Cortado at 8
I am taller than Willem Dafoe. I am also a more advanced tango dancer, but tonight that doesn’t matter. What matters is that despite being at one time Jesus Christ, another time a freaky psychiatrist married to a mentally devolving Charlotte Gainsbourg, and yet another time a blue speedo-clad German accented deck hand on the great ship Zissou, Willem Dafoe stands just a few inches below me.
The man has nerve. He enters the fray of milongites and faded Fassbinder strippers to stake his claim on the dance floor. I have to hand it to him to get out and do it despite his clear beginner feet. Acting must prepare you for the Chinese algebra that is learning the tango. He’s with his usual entourage: kind faced locals, his hot female partner, and the man that looks like a young bald Frank Langella who I assume is his agent. Young bald Langella has that constantly distracted look of being more important than anything that surrounds him. Willem is learning and doing his best. Next time we run into him, Lovica must ask him to dance; it is destiny.
I am getting it now, the late nights and the endless city. Eat at 10 so you can stroll back by 3 from your dance or your drink or your run in with the expat at the club. It makes for safer neighborhoods, if constantly tired mornings. The old kid feeling of missing something if I sleep doesn’t really come into play because the next big thing will probably be happening in a few hours. We have the knack of being everywhere just half an hour before the crowd comes. In another week maybe we will be in sync.
