Since the dinner party at Edward’s, I’ve been spending a lot more time with Cali—filling the space between dancing and tours. Seeing how relieved she clearly feels having opened up, I wonder if I shouldn’t as well. But then, Cali’s story is nothing like mine. Cali and I mostly talk about dance and Buenos Aires and gossip about Gianluca. She tells me how being here has saved her, how dancing has given her something she never thought she’d have again: a way to not just listen to music, but also to be right inside of it, to let it come through her. And the team itself—along with the studio and Gianluca—has given her community, a sense of being part of something bigger than herself. It’s let her come back to life, to re-become herself.

We grow silent as we turn off into the entrance of La Boca. Caminito is a tourist trap, and during the day it’s packed with people taking in the iconic multicolored houses, the tango dancers on every block, and the cheerful, cheeseball cafés and taverns. The neighborhood’s Italian roots run deep and it even briefly seceded from Argentina and raised the Genoese flag in the late nineteenth century. But beyond the tiny area that’s been sanitized for tourists, La Boca is a rough neighborhood: packed with shanties made from colorful corrugated iron and parts of old ships, the aroma of the neglected port assaulting anyone who gets too close.

“I’ve never been here at night,” I say.

“We’ll make sure the cab stays put until the door opens.”

“Now I feel much better.”

“Relax, it’s so much fun. You just have to be smart in this neighborhood. Tourists don’t come here at night, why do you think G loves it so much?”

“Ocho-siete-seis Pinzón, ay está.”

The driver is grandfatherly and seems reluctant to leave us. I assure him we’re meeting friends, but secretly I’m relieved that he’s obviously going to stand by while we get let in.

We knock twice and, after a moment of waiting, a beautiful dark-haired woman in her forties answers the door, cocking an eyebrow at us. I can hear the music from the street: the low growl of a burned-out voice carrying a melody in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“Sí?”

Cali tells her we’re with Gianluca. The woman widens the door, making no other gesture of welcome. I turn and wave to our cabdriver, who shakes his head and drives away.