After several grosse German beers at the Balhaus in Mitte, the idea of dancing my first tango wearing Birkenstocks seemed strangely appropriate. When Ismael Zurack, a Moroccan from Rabat told me during our interview that by the end of the night I´d be dancing with him, I laughed him off, shook my head and sipped my beer. `Neun, neun,´ I said `I´ll step on you.´ Three hours later, I did.
Ismael was here for an internship with a German economist. He had been dancing tango for a few years, and since he lived around the corner from the salon, he came often. At first he was a little hesistant to talk about himself, but warmed up to me after I told him about my adventures in Morocco. Still, he was very camera-shy, and everytime I snuck in a picture he´d look away. `I´m only doing this for a dance,´ he said almost threateningly `So I´m coming back.´ With that, he stood up to find himself a partner.
When he did come back, I looked at him with fear and wiped off my hands. I would like to think they were wet from the beer, but I doubt it. Once on the dance floor, he stopped me after a couple of steps and told me not to look at my feet. `I´m right here,´ he said, pointing to his face. And after his instructions (most memorably `use my shoulder as your steering wheel´) I stumbled through the song laughing and apologizing, leading and sweating. But when I heard the final `chan chan´ signalling the end of the song, I thanked him and found myself surprisingly disappointed that it had ended so soon.
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