The Tango

When I signed up for a tango lesson in Barcelona, I figured there was no better way to spend a Saturday while solo traveling. After climbing twelve flights of stairs on a 92° afternoon to find six couples, I was less convinced.

I was the only person who came to the class alone. Jorge—our flamboyant instructor with terrible breath—was my partner by default. The obligatory small talk was interrupted when Jorge began blasting flamenco music from his ‘90s stereo. He proceeded to perform a sassy solo number, swinging his narrow hips to the beat while pouring Spanish wine for the group.

With that, the lesson began. I bonded with couples from Switzerland, England, Germany, Peru, and Ireland as we strutted and stifled our laughter. Fresh air drifted into the studio through open windows overlooking the city. I admired the skeletons of Casa Batlló and the unfinished Sagrada Família between tango steps. Jorge spun around the room topping off our glasses. He spoke very little English and insisted on calling me Maria, despite my new friends' repeated corrections. We lingered for hours after the class ended, chatting until the sun sunk below Montserrat on the horizon.

Once we finished Jorge’s wine, I skipped down the stairs and out the door to find Plaça Real echoing with jazz music and overflowing with dancing Catalans. They leapt through the square, dipping and pirouetting around the band at the center.

I tucked my Yankee-style hyper-consciousness into my new Spanish purse, bought a cerveza from a street merchant, and joined the crowd. I practiced the tango as night fell, twirling alongside the locals long after the street lights turned on.