Six years ago I was in a small hotel in Ricoletta with my daughter, Hope. Every morning we feasted on media luna and dulce de leche–small coisants and a thick caramel sauce. Mmmmm . . . .seductively good! Tonight I was at the PPAA for the milonga–I arrived late but had a credible number of tandas and some were rather lovely dances–like with Gee, for instance–just seamless dancing, like floating across the floor–Mr. Dreamy I now call this one.  (His lovely wife is also a lovely dancer and delights when I tell her how much I enjoy dancing with her guy.) I sat out the next to last tanda and decided if no one came for me, I’d go home.  I didn’t see any gals around who were my regular followers so I wasn’t going to change shoes to lead. I was okay.  Then I saw him moving from across the room, up to the stage where the d.j. sat, then around and down towards me.  It was an effort to come that distance, dodging the dancers as he circled the perimeter of the floor.  I was the only woman left sitting on my side of the room as the place had thinned considerably so it was for me he made this journey!  Great.  He was the one I wanted to dance with, a new face on the floor tonight and clearly a confidant dancer.  And there he was, standing in front of me, beconing me onto the dance floor. The first song was explosive.  Right away he said with his body: Boom, boom, I am here, let’s dance!  I know you know how!  And I knew he knew because I saw him watching me earlier. So . . . we did, reaching out in long, gliding steps. In the small interlude between songs I said, ” I don’t recognize you–where are you from?”  He didn’t understand and said, “I’m French.”  Oh, I thought, this is not the out-of-towner I thought he was. There’s another in town, recently moved from somewhere in the Carolinas.  My teacher told me about him earlier today and this is not that guy.  But this is . . . . some kinda guy! The music starts and we are off again–I am an active follower and now he’s getting in touch with this–I can sense he likes the challenge–but it’s also, well . . .a lot of work too–No resting here. . . no, no, no.  Nor for me.  He’s good–very good–but not as sensitive as I’d like–a bit rough on the edges-(maybe just that this is our introductory tanda?)—yet, sooo very energetic and complex.  I know right away I want to dance with this one again. “So, why are you here?”  “Business.”  “And for how long.”  “Just one week.”  “So short!” “Yes.”  “Oh, well . . .”    Then more dancing. He says “Thank you.”  But I know the tanda is not done and I wonder what’s up–is he done?   It turns out: no–not exactly–he asks my name–I ask his–Donny–but prounounce the o as uuuuu.  Not easy-very French. Then we  dance the final song, he figures it out–and after he says-thru a kind of deer-in-the-headlights expression (or so it seemed) “Have an nice evening” . . . . and he goes . . .I drive home–40 minutes, wondering what was going on in the mind behind that expression—-It’s nearly 1 a.m. and against all my good intentions–I begin to snack on dolma, green beans and a bit of ham, a small glass of malbec.  Then I find the jar of dulce de leche dulce in the cupboard . . . dulce de leche!   I savour a spoonfull bit by bit on the tongue, making it  last as long as possible.  A perfectly lovely little dessert for a perfectly lovely little evening.