Tango is a Dangerous Liar

It is an arrogant dreamer, laying traps along the way. Tango is an illusion, and everyone who falls under its spell must understand that. Pity the one who, believing in that illusion, places the reins of their life in its hands.
It is hard to believe that somewhere, far away at the edge of the world, there is a country where happy people created a dance of sorrow for the past—a dance that continues to live into the future.
Many years ago, when I travelled to Argentina for the first time, it was only as I sat on the plane that I realised I was flying towards a world entirely unknown to me—a world that had captivated my imagination ever since childhood through a story my grandfather told me about his cousin who lived far beyond the Atlantic Ocean.
Argentina… A magical word that, to me as a child, sounded not only mysterious and unattainable, but somehow proud and sunlit as well. Years later, when I was much older, I discovered tango—another undeniable reason to travel there and see with my own eyes the country whose people had created such an emotionally profound culture.
And there I was, sitting on a flight from Paris to Buenos Aires. I was travelling to the country of my childhood dreams without knowing a single person who lived there, delighting in the thought—it was November—that it was spring there and, my God, it was Latin America!
Then, suddenly, a million thoughts flooded my mind. How would I communicate? I didn’t speak Spanish. How would I get from the airport to my hotel—by taxi, bus or train? Where would I exchange money? Would they accept bank cards? Was it safe? Or would I be robbed the moment I stepped off the plane?
Yet Argentina welcomed me with extraordinary warmth, as though thanking me for loving her for so many years before ever seeing her. There were the locals offering advice on where to go, how to behave, and which places were best avoided; the porteños—the people of Buenos Aires—who were always ready to help me find my way through the city the moment I asked the first stranger for directions; the cheerful Buenos días from neighbours enjoying their morning mate on the doorstep next door, greeting me on my very first morning; the famous Argentine steaks and rich red wine in the family restaurant of Nicola, a taxi driver from Palermo, whom I had hired for a night-time drive around the city and who refused to accept payment for the tour. He simply wanted to show his city to someone who had come from a small country.
Before travelling to Buenos Aires, several acquaintances had warned me to prepare for disappointment. According to them, tango culture had long since disappeared there, replaced entirely by commercialism and kitsch. But to my immense delight, I found far more than I had ever expected. In a city of twelve million people, passengers patiently queued for buses; men still offered their seats to women; hundreds of tango schools and milongas filled the city; women who seemed to have stepped out of photographs of Eva Perón walked the streets alongside confident, elegant men; and at El Círculo, the magnificent theatre in Rosario with its gilded balconies and glittering chandeliers, the auditorium was packed with spectators fanning themselves while singing one of the thousands of tango songs.
Argentina is full of contradictions and remarkable eclecticism, yet somehow everything fits together in perfect harmony. Invisible bonds seem to hold together things that, by all logic, should contradict one another.
At that time, I could never have imagined that in 2013 I would stand on the stage of that very theatre—not as a visitor, but as an honoured guest of the city—dancing tango for the people who had created it.