attire. Besides, it is almost impossible to negotiate without the language - or do anything without Español for that matter. We added "o" to many of the words, and sometimes it worked but not enough to get by-o. Except for "n-o".

The people were wonderfully kind, helpful and friendly. As soon as they heard me utter ‘buenos días’, they assumed I knew Spanish and rattled on and on about who knows what. I politely nodded and smiled a lot. I have probably agreed to send all their kids to American schools.

We actually took a private Spanish lesson for only $10/hr. Not bad except it only works in Argentina where the words are pronounced with letters that do not appear in them. For instance, LL and Y is SH. Who thought that up?

Who knew my credit card wouldn’t work outside of North America? Apparently, I was supposed to notify not only my mother but also Bank of America that I was leaving the country. It was declined a humiliating three times before they finally agreed I was I and I was there.

It was easy to keep in touch by internet. Every few steps is an internet café without the café. It costs about 20 cents per hour. And with my phone card, clients never knew I wasn't at home in bed, I mean in my office. Oh, and before I forget, cappuccino is only $1.25. Take note, Starbucks.

You can see the old charm and elegance that used to be. But BA is poor, the country is poor, the people are poor. Kids help open cab doors to pick up change. I felt safe though, didn't wear much jewelry, didn't see or hear of any problems. But it was best to walk with eyes to the ground. That was to avoid tripping on the broken and chipped sidewalks, most in great disrepair, I learned after the first few ankle twists. (Not that Washington streets are much better.)

Made it to the beautiful Recoleta cemetery that includes Evita Peron’s family crypt. The mausoleums are buildings - many look as large as my apartment. But the ghoulish state of many of the above-ground graves is evidence of either lack of attention or money. I also clawed my way through the mobbed Sunday flea market at San Telmo where lots of graceful Tango was being performed and the main things for sale were a type of antique pewter and some real silver…lovely objects, crying “Buy me!” and several now adorn my dresser.

Hotels are cheap! Our 4 star hotel in a good area was $40/night including buffet breakfast and 21% tax. Just don't select the scrambled eggs – there it’s scrambled salt. I luxuriated in large modern bathrooms to die for and good service throughout. A great lifestyle is so affordable! Who knew?

I did not want to leave. My friend rented a gorgeous apartment for $500 per month, furnished with antiques and a large terrace. But I do have a job so I went to the airport and after an hour in line, was told the flight was delayed until the next morning. We were all shlepped to a five-star hotel, had a great dinner, and luckily, flew home first class the following day, spending the next 10 hours reclining in my barca-lounger-in the-sky, napping, eating, and watching all the movies I had missed in theaters. Oh, and let’s not forget a final shopping spree – Duty Free objects, presented to me for inspection. I simply waved my credit card and picked up all those items I never knew I couldn’t live without.

So don’t cry for me, Argentina - I’ll be back.