nkling of what I do not have when it comes to walking, glorified or not, through urban sprawl: intrepidity. This occurred to me quite stoutly when I was crossing the street last week to reach a lunch destination (which was quite delicious). Anyone who has strolled with me knows that once the little walking man has pranced out of sight and an orange hand appears, I heed the sign. No sprinting across the street. No frantic bounding to the other side. These are both permutations of something I and I'm certain most people are acutely fearful of: looking stupid. Plus, cars are bigger than humans on the whole. (I imagine that I can overturn one of those smart cars if exceptionally enraged). There is something so intensely bothersome to me about sneering disapproval or even thin filmy veils of disparagement: from people I know, from strangers on the street, as well as dance partners. Perhaps this is also why my leading efforts in tango have not been so successful: I've been terrified of being hit and seeming hopelessly maladroit.
Im leaving for China on Sunday and will come to a new type of milonga, one of honking cars, overcrowded buses, innumerable bikes: a whole city of drivers. Although I will seek to cut a rug in studios and shake a leg in clubs to be sure, this time will be a thoroughly new exercise in driving and leading myself in this foreign metropolitan dance.
a tango nuevo indeed.
