Downtown Manhattan

These grainy monochrome photos show New York City in the twenties.

Flatiron Building, New York

My twenties, rather than theirs.

A few months ago, it looked as though I’d be taking a bite out of the Big Apple again this week and in anticipation, I dug out these golden oldies. Yes, youngsters, these were actual prints rather than digital images. Whatever next, my school notes on slate? Travel via horse and cart? Woolly mammoth for breakfast?

The Hand of Liberty

MACYS, New York City

The Torch of Liberty

Brooding Manhattan

Grand Central Station, New York

Oh, and by the way, they’re black and white because of a phase I was going through. I’m not that old…

Years ago, before Mexico had the borders we know today, the Aztecs ruled. Before that, the Toltecs had the upper hand. Historians and archaeologists have plenty to say on the Toltecs, but there’s little agreement.

Theories describe them as the forerunners of the Aztecs, as a rival force and even as an embellished remembrance of “the good old days.” Most records stem from Aztec conversations documented by the Spanish conquistadores and from their art that featured snakes, skulls and jaguars.

There’s something imposing about these giant stone columns, high in the heart of the former Toltec civilization. These warriors reminded me of one Toltec legend in particular, the curse of their former leader Quetzalcoatl. Apparently as he lay dying in the hands of the Aztecs, Quetzalcoatal threatened to return and destroy them, in disguise and approaching from the East.

Given how things turned out, that’s quite prophetic.

Toltec Warrior

 For more travel photos and travel stories, visit Delicious Baby’s Photo Friday.

Copacabana

It’s not a flashy photo but I love this shot from Rio, Brazil. I was walking between those iconic beaches, Ipanema and Copacabana, when I saw this man looking away from the sea and gazing instead at the busy street life just beyond the beach.

I don’t know him and he didn’t seem to be with anyone, but the similarity to the sculpture was spooky…

For more travel photos, check out Photo Friday on Delicious Baby.

Children on Uros Floating Islands, Peru

High in the Andes, our little boat jolts unevenly as it battles with Lake Titicaca’s choppy waves. The sky is overcast but even without the heavy clouds we’d struggle to see the shore. South America’s largest lake lives at 3,800 metres, separates two countries and behaves like a mountainous ocean god.

However, it’s not the lake we’ve come to see, but its inhabitants, the Uros community who live and float here among the clouds.

The Uros community lives and floats on Lake Titicaca, among the clouds.

Years ago (in that voice used by grandparents when they gloss over troubles they’d rather everyone forgot), conflict arose on the Peruvian shore around Puno. Whether it was the might of the Incas, fire, pestilence or an unpaid tax bill, something drove the Uros people to build their own escape.

They used reeds to construct islands complete with houses, shops and watchtowers and launched themselves into a new way of life.
A rather harsh one, it seemed, when I visited. There’s little protection from the swirling winds and waters and the biodegradable nature of their housing requires relentless replenishment. Through fishing, and increasingly tourism, the Uros communities are self-sufficient, weaving patterned hats and shawls for trade and travelling to the mainland only for emergencies.

As the world continues to change, it will be interesting to see what choices these children will make. Will they continue the traditions of their grandparents? Or will they return to dry land?

View from a Boat: One of the 40 or so Uros Islands on Lake Titicaca

The streets of Havana are restless, active places – and that’s why I love this photo so much. Life is lived outside, from children playing football in the dust, to laundry drying, to neighbours gossiping and young men strutting their stuff at the beach. It’s hard to find a quiet spot, as both chatter, salsa and cuba son travel through the streets.

For a girl from London, where the golden rule is to pretend that you can’t see or hear anyone else in public at any time, even when squashed under their armpit on the Tube, I enjoy the way there’s so much to look at in this one photo, in this one snapshot of time.

Of course, I took the other, more traditional images of Havana. Here’s a very brief selection:

What do you think – which is your favourite?

These photos were posted as part of Delicious Baby’s Photo Friday. Head over to Delicious Baby to see more travel photos…

Or, you can see a rambling, scruffy line of pale-faced young men shuffling forwards in clear and present embarrassment. Tango lessons in Buenos Aires are not for the faint-hearted.

“The most important thing to remember…..,” our petite instructor’s translation fades out; her master has orchestrated a dramatic pause. He stands to attention, dressed in tar-black shoes, trousers and shirt that meld to his skin. He sharpens his beaded eyes before completing his sentence. “Never kick the mujer.”

His partner hesitates, her hands fluttering in a bird-like gesture. “You should never kick the woman.”

Deep in this dusty underground hall, I am relieved.

“Pression,’ the lesson goes on. “You must have pression. You must have control. You must look as though you are in control. And you must be in control.”

To illustrate this point, the men must practice walking around the room. Not dancing. Walking. While projecting the impression that they are in control.

The music crackles, thumping out a slow, almost military beat. Our lead berates his blushing students in denim and trainers. Chin up. Look manly. Stride. Breathe. It is one of the funniest things I have ever seen.

Two or three tracks later, he commands us girls onto the dance floor.

“When you take the woman,” the dainty senorita translates, “you must pression against the hips, with your hand in the small of her back. She must never forget,” she adds, “that you are in control.”

Four minutes later I’m being introduced to Brad. He sweeps his fringe away from his eyes and offers me an apology before we even begin. Hand in clammy hand, he tries to teach me how to walk. My heels scrape along the polished wooden floor, an erratic match to the striking rhythm that surrounds us.

Brad limps away and an even thinner, more awkward American, Brady, takes his place. He cannot look me in the eye and in return I gaze over his shoulder to watch my husband. Paired with the professional dancer, his face radiates fear, as this taut, tight five-foot-two bundle of muscle urges him to take control.

My stage-side ruminations don’t last long, however. Soon, Brady steps aside and in the gap between thundering soundtracks I realise that it is my turn with the master. With a loud snap, the music starts and my back cracks in two. I never realised I could bend this much, although it doesn’t seem to be within my control.

According to the lesson, we are still only walking. But with my pelvis grazing his, my hand clasped tight and my centre of gravity displaced far behind my feet, it dawns on me that it scarcely matters what I do.

I’ve never shared so much surface area with a stranger and through the subterranean heat of Buenos Aires, my British manners kick in….. I lift my eyes. I try to offer a self-deprecating shrug or at the very least forge some small talk.

No way. His eyes lock mine with more intensity than his body. There’s no space to turn my head. My cheeks flame and I can see nothing other than his fixed determination.

Legends describe tango as a dance fermented in Argentina’s underworld, a tradition derived from prostitutes and gangsters, an outlet to express a bitter and beautiful interpretation of life. In a flash I understand it all. The passion, the violence, the views towards women.

With cold concentration, we cross beneath the spotlights. Then I am released. Without a second glance, he selects another woman from our bumbling, floppy-haired crowd.

I gasp for breath as my thoughts catch up with my pulse.

We were only walking; the tango is yet to come.

Names have been changed to protect the embarrassed.

Update – the accordion is in fact not an accordion. It’s a bandoneon, an instrument with buttons instead of keys on the side. Thanks to TangoAna for the update on Tango.