The Tango

Is there a better way to spend a Saturday while traveling alone in Barcelona than a tango lesson?

That was my logic when I signed up for the class from my cozy New York City bedroom. After climbing 12 flights of stairs on a 92° afternoon and entering the studio 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. We made the obligatory introductions, which were interrupted when Jorge began blasting tango music from his ‘90s stereo. He proceeded to perform a sassy solo number 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 twirled, strutted, and stifled our laughter. Fresh air cascaded 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 lesson ended, chatting as the sun sunk below Montserrat on the horizon.

Once we finished Jorge’s wine, I skipped down the 12 flights of stairs and left the building to find Plaça Real echoing with jazz music and overflowing with dancing Catalans. They leapt and spun through the square, dipping and twirling around the band at the center.

I left my Yankee-style hyper-consciousness in 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.