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Monday, June 8, 1998 Last modified at 12:44 a.m. on Monday, June 8, 1998
Tango immune to World Cup hubbub
PARIS (AP) - The lady in slinky black pressed close to the tough-looking stranger and then suddenly turned to aim a savage kick. Both smiled in romantic rapture, and the crowd danced on.
Down along the Seine, amid twinkling fairy lights and air as smooth as nectar, the summernight tango junkies were at it again on a patch of waterside concrete.
From June to September, each weekend is the same. The World Cup starts soon in Paris, but from the scant evidence of it along the Seine, the soccer tournament might as well be opening on the moon.
"I am in paradise here, to feel the magic of Paris at midnight, the pleasure and scent of a woman," exulted a drama teacher who gave his name as Francis. "There is nothing like tango."
Christian Tribut, a balding retired electronics merchant, said, "I love going to Argentina, but not for football. Tango is so sensual, so passionate."
As he spoke, his eyes scoured the improvised outdoor dance floor for a likely partner.
His friend, Catherine Marie, in a shocking pink blouse and tight skirt, was intent on her own vigil. She smiled when Francis glided up and bowed. Together, they whirled off.
The tango microcosm is one tiny universe along the Seine's old stone banks. Bongo drummers pound nearby. Wine-swillers sprawl further along. Lovers of assorted colors and genders stroll past.
But the tango corner is an institution, growing more popular every year since it began in the early 1990s in a little open-air arena on the Left Bank by the tip of the Ile Saint-Louis.
Carlos Gardel, Argentina's fabled and long-dead tango king, wails old favorites on a batterypowered boom box. Volunteer organizers sprinkle talcum powder to make it easier to glide.
Orange lights reflect off the lapping water against the constant backdrop of purple and green neon of passing tour boats.
When it is warm and clear, several hundred dancers jam into the small space, and skill is required to keep from crippling one another with arms-out thrusts or spirited kicks.
On the rainy pre-World Cup weekend, only the hard core turned out. The mix was eclectic, and dress was come-as-you-are.
A blonde in a clinging satin gown danced with a man in a sweaty white T-shirt and plaid golf pants. A young man with a shaved scalp and an orange silk purse twirled a woman who towered over him.
Most were French, but there was also Raffaela, a ravishing nuclear engineer from Italy. And a pair of real Argentines stole the show.
"They're not bad, these French," allowed a raven-haired Buenos Aires beauty known to regulars only as Karen. She strapped on black patent leather pumps with railroad-spike heels and tangoed away.
"It suits us well," Catherine Marie explained. "There is such communication with your partner, a dialogue with no words. The tango is like dancing out the tragedy of life, the stupidities of life."
Jerome Lefebvre, a member of an association called Le Temps du Tango, estimated that 600 Parisians dance the tango with some skill, and most take at least two years to get to a comfortable level.
"It is the ultimate dance of the couple, with constant improvisation and infinite liberty," he said. "You can learn it, but there is always more. You are never finished. Never, never."
Round about midnight, the boom box suddenly spilled out Great Balls of Fire, and people began to rock.
"That's so you can stretch your legs," Francis said, sitting that one out.
"I love the tango because it is so human, with such sensuality and the constant awareness of others," he said. "It is a passion, like a drug. You never want to stop."
Apparently not. One morning, long after the boom box had gone, the sun had burned away the magic, and garbagemen clattered past, a lone couple was still dancing the tango in Paris.