No, there isn't a rose between his teeth.

We were introduced into the sensuous world of tango in its appropriate capital. Now, let me say that days before I left, I had breakfast with my dad and seamus mcjorge, a very dear friend of ours. Seamus has become an avid salsa enthusiast after some trips to Cuba, and in the midst of gushing of its awesomeness, mentioned how stuffy tango is and how he would never want to, ahem, make love to a tango dancer. We sat in the french brasserie inspired cafe near Casa Rosada, Argentina's version of our White House, and watched some mesmerizing dancing on stage. The piano, cello, flute and ever so tangoesque accordian crooned emotion for the couple, who slank (which I believe is the past tense of slunk) around the stage, he with an unfortunately childish ponytail and she with heels and a revealing new outfit for each song. He flung her around, she kicked between his legs, a good time was had by all. All said and done, the tango is, to Seamus' credit, a technical dance meant for straight legs and rigid arms, all with heavy overtones of lust. A strange combination that seems to work for experienced lovers who understand each other very, very well.
To make the situation all the more charming, the show was held in Cafe Tortoni, the oldest cafe in Buenos Aires. It seems to capture Buenos Aires' european heartbeat, with its very french architecture, a wide bar filled with vermouth and backed by a large mirror, the name Cafe Tortoni painted with a stylized hand behind a tuxedoed waiter drying brandy glasses sullenly with a tea towel.

Oh, and then someone tried to pick lloyd's pocket on the subway. Ahh, the sophistication of travelling.