Tango Night and Flowers of la Señora, Parque Dorego

It has to be surrender. Or confidence. Or luck. Or the brilliance we forget we have within us finally splashing out the surface. One of these things is the essence of Tango.

I’m floating in a mist of cigarette smoke y breath full of vino tinto y a scratchy record’s epic declarations of passionate melodies y about 70 people dancing in a space where only 40 could stand comfortably. It’s a typical Sunday evening in this little plazuela where people come to dance and drink and talk and be.

A little girl of about ten years with a rainbow colored handmade poncho rolls up on me and sticks out her hand with a bright orange flower as if she was delivering the newspaper. I take it. She explains that the flowers belonged to a Senora who passed away, but the flowers are for the people. She is on a mission. I look at Constanza, la Chilena who had just been speaking to me about the necessity of breaking routines and living with passion. She smiles and the little girl gives her a flower too. La Chiquita scurries away through the pairs of dreamers dancing tango into the night sky like they were praying to the Gods of Argentinean Romance and red wind. Constanza and I accept the little girl’s mission and our part in it with curious amusement. My friend from Chile had just explained by example to me the inclusive nature of this social scene by acting as if I was an old friend even though I was just a stranger who just happened to be sitting nearby… “y tu, como estas?” she asked me and thirty seconds later we were agreeing about how miraculous it is to breathe air and look into eyes and create art. Five minutes after that we were gifted plants of a deceased woman. Ten minutes after that the chubby poncho flower delivery girl returns and says ok, la senora needs the flowers back. She grabs the stem and takes one right out of Constanza’s bag and lifts mine right out of my hands (so much for bringing lau una flor) We sit there totally shocked as the tango dancers glide around and watch as the niña walks up to a fifty year old lady in mid conversation and plucks a lily right out of her hair and walk off. We burst out laughing. The flower girl disappears, the tango dancers kick their heals up, the moon nods in approval and we discuss why life is worth living and then say goodnite as the dramatic pause of the tango ends and the plaza exhales.