The Slumber Party

Last night I went to a slumber party at Ms. Wellspring's house.

The Boy (and probably a lot of others like him) think that at girls' slumber parties, we lounge around like Elvgren Girl pin-ups in frilly negligees, giving each other pedicures and talking about them (boys), breathlessly waiting for the Panty Raids to start and hoping some handsome scamp will climb in through a window to kiss and/or ravage us.

When, in truth, most slumber parties involve wearing baggy sweats and/or fleece and old t-shirts (but sans bra so I guess that is somewhat titillating--pun intended), eating unfortunate amounts of junk food (including, but limited to, Doritos, potato chips, Red Vines, cookies, ice cream, hickory-smoked almonds and microwave popcorn--but we also had some grapes), talking about ourselves (maybe we did talk about you guys but only for a second and then it might have been to make the others laugh), and watching silly movies.

The only difference between this slumber party and ones we had when we were twelve were that we did not do makeovers, make crank calls or have a seance (light as a feather, stiff as a board) but only because we had to start our party after we had gotten off of work and we had already lost a few hours.

So it was a pared-down slumber party but still lots of fun and pretty true to the original format.

***

This slumber party was very educational because the first movie we watched was Flashdance. I remember seeing this movie when it came out and I'm pretty sure I liked it. I didn't remember a whole lot about the particulars of the movie aside from Jennifer Beals' torn shirts that created a huge fashion trend of which I was a lemming to, some sexy dance scenes (see below) and that she played a welder.

Watching the movie after a 20-plus-year hiatus was a sociological event and an opportunity to hone our skills at playing Mystery Science Theater 3000. I had no idea that Flashdance was such a bad bad b-a-d movie! It also raised a million questions in my mind, including:

1. Did we really look that stupid in the '80s?! (Yes.) Between the giant padded shoulders, stiletto heels with white anklet socks, shredded clothing and ratty hair, a miasma of bad wardrobe images floated in my memory. The '80s look made the '70s look seem like a well-considered fashion statement.
2. Why was it okay for an 18-year old to be stalked and hit on by her employer who was, oh, a good 20 years older than she was? By stalked, I mean following her home on dark rainy nights in his Porsche while she rode her 10-speed bike back from work and coming on to her at work and where ever else he stalked and found her. But then she stalked him too and pyschotically threw a brick through his window and generally acted like a freak.
3. What is it that a 40-year old guy sees in an 18-year old girl who works as an exotic dancer? (Silly question.) One ponders the scintillating conversations they must have had about life, the universe and everything. Clearly they had so much in common.
4. Who hires an 18-year old girl to be a welder in his factory, for Chrissakes?!
5. Why must a young woman become a stripper when her career as a waitress and her chance to become a professional figure skater don't work out?
6. Why did I not realize that Jennifer Beals did not actually dance in any of the dance scenes? Other dancers wearing crazy black poodle wigs were flinging themselves all over this movie and I had no idea it wasn't her until last night.
7. Why did I not remember this being one of the worst films of all time?

***

Had I absorbed some Life Lessons from this film in my formative years, I could have known the following Truths about Life as "Important Things I Learned From Flashdance":

1. You can ride your bike to a fancy evening at the ballet in a sequined gown and high heels without looking like a sweaty mess.
2. You can live in a cool-ass loft complete with Shabby Chic antiques and a dance studio on a welder's salary.
3. You can work as a welder and an exotic dancer. You can have two careers AND have a dream of being a classical ballerina.
4. And most importantly, it is okay to stick your foot in a man's crotch while you are in a fancy restaurant. And to eat lobster like a crazed ho as long as your date is paying. (Bet you don't remember that scene! I sure as hell didn't. And I don't think my mother does either.)

Below is all I really remembered about Flashdance until last night. Thanks, Ms. Wellspring, for allowing me to rediscover my buried memories of the '80s while eating Doritos and Red Vines in a sleeping bag at your house.



The scene we all remember (no, it's not Jennifer Beals.)

And this scene, which ain't her either.

There Goes the Diet

Well, just for a day.

Now you know where I will be on Sunday, April 13 from 10am-6pm.

Yes, I will be taking my camera.
Yes, I will be trying everything I can get my hands on, especially if it is made out of dark chocolate.
Yes, I will be fasting for all of next week.

I do this for you. You know that, right?

Run Away, Tangobaby

I wish I had a great followup story to my Tango Angel/crazy milonga last night, but I don't. I did try, though.

Tonight I went to the Milonga That Shall Remain Nameless. It's one I used to go to religiously back when it was crowded and the best game in town. And then it just wasn't my place anymore, so I started going elsewhere. (And lots of other people stopped going there, too, apparently. Which has nothing to do with me.)

I had seen on the calendar that Miriam Larici was supposed to perform tonight. For those of you who have seen Miriam, or like me, have had the opportunity to take classes with her, you know she is a gorgeous, amazingly talented, and super-wonderful lady. Just to see her for a ten-minute performance was enough to get me back to the Milonga That Shall Remain Nameless. I was also kinda hoping that maybe things had changed and I would enjoy going there again. No such luck.

Not only was Miriam not coming (sounds like a scheduling snafu because I seemed to be the only person expecting to see her) but the place--for me--well, I'll be PC and say it is just not where I'll be needing to frequent anymore. I now have exactly zero curiosity about the place.

To illustrate my point, I have selected a video clip that will give you an idea of my feelings on the evening's festivities (or lack thereof), where the rabbit would be the milonga and I would be King Arthur:



So now I am home, in my pjs, eating my dinner (some Junior Mints) and singing this song. Nothing better than some candy and a little Mick to revive your spirits:



Better luck next time, tangobaby. (But my eyeshadow looked hot. Oh well.)

***

PS. If you want to know what I was hoping to get a smidgen of tonight, click here for some awesome Miriam Larici performances. Watch the 3rd and 4th songs especially where she dances with Hugo Patyn. I was there in the crowd (no, I am not going to tell you where), and let's just say that was so exciting to see her dance like that. She has so much energy and grace--the woman is amazing. And Hugo is not too shabby himself.

PSS. I am kind of amused with myself that I was able to bring together Monty Python AND The Stones to illustrate a tango post.

The Calm in the Eye of the Storm

"Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart." ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Someday I hope to have a pair of shoes like that.

***

Cellspace again tonight. The dancing does have a wildness to it that I am not used to. Lots and lots of crazy boleos and ganchos and leg wraps. And twirls. Twirls?!!

I am not always able to hear and feel the music because so much movement is distracting me. Plus, I got kicked twice and stepped on once. I cannot believe my fishnets survived such abuse.

But there was yet a new Tango Angel who made it all worthwhile. He made me forget those other people even existed. He hummed and sang the music softly while we danced. He danced so smoothly, so calmly. Pausing and moving to the music so I would hear the music though his movements. Waiting for me and not rushing me through my steps. Letting me do my thing. It was a partnership.

And then I self-wallflowered when I realized I had already danced my best dances of the night. So I got to enjoy the others enjoying each other and captured a few moments before calling it a night.

Good night, tango. Good night, tango dancers everywhere.

Un beso.

The Other Spice Girl

“I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates? - none, that's out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' the sun.” ~ The Winter's Tale

***

(This post is inspired by my dreamer friend Relyn and my gourmet gal pal Christie at Fig & Cherry, thank you!)

I am a Spice Girl. Not a Posh or Baby or Sporty or even a Tango Spice Girl (she is the secret Spice Girl you may not know about).

I am a Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme Girl. Actually more like a Saffron, Herbes de Provence, Garam Masala, Cardamom and Coriander Girl. You purists are going to say that some of these are herbs, not spices, and yes, you are right. But bear with me.

Before I moved to San Francisco, I used to cook a lot. One of the benefits of living in this town is that the opportunities for adventuring in the world of food is pretty endless and is as irresistable as catnip for any foodie.

So, why cook when you can explore? To me, eating is another form of travel, especially when you can try foods from all over the world in just one place.

Although my neighborhood trends more towards Asian cuisines--fresh Hong Kong-style dim sum, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Indonesian and Vietnamese--I can also easily get a variety of other cuisines, including Mexican, Italian, Indian, Fusion, Mediterranean, Ethiopian (which I have not tried yet but mean to) as well as good ol' American fare like hamburgers and onion rings. That is not counting the bakeries, cheese shop, gelateria and numerous coffee houses.

All of this bounty lies one, two, three blocks from my front door. The possibilities are even more exponential if I hop on the N-Judah to the next neighborhoods of Cole Valley or the Haight or the Castro, or grab a cab to destinations farther across town.

One of the things I do miss though is the exploration and acquisition of unique food stuffs. When I lived in Silicon Valley, my favorite haunts were the Indian and Middle Eastern groceries. I loved filling my basket with herbs and spices I'd never heard of but wanting to have them in my larder, just in case.

I am, or was, a spice collector. I don't know why. A lot of the things I never even used. But it was such great fun finding them and wondering what they were. The Indian groceries especially were a delight.

In between the piles of colorful boxes of incense and black hair dye, you could find aesofotida, which I purchased but never used, or glass jars of pickled limes or dented cans of coconut cream from lands far, far away. You could peruse the countless types of dal while listening to Bollywood hits and watching women in colorful saris pick out their vegetables. Just being in those small, independent markets was like an instant passport to somewhere else, all for the price of a bag of interesting groceries.

I've done my share of exploring the Asian markets at the end of Irving Street, where the live fish swim in tanks before they meet their makers and where tough old Chinese ladies push each other (and you) to get at the produce, and I've wandered the less exotic Russian market where the stony-faced man guards the deli case full of bland-looking meats and sausages, but these shops don't have the fantasy-producing ingredients of the spice markets I've left behind.

***

The photos in this post are some of my favorites. Taken in Venice, which to me evokes dreams of the Spice Trade and ships laden with nutmegs and cinnamon and black pepper, is this shop in Cannaregio, very close to the Rialto Bridge.

When I saw this shop window, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was the Spice Shop of My Dreams. The displays were so perfect and lovingly prepared with every imaginable kind of spice and seasoning.

In thinking about this post, I've been doing my homework about the Spice Trade and its history. Unfortunately, it's a history fraught with the destruction of habitats, cultures and empires.

But the more I read and learn about history, it seems that most human endeavors are filled with such things. I tend to go for the fantasy and leave the hard truth behind at times.

Perhaps knowing more about the history and spirit of where these spices came from gives me more to digest that just the taste they bring to the food I eat. And hopefully because of it, I might appreciate my food all the more.

For more interesting information about spices and the Spice Trade, check here, here and here.

My Commute

Relyn was kind enough to share a little bit of her commute with me, so I thought it would be fun to return the favor...

So here is the exciting world of tangobaby's daily trek:

This is where I wait for the train in the morning. It's Muni's N-Judah line and it goes all the way from the ocean to the ballpark. Part of the time the train travels above ground and then it goes underground for a few stops, too. I have a pass that costs $45 a month, but lots of homeless guys ride for free.

I like this old sign, and I always wonder how the graffiti got up there! It's just not San Francisco if there isn't graffiti somewhere.

This is where I get on and off: Montgomery Station. This is coming up from underground.

This building is one of the ones I like to look at. It's much more impressive in person.

This is actually a little detour. I had a flamenco class tonight, so now I'm coming back from Civic Center Station. It happens to be a creepier station than the others, imho.

Here comes my train! Hooray, it's not packed like a can of sardines tonight!

This pup licked the bandaid on the back of my heel after I took this photo. It was very nice of him to think of me.

Look at all the happy faces on the people.

This place is a second-hand clothing store in the Castro, aptly named Out of the Closet. They always have fabulous window displays, as you might imagine.

Just whizzing along home.

Now here is the fun part. For the second time in a week, the N-Judah has stopped at Hillview and has to turn around. So we are getting kicked off the train and I have to walk the rest of the way. Why? Who the hell knows.

So here I am walking the Streets of San Francisco. Funny, wasn't that a TV show?

Here is UCSF Medical Center. It is a very acclaimed hospital and teaching facility. Let's hope none of us ever need to go there.

Just a random building. I think this is on 4th and Irving. I like the color.

This is a very nice little hole-in-the-wall place called the Lime Tree that serves Singaporean/Indonesian/Malaysian food. The owner's name is Ming and he is just the sweetest man. They make this black jasmine rice pudding with coconut milk that is TO DIE FOR.

This is a Michelin-starred sushi restaurant called Koo. It's not my favorite (I'm an Ebisu gal) and you definitely need a reservation. But some people rave about this place.

In case you didn't know, San Francisco is Obama's town. I live in Obama-land. If he doesn't win the nomination and then the presidency, I think a lot of San Franciscans are going to seriously flip out. Or move to Canada.

Home sweet home!
Time for some Brussels sprouts!

...

Update, 1:53pm: I know you are dying to have my Brussels sprouts recipe, so I've included it in the comments. If you still don't like Brussels sprouts after this, then I've done all I can to help you.

Ballerina Daydreams

The other day when I got to the dance center for my flamenco class, the hall was full of willowy people. They were waiting for a ballet master class next door.

Ballet dancers stretching. I love looking at them. I don't blame Degas for painting them over and over again.

They sprawl and stretch like cats.

When I see ballet dancers, I wish I was long-legged and tall and elegant like they are. But a willowy, delicate body is not in my genetic makeup, alas.

I tried very hard to take some photos without the dancers knowing, and I am too shy to ask for their permission. Or maybe I don't want to ask.

It is very difficult to be sneaky sometimes. Maybe I should just try being bold instead.

***

Last week, I was the recipient of quite a fantastic windfall: two tickets with primo seating (fourth row center, orchestra!) for An International Salute to San Francisco Ballet.

With the always effevescent and lovely Ms. Wellspring as my ballet buddy, we first enjoyed a lovely meal at Sauce, a restaurant we'd both been wanting to try. It's in Hayes Valley, and we had a cozy table at the bar (book ahead if you want reservations).

Soon, our little table was filled with lobster and crab sliders, baby arugula salad with blood orange and Point Reyes bleu cheese, sesame shrimp, spinach and artichoke brulee, and their signature dessert, which is not to be missed.

Called simply PB&J, this dessert is not like any peanut butter and jelly sandwich you've ever had: pan-seared sponge cake layered with homemade strawberry preserve and Frangelico peanut butter with a vanilla ice cream center...yummmmm...

I apologize that I do not have any decent photos of the food. First of all, the lighting was too dark, and second of all, we were too busy eating.

And then with full bellies, it was time to head for the ballet!

***

The San Francisco Ballet performs in at the exquisite War Memorial Opera House, directly across from City Hall. The building is designed in the magnificent French Renaissance style by Arthur Brown Jr., who also was the architect of Coit Tower and City Hall. It opened its doors to audiences for the first time on October 15, 1932, and served a very important historical function as the birthplace of the United Nations. In fact, when President Truman signed the United Nations charter on June 26, 1945, it was on San Francisco's very own Opera House stage.

I learned that the San Francisco Ballet is the oldest professional ballet company in America and was founded as the San Francisco Opera Ballet in 1933. Initially, the ballet's primary purpose was to train dancers to appear in full-length, lavish opera productions.

The interior of the War Memorial Opera House is gilded confection. I tried not to look too touristy as I snapped some quick photos.

And then it was time to get settled in and wait for the curtain to go up.

From the program notes: ... San Francisco Ballet regularly tours the world, delighting audiences with its passion and excellence. This season, three international companies—New York City Ballet, Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo, and The National Ballet of Canada—take the Opera House stage to pay tribute to SF Ballet and its imprint on the world of dance.

Once the performances began, I was completely hypnotized by the dancers and the dance as it interpreted the music. I actually won't go into too much description because it's really not possible to describe how beautiful these performances were. I wish I could have taken you with me.

Instead, I've found some photos and an a small video clip. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words so hopefully in this instance I can share a little bit of the beauty I saw with you.

The first act, A Delicate Balance, was a thought-provoking juxtaposition between modern clad dancers and men and women dressed in suits and 18th-century ballgowns.

This piece was danced on a stage full of glistening, glowing snowflakes.

The second act, Duo Concertante, featured two dancers from the New York City Ballet, who performed magnificent pas de deux with a pianist and violinist onstage. Of the three performances, this was the most classical in technique.

The final act, Altro Canto, performed by Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo, is impossibly beautiful and impossibly difficult to describe. All I can say is that it was like watching a dream but you happened to be awake.

The stage was hung with many candles that magically floated from the ceiling. Suspended against the black, the candles moved in and out of the dance, creating a very spiritual, almost cathedral-type setting. The music was a haunting choral singing that made the stage feel like a sacred place.

I cannot believe it, but there is a tiny bit of video of this performance. The music is not at all what we heard (in fact, this selection does not do the performance justice at all) but watch it to get a taste of what we saw--especially for the last few seconds with the tall ballerina.

.

She was pure and utter magic and breathtakingly etheral.

Painted Ladies of San Francisco

"The architecture of San Francisco in our residence streets has no counterpart in the world, and we have no reason to be ashamed of it. It is light, airy and pleasing in style, and is to the architecture of Europe and the Eastern States as Spanish music is to the grand and heavier compositions of Wagner." ~ San Francisco Morning Call, April 21, 1887

A couple of weeks ago, I was enjoying a post on one of my favorite blogs, My Marrakesh. Maryam's beautiful photos of colorful Moroccan doors and buildings made me want to get out my passport immediately (but I feel like that anyway when I read her blog), but it also reminded me that San Francisco is a pretty colorful town, too. We have our own version of these brightly painted homes.

San Francisco Victorians abound. They are everywhere, in almost every neighborhood in this city. Some neighborhoods, like the Upper and Lower Haight, are known for their jewel colored painted homes, whereas some more staid and expensive neighborhoods have perfect, but less flashy examples. The details and workmanship on these old homes are enhanced by an amazing variety and palette of colors.

Now that I have my new playtoy, I'll be scouring the city in search of beautiful Painted Ladies to share with you...here are just a few that I discovered this weekend in the Lower Haight. And there's more where that came from here.

.

If you are interested, there are a variety of tours and events that can help a visitor (or a local) enjoy and learn about the special beauty of San Francisco's Victorian architecture.

Me 'n Mia Wallace

About every four or five weeks, I look like Mrs. Mia Wallace for a few hours.

Well, not exactly. But I feel like her.

That's when Kat does my hair so it looks almost exactly like Uma Thurman's in Pulp Fiction (I can never get it as perfectly smooth and shiny as Kat does). And then I get my Mrs. Mia Wallace manicure from Sarah (officially Uma is wearing Chanel's Vamp, but I'll settle for Essie's Wicked at a fraction of the price).

I know where I can get a $5 milkshake around here, but I don't think I'll be winning any twist contests tonight. Where's my Vincent Vega when I need him?

(Yeah, I know this is a lame post. Basically this post is an excuse to watch a favorite video clip again, but my hair really does look this good. And so do my nails.)





Photo from the NY Times Dining & Wine section.

The Beauty of Impermanance

Or is it the other way around? Do we think things are more beautiful when they are bound to come to an end?


Is there a way not to mourn the passing of one thing while transitioning into the next?

***

A few years ago, I went to see a group of Tibetan monks who were traveling through the US to raise money for their expatriated monastery in India. They spent days creating a sand mandala in the back of a local bookstore near my home.

The Tibetan Buddhist sand mandala is an exercise in creating a beautiful work of art that will be intentionally destroyed at its completion. It expresses the transitory nature of all life.

These monks spent hours and days on their knees bending over a large platform, chanting and filling intricate patterns on the giant wooden surface with tiny amounts of neon-colored sand. Because the process was so intensive, and the mandala so large, you could come by at almost any time and sit and watch them work.

The sound of their deep voices chanting, the intermittent clanging of bells and chimes, and the smell of incense created an otherwordly, yet very comforting, environment.

And then one night, the monks decided to teach a sand painting class for us. Each of us had our own little wooden board, a brass tool shaped like a long thin ice cream cone, and bowls of the finest sand imaginable, in the colors of a new box of Crayola crayons.

One older monk spoke enough English to instruct us in our task. We were supposed to draw a picture in pencil on our board as a guideline of where to put the sand. I cannot draw so one of the younger monks, Jamba, sat beside me to help me. Jamba was the size of a linebacker on a college football team. He wore his yellow and red robes like a lumbering boy in sweat pants and tee shirt. He had a fun, easy crooked smile and he smiled a lot. He spoke almost no English and of course I do not speak Tibetan.

I was just so excited to be there and learn to paint with sand that I could not even think of what to draw. So Jamba suggested a lotus and I agreed.

He quickly sketched a blooming lotus on my wooden board.

Then the monks demonstrated how to fill our brass cones with sand and to tip them ever so slightly and gently so that a thin trickle of bright flowing sand would come from the end of the cone like a continuous thread and that is how we would color in our drawings. Eagerly, I chose a color and filled my cone.

I tipped my cone at a fraction of an angle and a giant blob of colored sand fell onto my board. This was going to be harder than it looked. But somehow everyone else was able to do it. What was wrong with me?

I tried it again. Another blob. My lotus was not getting off to a very good start.

Finally Jamba could see that I was not doing very well. He would draw a little bit, and then hand the cone to me and watch me make a mess. And then he would take the cone back and draw a little more, or change the color of the sand.

After a while it became evident that I was not going to be able to paint my own lotus and that he would make one for me. That is when the artist took over and I just watched him work in silent amazement. He painted a full pink lotus blooming from a cluster of green leaves, floating in a sea of blue sky. With the most intricate precision he highlighted the tips of my lotus petals with almost imperceptible white veins and deepened the base of the flower with a red heart. He painted wispy puffs of clouds in my blue sand sky and as a final touch, he added a bee to my beautiful flower. The bee made me laugh out loud with delight. It was like a writer with a feathered pen adding a flourish to his manuscript.

At the end of the class, I had the prettiest lotus. The thought of sweeping it away crushed me. How could I destroy something that was made just for me? Jamba took us out to the back of the shop and each of us gingerly followed, carrying our sand paintings as if they were made of the finest blown glass.

Instead of destroying our work, he had a can of aerosol fixative. He was going to spray our sand paintings so we could take them home.

I asked Jamba if that didn't go against the whole idea of a sand mandala in the first place. They are created in order to be destroyed.

Jamba smiled and laughed and said that they only use the spray for the Americans. Because we never want things to come to an end.

He was right.

I put my sand painting in a place of honor in my home where I could see it all the time. The bee was my favorite part. Just looking at the bee and remembering how the bee came to be (!) in seconds with such festivity made me smile. But little by little the painting started to get dusty, and what could I do? I could not clean it. It was so fragile. Bits of sand started to flake off of it and I worried about the further decay of my painting. Pretty soon it was falling apart and after a while I had no choice but to throw it away.

I realized I had held onto it too long. My memory of the painting was as it was in its final stage of decay, not in its colorful glory as Jamba had laughingly painted it for me, and that made me wistful.

Now in my mind's eye, I try to see the painting as it was when it was new, and more and more I realize that is how I should try to remember lots of things, in their full beauty and in the moment of creation.

***
This is how a mandala is painted, if you are interested.

***

And because this relates to the lotus, the bee and something else I've been thinking about, a quote from a book I have not read in many years, but should read again:

"When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet, this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of time and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible in life, as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom. The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what it was, nor forward to what it might be, but living in the present and accepting it as it is now. For relationships, too, must be like islands. One must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits – islands surrounded and interrupted by the sea, continuously visited and abandoned by the tides. One must accept the serenity of the winged life, of ebb and flow, of intermittency." ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh, A Gift from the Sea

***

Beautiful photo by readerwalker.

When A Wish Comes True

This is a story for T.

It is a fairy tale but it is also a true story. It is a story about a place -- Paris -- and a secret dream.

It is about the power of a wish, and that wishes do come true. Sometimes they come true quickly, and sometimes they take a while longer.

***

Once upon a time there was a girl with brown hair and blue eyes, and she went to Paris with the studious college boy whom she would marry the following year.

The girl had never been anywhere before. She had gotten her passport especially for this trip.

She was 24 years old and had never done anything special in her life. She just lived her life without thinking about it one way or another.

And then one day, she was in Paris.

***

The flight was longer than she expected it would be. Dragging her luggage through Charles de Gaulle airport almost made her cry because her suitcase had no wheels and it was so heavy after all of those hours in the plane. Since she had never been anywhere before, she did not even think to use a suitcase that had wheels on it. She just used the suitcase her mom and dad had. It was old.

She and the boy were too tired to talk. They figured out how to get to the RER train and then to the metro and then to the 5th arrondisement, where their cheap hotel was located on a narrow alley.

They dragged their luggage up three or four flights of stairs. She lost count of the steps. She lay down on the hard twin bed and fell into a dead sleep.

***

When she woke up, the sky was pink. The sun was setting.

The boy was still asleep or tired and didn't want to go out. So she went by herself. She didn't really know where she was going, but before she knew it, she was on the quai of the Left Bank, looking at Notre Dame Cathedral.

The entire sky was glowing pink and orange with the setting sun. Notre Dame was so beautiful and she had never seen anything like it in her life, so she started to cry. She was frozen to the spot where she stood. People walked around her.

***

One day or the next, the brown-haired girl was walking along the Quai de Bourbon on the Ile St. Louis. By now the rhythms of Paris were not so foreign to her.

She stopped at 19, Quai de Bourbon. There was an engraved plaque to the right of the blue enamel-painted doors. The plaque was dedicated to Camille Claudel, a talented sculptress and mistress of Auguste Rodin. She had lived in this building. You might know where this building is.

One of the enamel doors was ajar. The girl could peek into the courtyard behind the door, into the serene garden that was hidden to the rest of Paris and to the world. A grey cat watched her.

She wanted so badly to go through the gate. But she didn't dare. She stood as long as she could and looked and looked at the sliver of the garden that she could see until she felt uncomfortable standing and staring and then she walked away.

But in her heart she wished so hard that someday she would be back, and then she would walk through that gate for real. She would be brave.

***

The girl married the boy. Years passed.

She thought about Paris and the pink sunset and the blue gate and the secret garden. When she closed her eyes, she could see everything just as if she was there, it was that real.

***

More years passed. The boy that became the husband became the ex-husband. But that is another story.

She didn't think about Paris as much as she used to, but when she did, she thought about the garden and the blue door and the cat.

***

And then the girl met another boy.

And this boy had a key.

This boy sent her to Paris with the key and told her to go and enjoy herself.

***

The girl stood before the enameled door.

She had the key.

She unlocked the gate. And she walked in and closed the door behind her.

It had taken fifteen years but she was there.

Her wish had come true.

***

And that is a true story.

De-Flowering/Flowering

“Use, do not abuse; neither abstinence nor excess ever renders man happy.” ~ Voltaire

***

I have been de-slumped. Lifted from my tango inertia.

De-wallflowered.

***

Last night I wore my silver shoes again, for the first time in what seemed like forever. I have worn flamenco shoes and ruffled skirts and ballet slippers and leotards over the past weeks, and my tango shoes have been left untouched.

I put myself on tango hiatus. I went into tango hibernation. I sent myself to my Tango Time Out Corner.

Somewhere along the way, I have been making myself crazy trying to keep up with the Tango Joneses. I don't even quite know who or what those Tango Joneses are, but all I know is that a dance that made me fall in love with myself, others, and the world was making me unhappy and dissatisfied.

I was tired of pretending that it was okay to be a wallflower and that I didn't mind it. So, like when a house isn't selling, the wise realtor takes the property off the market. So I took myself off the market, and found some other things to do.

***

Last night I went to Cellspace with Ms. Red Shoes. (If ever you need to be in the presence of a gentle, soothing soul, seek out her company.) In all of the weeks and months and now years that I have been dancing tango, I have never gone to this milonga. In my mind, I had decided that it wouldn't be a good fit for me, due to its reputation for being "alternative." I am, in my heart of hearts, a milonguero's girl.

And, as per usual, the things I set my mind against end up being the things that surprise and delight me the most.

I was not a wallflower. I did leg wraps and crazy big ochos and volcadas and I liked it.

And since I've been wondering for a while now if the Tango Angels had forsaken me, there is a new one in town. He is from Boston. He has to be the loveliest dancer I've danced with in a long time. I am sad for the girls in Boston. I am tentative in my excitement, not because I wouldn't love to dance with him any time he asks, but that I am used to my tango angels fading away after a while. But maybe that's just how it is and I'm only realizing it now.

I am purposely emerging from my tango hibernation slowly. I'm not going to jump into the deep end of the pool like I usually do.

I'm going to dip my toes in the water, and walk back in from the shallow end this time.

The Journey: For Relyn, the Dreamer

“When you set out on your journey to Ithaca, pray that the road is long, full of adventure, full of knowledge.” ~ Constantine Peter Cavafy


Someday, when you travel to the places on your list of dreams, you must promise to send me a postcard so I can go with you in my imagination.

xo

tangobaby

Merci millefois, Paris Parfait, for providing the perfect video...

Kick That Ruffle

That is what our teacher tells us.

When you kick the ruffle of your skirt with your knee, it flies up in a swirl of flounce and polka dots, looking like a more modest version of a can-can skirt. And then you stamp your feet hard on the wooden floor--bang!--and the dozens of little nails that are hammered into the toes and heels of your shoes make a sharp crack.

Your torso is lifted, your head held high, and you are fierce.

Flamenco is h-o-t. (Not that tango isn't, of course.) It's a different kind of hot. Like if tango is a panther quietly prowling towards its prey though a lush bed of jungle, flamenco is a falcon that will swoop down on you and take your heart and fly off into the sky again.

Tango is voluptuous, stealthy, perfection in shadows. Flamenco is in your face, like the flash of a magnesium flare, audacious and wilful.

Like I said, it's fierce. I like it.

***

Last night in my class, I had a glimmer of hope in that I will not always look like a special-needs person dressed up as a flamenco dancer.

I had little flashes of what it will feel like when I can actually do this dance without screwing up.

I have band-aids on both heels this morning from flamenco class last night. I don't remember scraping my skin off yesterday, but I guess I did somewhere in that hour.

***

In class, we have live music. A guitarist named Jorge plays and sings for us. We rode up together in the old clanky elevator at the dance center yesterday, and I said my little Hola, que tal? (because that is all I know, I really must try to learn Spanish) and he quietly reciprocated.

I told Jorge what an honor and a pleasure it is to have him play for us in every class. I told him that I am not used to having a musician play in my dance classes (although in ballet we have a piano accompanist, but that feels more like background music than music you dance to). Flamenco guitar is very passionate but his gypsy singing is what makes it soulful.

***

After class, my muscles ache. I feel stretched and loose and sore and sweaty. My neck feels longer and so do my arms. Even though it's cold outside, I am not wearing my jacket. I think of that John Mellencamp song, Hurts So Good.

So what I am learning from all of this?

I think that flamenco is going to help my tango. I am finally using and working that infamous core that my tango teachers talk about. I realize now that I am getting the training and warmup exercises I have needed for tango all along, but I am guessing it is needed for any kind of dance. I have not had a tango class that has focused on exercise to develop the intrinsic form and internal strength of the dancer, aside from the walk, even though that form is talked about a lot in class.

I think flamenco is going to help my tango a lot because I'll finally be developing that dancer's stance. We'll see. I'm going to Cellspace tonight so I'll be evaluating myself to see if I notice anything new in the way I carry myself.

I'll just have to be careful not to stamp my feet.

Springtime in San Francisco

Sunday in San Francisco was one of those days where the only way I could have taken a bad photo was if I had left the lens cap on my camera when I clicked the shutter button.

I spent hours in Golden Gate Park--my neighborhood park--enraptured with the nature exploding around me. I drained an entire camera battery on photos.

I compiled my first slideshow, and yeah, it's kinda cheesy and would be great filler for a local public access tv station, but see what you think of my ever first youtube video.



A few more photos to enjoy, but you can find the rest (and more that didn't make it into the video) here.