Tango for Two

Italian classes started the following day, but nothing else did. The sun was a light-bulb yellow, and the tranquil sky beamed without clouds. It was a perfect, and typical, Italian day. It was also June 2^nd, and Italy was on (national) holiday.

Warning, friends: you’re about to get a history lesson. There’s only one seat (it’s for you), but it’s in the front row. This may not have been what you bargained for. You may have been tricked. If so, turn back now. Run, fast.

As you know, Italy was at first ruled as a kingdom by the House of Savoia. Following the Second World War, however, a referendum regarding rule in Italy was demanded by politicians and republican citizens. Monarchy wasn’t working. On June 2, 1946, the referendum took place. The result? Italy had to become a republic, which it remains to this day. This is big stuff in Italy (think “US Constitution” big), so Italy has declared it a national holiday, or festa.

A festa? And only on the second day? Che fortuna! I half-expected to hear some traditional, festive Italian music pounding out from the speakers on the classy Via Garibaldi, a five-hundred year-old street where recordings of Sinatra are often heard. But there was nothing. No music, no open stores, no celebrating—nutin’. There was not even one person to be found on the streets. Italians, it seemed, celebrate in silence. What irony, I thought, for a lively and dynamic city to become overnight a ghost town. But it wasn’t silent dissent—June 2^nd is just this hallowed in Italy.

(2011 is also, by the way, the 150^th anniversary of Italy’s Unification, which was conceived by a Genovese man. That is, 1861 in Italy is our July 4^th. As you can imagine, these two dates make this year doubly significant and special.)

There was a restaurant open—thank the Lord. Oh, and before I forget, let me ask you a question. Ever heard of Christopher Columbus? The restaurant is right by his house.

Nice restaurant, huh?

My group ate and talked; I learned that neither ice nor water is free in Italy. Not home anymore, Doormatt, I thought and boiled. The mosquitoes were back, but instead of my blood, they were now sucking my money. How can a country democratically progress if even the water—the most basic of needs—is actively privatized and commercialized?

But Italy was seeking redemption. When we concluded our dinner at nine (at which point—guess what?—the sun was still up), we strolled over to the Piazza De Ferrari, the heart of Genoa.

The Piazza had transformed. No longer was it abandoned. Instead, a mob of two- or three-thousand men and women crowded around the fountain. Genoa was celebrating the tango, and all eyes were on a professional dancing couple at work.

It wasn’t long before everyone in the audience was invited to the middle to dance a few rounds of the tango. It wasn’t long after that that I decided that I, too, wanted to dance. Old couples knew the drill and had come prepared with elegant clothing and appropriate shoes in hand. I was wearing shorts and flip-flops.

“Let’s dance the tango, yo,” I proposed to the girls in my group.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself in front of everyone,” said one girl.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself in front of you guys. You’ll never let me live it down,” reasoned the other.

Come mai? No? To a tango on a national holiday in Italy? Do these opportunities come often?

I knew I had only one option—to go throughout the crowd and ask for an Italian woman’s hand for one dance. Fortunately, the second girl was more than excited to direct me to potential dancers.

“Ciao!” I yelled to a girl roughly my age. “Scusa: vuoi ballare il tango con me?”

Giggles. “No, grazie, ma io non so come.” Dancing the tango? She did not know how.

Nor, really, did I, and I let her know: “Non è importante. Neanch’io.”

“No, veramente, grazie. No, no.” Giggles once more.

Strike one.

My friend had spied a group of potential dancers as I was speaking with this girl. They were up next. I thought I’d try another strategy.

“Scusate! Scusate!” I interjected on their conversation. “Ciao, mi chiamo Matteo ed io sono un Americano. Studio a Genova quest’estate, e vorrei danzare il tango. Come no? Voglio la memoria di questa città! Vorreste ballare con me?” Name, check. Courtesy, check. Reason, check. Statement of nationality, check-plus.

“Tu sei americano? Grazie, ma non vogliamo ballare oggi.” Statement of nationality, check-minus.

And strike two.

My last option was also my worst—an Italian woman of about sixty who came with dancing shoes but without a partner. Upon being asked, her eyes lit up as her mouth fired out two rapid Sí Sís. As soon as the next tango song came up, we entered the arena and began to dance. It was magical.

Actually, it was a disaster. As I led with my left foot, she stamped back with her right. I stepped on her foot, and she stepped on mine. And I pounded into another couple dancing behind me. The hand I was holding was fleshy but flabby. We could not do anything insieme. We could not dance the tango the way in which it supposed to be danced, but that night I gosh-darnit sure tried.