The couple’s movements mesmerized me and for the next few minutes these anonymous dancers were the only two beings that existed for me. I was captivated by the graceful style exhibited by the female dancer. She gave the illusion of floating when she danced as she glided across the floor. Her feet rarely touched the ground when she would perform such moves as the “gancho,” a move in which she would hook her leg around her partner’s leg or a “boleo” where she would perform small quick back kicks as she sashayed from side to side. Her moves were often quick, yet elegant and poised. At other times, she would dance slowly and tantalizingly by performing such moves as sliding her foot down her partner’s body or arching her back as he dipped her.

Watching this couple, it was not hard to imagine a time when the tango was a forbidden dance. Although there is nothing vulgar about it, the Argentine Tango is danced in a close embrace or “abrazo.” It is for this reason when there is chemistry between partners, such as the couple I was watching, that I feel as though I am watching an immensely private moment between two lovers. The couple’s dance conveyed several emotions over the course of a few minutes allowing a voyeuristic glimpse into their relationship. Through their dance steps viewers could catch conflicting moments of flirtation, foreplay, seduction, resistance, passion, rejection and reconciliation. The emotions that we all have in human relationships were summed up in one simple, yet emotionally intricate and complicated dance.

It is said that tango is essentially walking with a partner to music, but such a description misses the essence of tango. To me, the tango is a dance where a couple makes love while fully clothed. It is the most passionate dance I have ever seen performed and it is a dance I knew then I had to learn. It is for this reason that I enrolled in Group Dance classes at “Dance with Me Soho.” I was hoping that I could relive my time in Buenos Aires and learn to dance like the porteña I saw dance so beautifully. Secretly, I was also hoping I would be paired up with an Antonio Banderas type, preferably the Antonio Banderas from “Take the Lead” since that version already knew how to dance the tango, but any iteration of Antonio would do.

When I arrived at the dance studio, I realized that not only would Antonio would not be in attendance, but I would be lucky to dance with a man at all. The ratio of men to women was disappointing as there were eleven women to three men in the class. I tried to overcome this chromosomal imbalance through imagination. When the instructor turned the music on, I transported myself back to Buenos Aires by imagining I was six thousand miles away at a milonga in Palermo Soho, a fashionable neighborhood of Buenos Aires. I imagined Carlos Gardel was signing one of his legendary tango songs, Por Una Cabeza, a song in which he compares his love for gambling on the ponies to his obsession for a particular lady. I pretended that I was the graceful, sensual porteña on Calle Caminito instead of the frustrated woman on Broome Street dancing with an equally frustrated woman where one of us would inevitably stop every so often to ask, “who is leading? Are you leading? Are you pretending to be the boy? Am I the boy? Who is the boy?” The gender confusion was exhausting! After awhile I felt like I was on a bad reality TV show that was experimenting with gender identity.

That night I would learn that at a milonga, a tango dance hall, couples dance counter-clockwise. This was a concept my classmates and I seemed to have had problems grasping as there were several collisions. As someone who would have rallied against banning the tango in its heyday, I would fully support the City of New York outlawing my class ever dancing the tango en masse. What we, as a collective, did to such a graceful dance, should be illegal. While there is a thriving milonga scene in New York City, which I hope to visit one day, I will only do so after I have engaged a private dance instructor to learn the tango. Although I have three more classes left, I have banned myself from taking group tango lessons. For the next three weeks, this gringa can be found dancing salsa in Soho.

Despite the loss of privacy, I find myself breaking out into a mild sweat with the possibility of a doorman/porter strike looming overhead should “labor” not reach an agreement with “the man” by the 20th. And I’m not even one of the more high maintenance residents who treat their doormen like their own personal Benson. I do, however, admit to having the porters come to my apartment on occasion to remove unwanted creepy crawly “house guests.” So with 30,000 workers threatening to walk off the job at midnight, I think many New Yorkers are a little on edge.

About a week ago the management company of my building sent out an ominous memo entitled “Procedures to follow in the event of a Building Workers Strike.” Sacre bleu! “Should a strike be called, identification cards for residents and domestic help must be displayed to security personnel upon entering the building.” Is it wrong that the first thought that popped into my head was envy of those who have “domestic help”? While we’re on the topic of domestic chores, the memo also said that although not officially barred from using the laundry rooms, residents are supposed to “keep their use of the laundry facilities to a minimum.” What does that mean? Does using the laundry room only when I have 4 or 5 loads and my portable hamper is so heavy that I feel as though my arm might break constitute “minimal” use?

Also, in the event of emergency repairs, it is possible that “outside contractors and repair personnel may not cross a picket line to service the building.” Listen I’m supportive of their cause, but you better believe if I have some major emergency you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m going to find some scab who WILL cross the picket line in a New York minute!

My favorite tidbit from the memo is that during the strike we are not allowed to use the trash shoots, but instead we must throw our bags out in the dumpster. I’m OK with that, but what I am not OK with is that “it is possible that New York City Sanitation Workers may refuse to cross the picket line to collect garbage until a health emergency is declared.” Wonderful! What is this going to become the Cirque du Soleil for the City’s vermin? If that happens guess who will be have Bloomberg’s office on speed dial?

The last time apartment workers walked out was in 1991 and the strike lasted nearly two weeks. Here’s to hoping we don’t have a repeat.

Please excuse me, but I must attend to some “minimal” laundry duties.

P.S. The city has established a website in the event of a strike. For more information, please visit

http://www.pubadvocate.nyc.gov/pages/TenantAlert.html

A View from the Bridge is set in Red Hook during the wave of immigration in the 1900s. It is a dark play, yet there were several moments for laughter, which helped to keep the play a bit lighter. Liev plays Eddie Carbone an Italian American longshoreman who lives with his wife Beatrice and his niece Catherine (Scarlett) for whom he is the guardian. I found Beatrice to be an annoying character, but I suppose that was the point of her. She is threatened by Eddie’s feelings for Catherine, perhaps rightfully so, but at times she throws Catherine under the bus a bit too much for my liking. Eddie is very protective of Catherine and he becomes increasingly uncomfortable with seeing her turn into a woman. At times it is suggested that he might be falling in love with her (como se dice “creepy” in Italian). These feelings become more apparent once Beatrice’s two cousins Marco and Rudolpho come to America illegally and stay with the Carbone family. Chaos ensues when Catherine and Rudolpho fall in love. To say that Eddie is not a fan of Rudy is an understatement. Eddie is convinced that Rudolpho sees Catherine as a ticket to a Green Card. Eddie also insinuates that Rudolpho is “just not right,” in other words, that he’s a little light in the loafers because he sings, dances, cooks, makes dresses. Maybe it is because I am a woman of a certain age but color me Oscar Wilde because Rudolpho sounds like an ideal husband. Bonus points if he can do an updo and accessorize me.

Although I joke about stalking celebrities at plays, I’m generally disappointed when I see them on Broadway. It is very rare that I am impressed by their performances. God of Carnage comes to mind as one of the only times where the cast’s performance impressed me. However, A View from the Bridge is also one of those rare occasions where it was worth the price of admission. Scarlett was a delight to watch on stage and I was able to think of her as Catherine rather than Scarlett Johnasson, Hollywood star and muse to Woody Allen. I also loved seeing a woman with curves on stage rather than some ambiguous stick figure. As for Liev, I kinda fell a little bit in love with him during the performance. I’ve seen him before at a private Shakespeare in the Park garden party a few years ago. He was there with his paramour Naomi Watts. I wasn’t overly concerned by his presence there. However, he gave such a powerful performance as Eddie, that I see him in a different light and now I am excited to see him in his next project.

Although time is running out, if you get a chance to see A View from the Bridge, you should jump at it.

As for the quality of the show, using Neil Rosen’s Big Apple Rating Scale I’d give it 2 1/2 apples. It’s a dark play and at times creepy when the audience realizes one of the main characters (Frederik) is married to an 18 year old girl (Anne) who is young enough to be his daughter and that Frederik’s teenage son is in love with Anne. The play also started out slow and I could hear my friends talking to each other as we all painfully trudged through the first half of Act I. The pace of the play was part of the reason we considered leaving at intermission or what I like to call theater halftime. I also found the location of the actor’s microphones to be distracting. Cathy Z’s was on her forehead and it was all we could look at and talk about when we watched her performance. Note to the wardrobe department maybe you could conceal it in the bird’s nest of a wig you have her wearing, just a suggestion.

As for the actual performances, I thought Angela Lansbury shined as Madame Armfeldt and her song “Liaisons” was one of the highlights of the show. Madame Armfeldt is an old woman nearing the end of her life who is confined largely to her wheel chair and it is from there while playing a game of solitaire she recounts the adventures she has had with her past paramours. The song is bitter sweet and there’s a ruefulness to her moment as a raconteur. She informs us that she has spent time at the villa of a Baron, the palace of a Duke, and has taken Kings for lovers. As she was reminiscing about her liaisons and lamenting the death of the romance associated with them, I couldn’t help but think how technology has destroyed the art of seduction as would be suitors resort to text messaging and emails as the preferred method of communication. When Madame Armfelt asks to no one in particular, “Where is style? Where is skill? Where is forethought? Where’s discretion of the heart? Where’s passion in the art?,” I found myself wondering the same thing. I wanted to sing along with her when she sang:

Liaisons! What’s happened to them?
Liaisons today.
Disgraceful! What’s become of them?
Some of them
Hardly pay their shoddy way.

Liaisons! What’s happened to them?
Liaisons today.
To see them–indiscriminate
Women, it
Pains me more than I can say,
The lack of taste that they display!

You sing it Jessica Fletcher!

Not to be outdone, Cathy Z gave a great rendition of “You Must Meet My Wife,” which involves a scene when she is reunited with Frederik, her former lover who is telling her how fantastic Anne is and like any ex-amour would, Cathy Z’s character Desiree was facetiously enthusiastic about meeting her rival since the idea of actually doing so is revolting to her. In Act II, Cathy Z gets to sing one of the most famous Broadway tunes, Send in the Clowns. Oddly, it didn’t dawn on me that song was in the show even though I had to settle a dispute between a couple who was arguing over the lyrics prior to the curtain going up. The husband was adamant that the song was “bring in the clowns” while the wife was holding her ground that it was “send in the clowns.” I was unable to refrain from interfering, in particular, because I have almost a turrets like compulsion to interject the right answer when people are wrong, and also because I used to have to sing that song in voice lessons as a child. Incidentally, that song is as close to clowns as I want to get. I still think the damn things are scary depressed closet alcoholics (well except maybe Fizbo the clown).

For those who want to save their money or for those wanting a preview, please check out the youtube link below. It includes all three of the songs I’ve mentioned (the singing doesn’t start until 53 seconds into the clip).

I went to an SD event when I first moved to the city after the encouragement of a friend who dated several people from these events. It was only after I attended an event that she confessed that she frequently encountered non-native speakers, which sounds great at first because who doesn’t love a foreign accent and a well-travelled man. What she neglected to tell me was that some of the guys were still in ESL classes and to overcome the language barrier she had to engage in pantomime. Although I had an ESL guy at my event, who didn’t understand the rules of SD and ended our “date” by asking me “we go out again, yes, no?,” he was the most normal of them all. Highlights of my first SD event included a guy who reminded me of Screech from Saved by the Bell, whose first words out of his mouth was “I’m not going to ask you what you do or where you’re from, those will be questions 2 and 3, but if you had to own one, which one would you own, cat or dog and why?” Sweet mother of Allah, aidez-moi! Another guy hid his name tag and made me guess his first name. Seriously guy? We have 5 minutes to talk and you’re making me play “My name is.” The night was salvaged though when I became friends with the girl seated next to me. She has become one of my closest friends and it never gets old telling people that I picked her up at a SD event when we’re asked how we met.

So, it was with memories of Messrs. Screech and Guess My Name in mind that I arrived to the event. My skepticism was evident as my friend remarked, “the look of cynicism on your face right now is priceless.” I apologized and vowed to look like I was happy to be there. Here’s the review:

First up was the “Professional.” It started off with the Professional asking me if I had ever gone to a SD event before and I admitted that I had on one occasion. He then spent the next few minutes giving me his review of all the events he has attended. According to him the events held at the Trump World Bar are the best. He also kept trying to weasel it out of me which company’s SD event I had attended despite my protests that I didn’t remember. The Professional was the best looking out of the lot, but on boring side and I can’t help but wonder if he’s attended so many events then shouldn’t he have met someone by now?

Next up was the “Boob Starer,” who told me I looked like a “sexy robot.” Que? Sexy Robot? Is that a compliment? After two minutes, I have never had such an overwhelming compulsion to snap my fingers to break his trance and say “eyes up here buddy, EYES UP HERE!”). I compared notes with my friends and we all noticed that he was a little too into everyone’s “girls” as we all experienced the same lack of eye contact to boob ratio.

Then I met My Cousin Vinny, who was pushing 50. However, My Cousin Vinny was not the oldest gentleman of the group. That honor was reserved for a man we called Grandpa. Now you might think I’m being mean, but one of the guys gave him the nickname (and here I thought girls were catty). Grandpa was somewhere in his late 60s/early 70s and had children that were our age. Remember the age range was 33-44 not 33 + 44! Hello where is the SD bouncer when you need him? We agreed that if a woman showed up who was so clearly out of the dating age range of the group they wouldn’t let her attend. I thought to myself, I just speed dated a 70 year old, I feel dirty. Although I held my own with him, it was an uncomfortable round and we all intended to write a note to the organizers about the fact that he was in our group.

There were two nice guys, but I found myself wondering what friends I knew to set up with them….not a good sign for a romantic connection. My last date ended with the crowd’s favorite. I felt more of a friend connection with him than a Chuck Woolery Love Connection. Hopefully, one of my girls got matched up with “crowd’s favorite.” Because there weren’t 8 people there, we get to attend another event for free. I may go to another one to try to end on a high note and to prove my theory wrong. I’ll have to take a Chuck Woolery “two and two” break and get back to you.

I remember moving into the dorm freshman year and staying up later than I should have to watch Conan. I had an odd crush on this dorky redheaded comedian and loved the dynamic between Conan and Andy. However, I knew that Conan wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I remember the days when Conan wasn’t catching on and he was always at risk of getting a pink slip. So, I guess you could say I was part of “Team Coco, The Early Years.”

I love Jay, but I never thought Jay at 10 p.m. would work. I did, however, think Conan as the host of the Tonight Show would. With that being said, what never worked for me was Conan in LA. Conan has a self-deprecating style and has built a career out of molding himself as an outsider. Conan seemed like someone who never expected to get invited to the party, which is why his fans loved him. Leno, on the other hand, seemed to be part of the LA establishment and was at home with the celebrities he interviewed.

In fact, I associate Conan with New York so much so that on Friday there was a part of me that forgot that Conan wasn’t in New York. It was when I was walking to the subway stop after work that for a brief moment I thought, “I should’ve taken today off and tried to get tickets to see Conan’s last show.” And then it hit me! Conan’s no longer here and as a result even if I wanted to help him “steal every single item in this studio,” I couldn’t because he was no longer at 30 Rock.

I thought Freebird was a great way to go out and the lyrics were appropriate. When I listen to that song, it reminds me of a bittersweet breakup. It’s like a relationship you don’t want to end because you still love each other and have had some great times, but you’ve reached a point where there’s too much water under the bridge. But with this divorce Conan can take his 30-40 million severance and join the ranks of the Park Avenue Divorcee. We will welcome him with open arms!

Then I thought, “why would I have to make a turkey? I have a wedding to go to.” Wedding? What wedding?

Despite my initial sleepy ramblings to myself, I was up and at em. This year, the role of the grumpy early morning riser was played by my understudy, none other than my very own mother. I was in an oddly chipper mood as I tried to rally the troops by bribing them with a trip to Dunkin Donuts. It was with pumpkin donuts and munchkins in hand that we headed crosstown to a little place I like to call tourist hell to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Did someone say Margaritas in the Morning, Followed by Bad Decisions in the Afternoon?

It wasn’t too long after Officer Friendly left the scene, that the parade started. I don’t watch the parade when I’m in the States. I once watched it in Quito while waiting for a flight back to the US later that day, but otherwise I boycott the TV version. The TV version does NOT do it justice. I am now a life long fan of the Macy’s Day Parade in the live version! It is now my secret mission to be in it next year.

Hello Bob!

The Original Snoop Dog!

Don't you just want to poke him?

View of from the Castle District

There are still some cultural things that we’re trying to get used to, however, since my Czech is limited to “Ahoy” (hello/goodbye), “dyekuyi” (thank you), “prosim” (please), and “pivo” (beer), I’ll over look Rule #3 of the trip, i.e., “just stand there and I’ll move around you.” Speaking of the Czech language, how can you not love a country whose greeting makes you sound like a pirate? Ahoy Prague!

Tram 22. End of the line folks!

St. Vitus Cathedral within the Castle compound.

Golden Lane

No. 22, Kafka's former studio.

The wine warmed us up and it was perfect for a cold day. It was here that we developed rule #4, which is “Don’t order more than one mulled wine unless you plan on getting bombed.” It was a bit cold that day and I could have definitely stayed and gotten bombed if it were not for the fact that we had limited sleep the night before and tickets to the opera.

Warm and toasty in a glass.

And now for a little culture. Estates Theater.

If I could only remember the name of this delicious elixir.

Our train from Krakow to Praha

We arrived in Prague at 7 a.m. from Krakow on the night train. The night train was an experience that I will not soon forget. I wanted to take it because I think that there’s something romantic about traveling by train, maybe it is because I am a throw back from another era and I was looking for Cary Grant on the Orient Express. The Orient Express it was not! Although I didn’t think it was that bad, Ahab, the nickname I’ve bestowed upon my travel mate for her map skills, described it as “super creepy.” In fairness she was also afraid we would get gassed and robbed on the overnight train as she had read one too many travel warnings that had morphed into the realms of urban legends. Perhaps, it wasn’t that bad for me because I drugged myself up with a Nyquil and melatonin cocktail so I was too tired to care. However, it didn’t help allay Ahab’s fears when our hot little porter told us to lock our doors because “there are thieves.” So, we triple locked our private sleeper compartment and debated on whether we should even venture out to the WC should the need arise, lest we get clobbered by some thief in the night.

Speaking of our sleeper car, when we first entered the beds were turned down, however, we weren’t ready to retire yet so we had hot porter put the go-go gadget seats up into the “lounge” position, which he happily did and then left.

Our glamorous private sleeper car.

Perhaps the most fun was when somewhere in the middle of the night and in the middle of who knows where Eastern Europe our train stopped for an hour or so due to an engine problem. We didn’t have heat, electric, or water. It was freezing! Ahab was afraid they would kick us off the train, but I just took more melatonin to go back to sleep. At that point I needed the drugs more than ever because with the lack of the engine to power the heating system and the soothing sounds of the train traveling on the tracks, I had a hard time drowning out the sound of the passenger snoring in the compartment next to us.

I think, I can, I think, I can….choo…choo. Thomas the train finally pulled into the main train station in Praha shortly before 7 a.m. We stepped out of the train station on our very short walk to our hotel and our first smell of Prague consisted of some guy smoking pot. Pot at 7 a.m on a Monday morning? Is that the Czech version of the breakfast of champions?

We only had to go about 600 meters to find our charming hotel, the Hotel Chopin. I highly recommend the Hotel Chopin. The staff was friendly, the rooms were clean with modern décor, and it was centrally located. I wouldn’t hesitate to stay there again should I one day find myself in Praha!

The museum at Auschwitz is free and it’s easy to explore on your own, but we hired a guide for 33 PLN (about $11). It’s a group tour where everyone gets a headset and the guide has a microphone and we’re able to hear the guide through the headphones. It’s a great way to give a tour, especially in a place as somber as Auschwitz. Our guide was fantastic. We first watched a very moving documentary on Auschwitz and Auschwitz Birkenau. I had to struggle not to cry during the movie as it was a wonderful demonstration of how brutal the Nazis were. Auschwitz is much smaller than Birkenau. Birkenau is roughly 438 acres whereas Auschwitz is much smaller. In fact, Birkenau was built because Auschwitz was too small to acheive the evil goals of the Nazis. Birkenau was the largest of all the Nazi extermination camps.

If I had only two words to sum up the camps it would be savage and inhumane. Although the Nazis destroyed the massive gas chambers and creamatoriums at Birkenau, the remains are still there to see how large they were. We also walked into a gas chamber and creamatorium in Auschwitz. It was unbelievable and overwhelming to think that we were standing on the exact spot where thousands and thousands met their death unexpectedly. I found that part the most difficult to tolerate as well as looking at pictures of children who had been the victim of experiments. I thought Birkenau was more moving than Auschwitz. It’s weird to say that because Auschwitz had several photographs and items from former prisoners there, but it had a museum like quality to it where everything was roped off and partitioned by glass cases, but at Birkenau visitors are able to roam the grounds freely and explore on their own. You walk along the train tracks that we’ve seen so many times in documentaries which were used to transport people to the camp.

It’s hard to talk about what the visit their meant to me. In fact, it was even difficult for Ahab and I to talk about it afterwards. We were silent for a good part of the car ride back to Krakow, each lost in our own thoughts about what we had witnessed. I was left with the feeling that it only takes a generation, a generation of brainwashing to change an entire culture. That’s a scary thought!