Chasing Tango in Argentina's Capital—What's the true culture of Buenos Aires?
- Ian Rosenberg
- Jun 9
- 15 min read
I always romanticized Buenos Aires before coming. Something about the art, the passion, the culture of the city always left me enamored. I felt like it was a city that lives and breathes passion, where the people speak with a sense of longing and love, and where high culture has made its way down to everybody, regardless of class or status. Where tango is the universal language, and wine and steak are on every menu.
Much of this is true, in some respect, though I came to Buenos Aires with a very different expectation of what that culture looks like than I left it with.
La Boca
I visited, early on, the neighborhood of La Boca. Arguably one of Buenos Aires' most famous neighborhoods, La Boca had been, for generations, the more working-class, rougher side of the city. It's famously not a good place to be at night, and it's known for its graffiti and street art. But it's also known as a home for tango and bright-colored buildings.
Tango originated from the working class, and took a strong root in La Boca. But during the dictatorship and through the Cold War, tango fell out of fashion. Instead, kids began to listen to Rock, and nowadays, rock, along with other pan-Latin American genres like Cumbia or Reggaeton set the musical scene of the city. But here in La Boca, tango was revitalized. It never died, per se, but the tango that exists here is primarily for tourists.
The main area of La Boca that's considered safe for tourists is called El Caminito. And this area is the definition of a tourist trap. Every price is offered in USD, Reals, Euros, and Argentine Pesos, and even sometimes in Chilean and Uruguayan Pesos too. So many people are offering money exchange, there's overpriced street art on the street, a steak or even a choripan costs at least twice as much as it would elsewhere, and there's a Times-Square-level gathering of buskers and street performers, each hoping to make a quick buck off of each one of the thousands of tourists passing by. At each restaurant, tango performers dance between tables at every hour of the day, each dancing to Por Una Cabeza on repeat. Photo ops with the World Cup, Messi, or street tango girls are rampant. Frankly, you can't walk a few feet without being approached by someone to give your money. Needless to say, after spending the last several weeks in places where foreign tourists rarely make it, I felt inundated and overwhelmed. It was a breach of the trust I'd put in Argentina and its people, and though it is one of the most unique and iconic areas of Buenos Aires, I vowed not to come back. The environment was purely commercial. I wouldn't say made up—it is, though an exaggeration a performance of home-grown Argentine culture. It is just that though. It's a performance. Something done for money, to give people what they know they're coming to see.
So I left La Boca overwhelmed and frustrated, knowing that Porteño culture exists outside this performative bubble. It may take a minute to reveal itself, it may require me to seek it out actively, but there's real experiences experienced by real porteños that are more meaningful, less commercial.
Fileteado Porteño
So, I started to look for what porteño culture means within the more local areas of the city.
And what I found was an overflow of art. A reverence of beauty. It's hard to overstate just how artful the city is. And I'm not talking about its Parisian-style apartment buildings in Recoleta, its Italian-style parks in Palermo, nor its grand monuments. Though those are amazing too. I was noticing that this art percolated to the masses. Regular people lived in beautiful apartments, apartments that would be above-average in beauty and grandeur in large European cities. But more so, I was amazed by the buses, or as they're known here, colectivos.
Hundreds of lines of colectivos run through the city, spanning neighborhoods, and running down major boulevards. But they're not your average buses. I could go on and on about the efficiency of the network—rarely do I find city buses to be better than taking the subway, but here, they're certainly the right way to go. They run two at a time, one behind another, in rush hour, assuring that everyone who needs can get a seat. There are separate bus lanes on most major boulevards, allowing these high occupancy vehicles to bypass the city's major traffic jams, and they run every few minutes—frequency that blows my Ann Arbor brain.
But that's not all that makes them special—what makes them Porteño. Really, it's their beauty. Which, I know, is a weird thing to say about buses. But on the outside, the buses are adorned with a very artful depiction, either with paint or with an old-fashioned screen, of their line number. And different lines have different personalities. Line 152, for example (one I was on frequently), had a personality that felt fast. Its number was painted in italics with sharp edges, in an electric blue color. On the inside, fancy tapestries lined the top rims of the buses, making the inside feel almost close to a dining room. Line 39, in contrast, felt more stately. Its number, displayed with an electric screen, looked beautiful high-class in its flowery, calligraphed style. And inside, the same 39 sat embroidered on the back of each seat.
On the outside of nearly every bus was a floral motif, growing its way around the edges of the bus. And above it, highly shaded or in a complex calligraphic style, is listed the neighborhoods the bus visits on its route. This style, with the numbering, lettering, and flowers, is called Fileteado. It's not just on buses, either. It's also on storefronts and restaurant signs too. The working class of Buenos Aires developed this highly-ornate style, dependent on complex motifs and reliant on excessive, exaggerated shadows, to make their working-class life more artful, more beautiful. And I wanted to learn how to do it.
So I headed to one of Buenos Aires' famously arty neighborhoods, San Telmo, to take a class. I ended up being the only one in the class, so I could enjoy three hours with my instructor as we talked about the history and characteristics of the style.
I shared my mate with her, and we discussed in Spanish about my trip, as well as my perceptions on the country and its art. All the while, I painted, from a stencil, the pattern the class teaches.
We began painting on a piece of metal. Again, as this is an art style meant to be put on bus exteriors and signage, it is not appropriate to paint it on canvas. This art form lives on working-class surfaces, namely, metal plates.
The first step to a highly-ornate fileteado painting is to paint the base. The main frame that the rest of the artwork will follow. This includes both the subject, such as the flower motif or the lettering, but also, a highly-intricate border pattern framing the subject. I, as, well, not an artist, would have stoped just after this—after all, it is the bones of the art. But there are still three more layers to apply.
The subjects of fileteado art are not flat. Even something that you could imagine as flat—a border or a flower petal, must be curved. And you must pick the correct direction of the light such that all shadows are consistent with each other. So, the second step is to paint these primary shadows. The shadows that are generated by the curvature of the surfaces in the subject. '
Then, next, comes the accents. These are the places where the light shines off the reflective surfaces. And everything in fileteado is considered to be shiny. Each surface should either shine or be in shadow. And finally, after adding these shines, we must consider the spacial arrangement of the text, the subject, and the border. This involves painting the shadows of the different objects in the painting, often overlaping with each other. After this step, you get the feeling that the object is lifting off the surface of the metal plate.
I finished my sign, and signed it with a stylized version of my name. It's truly amazing what some shadows and accents can do to a rather simple pattern. But that's the porteño style—highly ornamented, perhaps to a fault. Highly stylized, and with intent in every brush stroke.
Tango
I came to Argentina in search of tango, and I wasn't going to be okay with just touristy street tango in La Boca, nor would I be okay with a mass-market tango show in Centro. I wanted a real, porteño tango experience. And for that, I sought out a Milonga: a tango room where the people dance tango instead of marvel at it. Where the tango experience is immersive rather than a spectacle. Somewhere, where, perhaps, tango is not special, just expected.
I headed to the trendy Palermo neighborhood (the same neighborhood with Café Pekinés and the language exchange) to visit a milonga. La Viruta, one of Buenos Aires' most beloved local tango scenes, home to dancing by locals, tourists, experts and novices, and young and old alike. Again, Buenos Aires nightlife starts late. The class started at 9 and went to 11:30, then the band came on from 12 to 1. The beginners' class was a good mix of tourists and porteños, but the more advanced classes, right next to us, were entirely locals, out with their partners for an evening of dramatic tango.
During the class, I learned a few major things. First, before we could even get to the dance floor, we had to learn how to ask for a partner. And here, there are two major ways. Milongas are sometimes set up in concentric circles, with the caballeros (the gentlemen) in one circle, and the damas (ladies) in another. You dance with the person across from you, and then the circles rotate after a few minutes, giving you your next partner. The other way to ask is simply for the caballero to look intensely at his chosen partner. If she notices him looking, she'll either give a nod, at which the pair will make their way to the dance floor, or she can pass. No shame if not. It's almost a way to avoid the social awkwardness of rejection, keeping the rejection just between the only two parties interested with small, intimate gestures only.
Then, we learned to "walk" tango. Tango is not all perfectly choreographed and fancy in every step. Sometimes, you just need to make your way across the room. This is particularly important in a milonga, where over a hundred people could be on the dance floor at once. Tango takes up space, especially with the basic steps, so it is incredibly important to be able to find and create space on the dance floor for your next moves. The leader (traditionally the caballero) will control their follower (traditionally the dama) with their arms, almost like a joystick. Want to go forwards, push her arm forwards. Want to go backwards, Pull her shoulder back. And need to stop? Raise her arm up a little bit. You step with your feet in sync. A forward step with the caballero's left leg necessitates a synchronous step backwards with the dama's right leg.
After getting the walk somewhat down (it is surprisingly difficult, especially when the dance floor is overflowing with people), we learned the basic step. This 8-part step is a rather intricate dance, involving a mix of synchronous steps and steps that vary between the two dancers. The most complicated part, I found, was two quick steps where the man walks outside of the woman, resulting in a flashy, fast-pasted glide across the dance floor. Sure, it took about a hundred tries to get it right, but by 12:30 AM , I was able to do it well as long as I had space.
My time at the milonga was wonderful, while it lasted. The band was amazing. The singer sang with such power and emotion, and acted with dramatic, exaggerated movements. The bandoneon players were deliberate in their movements, perfectly in sync. Their three bandoneons sounded like a singular, powerful instrument. The two violin players had the biggest smile on their faces, the pianist leaned into every chromatic scale he played, and the bass player could not have looked more enthused to be supporting the whole operation. The lighting and smoke effects on the stage gave the dramatic tango an air of mystery and a sense of coolness. I was overwhelmed by what I was seeing: it was porteño passion at its finest. I routinely panned my head between the stage and the dozens of pairs on the dance floor, both participating and taking it all in from the outside. (Where, admittedly, I could focus more on what was going on and less about my steps). The last song was the famous El Último Café, where the singer looked truly like a musical performer. He moved as if powered by emotion. His voice overpowered the footsteps and chatter of the room, and I stood there, chills down my spine, taking in the last minutes of my milonga experience.
My biggest gripe was that it was short. I was looking to be out until 3 AM, dancing well into the madrugada, as I had romanticized. But at 12:50, the live music stopped, and the speakers started playing rock and roll. By 1:15, I was in bed. For this being the most porteño tango experience I could find—the one least touched by mass tourism and the least performative, most local one welcoming to beginners—I was disappointed by its duration. But I am so grateful for the short time I did get at the milonga.
I think, though, I was in search of something that no longer exists. I wanted a true milonga. What I got was one that offered rock and roll classes right before the milonga classes, one that was in the basement of the Armenian cultural center. One that only has live music once a week for an hour, and one that teaches as many salsa classes weekly as it does tango classes. I wanted a true milonga. One that's open until the sun rises with live music, one that's purely for locals but too is beginner friendly. One that purely focuses on tango. And though I can't be confident that doesn't exist, it is hard to find. Buenos Aires is not the tango heaven that I had so romantically envisioned. It was a place where tango exists, much more than any other city in the world, but where tango shares the dance floor with a more modern, cosmopolitan nightlife scene that attracts regular young adults, not just young adults obsessed with their porteño roots. Buenos Aires certainly has its own home-grown culture, its own unique beauty, but it's not as strong as I think guidebooks and short-term visitors make it out to be.
Empanadas
I learned in my first several days in the city that the porteño culture—highly artful and ornate to a fault—exists and breathes in Buenos Aires. I learned that traditional porteño forms of art still live, but have evolved. They may share the spotlight with other, internationally recognized art forms, or they are blown out of proportion, living exclusively for the enjoyment of tourists. But Buenos Aires isn't just the home for these uniquely porteño things. It's also the home to some of the traditions I'd seen all around Argentina over my past weeks in the country.
First were empanadas. Just as in Salta, Córdoba, Jujuy, or Mendoza, you can't walk a few blocks without running into an empanada stand, offering dozens of flavors at cheap prices. Some even with a pop included! Though you won't find empanadas salteñas here, though the size is different than what you'll see in the north, and the fillings may be a little more experimental and less traditional, the empanadas scene is clearly alive and well in the bustling capital of Argentina. On a rainy day in Buenos Aires, I decided to fill it by spending the time around a local's kitchen, cooking this dish I've eaten dozens of times in the last few weeks. It wasn't exactly what I'd expected, actually, and I am really glad I took this class, as I learned a few tricks of the trade that I may not have been able to catch onto as quickly just with YouTube videos. Among these were using manteca (lard) for the dough, making it flakey and soft. As well, I learned the consistency of the dough, how to egg-wash them to get that golden brown shine on the front, and the right spice mix for the filling.
The one thing, though, that was most artful about cooking the empanadas is the seal. Though you could seal an empanada just by crimping the ends, the Argentines, once again artistic to a fault, cannot let that be. They must make them artful. As an empanada is filling inside a dough shell, you have no idea what kind of filling could be inside that shell. For that, they invented the repulge: the crimping of the edges that indicates what filling is on the inside. Some repulges have very specific meanings. For example, a braided edge almost always signifies beef, and a pinched edge almost always signifies chicken. But then there's some other multi-purpose repulges that will depend on the baker or the restaurant. We learned how to make the braided repulge, as we made only beef empanadas. This, though, seems to be the hardest one. The others should be quite easy after this!
To make the braid, you first have to make sure that all the edges are pinched together tight. Because even though you are braiding it, if the empanada is not sealed, the juiced on the inside will still leak out, leaking through the braiding, and onto the baking sheet or the oven. From there, you take the bottom corner and fold it over, pushing tightly between your thumb and index finger after the fold is complete. This tight push will expand the dough out enough to give you room for the next fold. You continue to do this all around the edge until you hit the end. It took a few tries, but by the end of the class, I was doing great!
Some more modern shops in Buenos Aires, offering dozens of flavors, do not have a dozen different repulges. Nor do they expect you to memorize a dozen of their specific repulges for their specific flavors. These shops often have stamps, stamped into the egg wash or onto the edge, that bake the name of the filling onto the empanada in a brown, flakey text or in a 3D relief text on the edge.
Mataderos
If La Boca was a disappointment for me—culture on display to take advantage of tourists—one of my last Buenos Aires experiences was the polar opposite of that. The Feria de Mataderos takes place every Sunday on the outskirts of the city, bringing Gaucho Culture within the city limits of Buenos Aires. Though easily within the reach of the city's colectivo routes, the feria transports you into the middle of the countryside, to the northwest, or down into La Pampa. Instead of tango, folclore is on display all day long. Dozens of booths compete to sell indigenous and traditional pieces of art straight out of the northwest, leather goods, and hardy pots of locro bubble next to parrillas cooking choripan and blood sausage. People come in their ponchos and leather boots, equipped with pañuelos to dance zamba and with a beautiful variety of hats to show off their origins, roots, and hometowns. This is the Argentina I knew, the rustic, deep-rooted traditions, right on the border of the ornate, artsy, fiercely independent culture of Buenos Aires.
In fact, you can see this tension even in the main square of Mataderos. On the street corner, you see a pink and gray building, with a beautiful doorframe and a highly intricate pattern closer to the roof. The sign welcomes you to the Bar Oviedo, painted in the shadowy, floral fileteado style. The folclore played uses, in addition to the traditional array of a violin, guitar, and bombo, the iconic tango instrument, a bandoneon, too. It is what happens when the unstoppable force of Argentine folclore meets the unmoving rock of Buenos Aires.
Like I said, Mataderos was the exact antidote I needed to my time in La Boca, to refuel my faith that culture can be on display in the city without any market for tourists. I was, it seemed, the only tourist at Mataderos that day, and boy did the people know it. Though I was planning on dancing, I wasn't expecting to be dancing the entire day! I couldn't walk away! As soon as I left the dance floor, I'd hear another chacarera begin and I'd get disapproving looks from the locals, all urging me to stay back on the dance floor! I had dozens of people dance with me, both in pairs and in large groups, and seemingly everyone watching had their phone on me, willing to send me a video of my work. They even taught me to dance Zamba (though for some reason, I don't have a video of that), even if my footwork was clumsy and I was unable to balance the grace of waving my borrowed pañuelo with the cognitive load of remembering where in the dance I was.
Everyone there was so puzzled by what I, an American kid, was doing knowing all the folclore songs and dances that were going on. How I managed to break out of the porteño bubble and interact with the national soul of folclore. My answer was always the same—I started in the countryside, and it really was impossible to ignore. The people helped me, and I continued to learn with enthusiasm.
I met a lot of friends that day, some families with kids my age that I had nice conversations and shared mate with, and even some lady who let me try on her poncho and hat, to look like a real gaucho. The whole day was filled with soul and love. Love for each other, love for the country, and love for the folk culture. You could feel it in the air, in the way people walked, and the way people talked. It truly was a special experience.
En Fin
So Buenos Aires is not a cultural monolith. There's not one porteño culture that dominates. It's not just tango, wine, and steak in French-style apartment buildings and beautiful parks. That does exist, certainly, but it's not only that. The working class art traditions thrive in spaces rarely touched by tourists, even if they are ubiquitous. International, cosmopolitan styles exist everywhere in the city, and are embraced by the locals as much, but not more nor less, than their own home-grown. Norteño culture and gaucho culture pushes in from the countryside, not just stopping at the edge of the city at Mataderos, but percolating to the innermost parts of the city at empanada stands and leather shops in the central neighborhoods. So though the porteño culture most people come to see certainly exists, the real culture of the city is this mix. The mix of new and old, rich and poor, cosmopolitan and rural, and international and Argentine. This is what gives the city its beating heart. This is the true culture of Buenos Aires.
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