Juan takes the author in his arms for the slow slide. Photo / Jessica Wall

Juan takes the author in his arms for the slow slide. Photo / Jessica Wall

It wasn't when Juan pulled his Argentinian beret over his eyes, took me in his arms and started the slow slide. It wasn't when the music kicked into that unmistakable rhythm, or when the instructor started clicking her fingers and stamping her feet.

No. It was when I first wriggled my feet into those high, black, T-bar-strapped tango shoes. I was there. Buenos Aires, the city Madonna called the Big Apple.

It had taken most of a week to organise the tango lesson, and even then I was in the intermediate class where I had no right to be. Sasha, the semi-English-speaker at Adventure Travel, had come up with an option ($172 each) that was so expensive it made our eyes water - even if it included dinner and a tango show afterwards.

The dozens of people handing out fliers for everything from lessons to leather jackets on Florida Ave looked slightly dodgy. The billboards advertising tango experiences splattered all over town seemed too impersonal.

And then, on Sunday morning, we found what we were looking for. We heard the music on the outskirts of a San Telmo antiques market where you can buy a real mink wrap with its paws on.

Two couples, the men in fedoras, the women in sexy tight skirts and blouses, were slinking along the street. At first they looked almost ordinary. Sure, the girls' skirts were slashed way up to the knicker line, their tights black and lacy, their heels impossibly high. But then, on the rough cobbles, they broke into a dance that would make Norm Hewitt sob.

The girls arched their backs, slid their legs between their partners', kicked as fast and sharp as scissors; the men snaked their necks, glared, twisted and twirled like bull fighters.

And then, when the crackly music died away and people dropped pesos in their cardboard box, someone handed us a leaflet advertising tango lessons and tango shoes as well.

We were hooked. Now we understood the woman Jessica had heard about on her flight from London. "My mother's gone mad," the young man had told her. "She's sold the house in Kent and moved to Buenos Aires. She got a great deal with six pesos to the pound. Now she dances the tango for eight hours a day."

"You're kidding!"

"No. It's true."

The name on the flier was Tango Brujo. The photos of the shoes they sold at their shop in Esmeralda St were drop-dead sexy - and Jessica had to have some.