About
They Call Me Pete…
…because apparently my real name, Panayiotis Georgios Karabetis, is a linguistic nightmare! Despite my 26-letter name and frequent business excursions across America, I reside and work in Baltimore, home of the Orioles and the city that reads.
To know me, you must first understand that I have the attention span of a humming bird and, among all my fascinations, the Argentine Tango has managed to keep me on my toes unlike my past passions.
To you, Tango, I say: job well done! Not many interests keep me yearning for more, but somehow you manage to do it daily. I spend each day trying to preserve my ability to walk since a nasty injury back in 1999 sent me to the hospital in agonizing pain.
To this day, I avoid the martial arts and sadly regret giving them up in exchange for the ability to use my right leg. I’m too young for a hip replacement!
Why do I advocate this blog? Because I will never know it all and can never know enough to be considered a true expert on any subject, let alone one as complex as Tango. As long as you and I are able to think creatively, there will always be a new angle to view this dance.
I explore Tango as the replacement for my explorations in movement. Will you join me on my journey?
Very genuinely,
Panayiotis “Pete” Karabetis
How the Tango Saved My Life
by Panayiotis Pete Karabetis
“Towson Dance Studio, this is Barbara.”
“Hello. Are you hiring teachers?”
“Who is this?”
In 2006, I find myself in beautiful Athens, Greece exploring a deserted alley way at 2am. It’s just after 7 in the morning back in Baltimore and my relatives should be waking up shortly to for another workday at the family bakery. It’s dark and creepy where I am in this city with stray dogs and cats just wandering the streets having, most times, more personality than our pets back in the states. Amidst the edgy silence, faint lights flash and I recognize tango music playing in the distance. I round the corner to discover a dance showcase taking place where just a minute before, I was in near pitch-darkness handing change to a homeless Albanian man. A surge of memories hit me all at once. All the confusion, anger, and regret came back to remind me instantly.
Make the Pregnant Woman Shut Up!
March 13, 1999. Seven of my closest friends meet at Lowe’s movie theater in White Marsh for the 10 o’clock showing of Adam Sandler’s The Waterboy. Oblivious to the fact that we have to sit for the SAT’s early the next morning, we crave a chance to laugh off weeks of prep courses in anticipation for the test that is going to change our lives. The movie isn’t the important part, it’s what happens as we exit the theater. As the people in my row stand to leave their seats, I stand up and feel a knife jab me in the hip. My friends watch me fall to the ground and scream, but are just as confused as I am about what is going on. There is no mad-stabber at the scene of this crime. The assailant is my body, and the cartilage in my hip just ripped in half. At the time I thought God was mad at me, but in the months ahead I discover that my lack of proper stretching in my martial arts training led to my body’s crusade tonight.
The pain is unbearable! It literally feels like I have a 5-inch blade lodged in my hip. Any movement that involves moving either of my legs or using my abs to position my body feels like someone is then turning that stuck knife. And if I cough! Forget it, I’m crying like a baby. A friend drops me off at home and carries me up the stairs to bed where I honestly, and stupidly, believe that I can sleep this off. Apparently, I scream as soon as my head hits the pillow and my parents dial 911 without blinking an eye. In less than 10 minutes, a medic team arrives to transport me to the hospital via a luxurious stretcher, making sure to hit every bump on the way. They’re so gentle.
It’s 1am at the hospital and I’m given a massive dose of Tylenol III with Codeine to shut me up. I only remember two things after that: waking up 6 hours later next to a woman in labor, and, being sent home with a prescription for pain because my tests showed no damage. America truly is the greatest country on the planet.
Goodbye Kicking Leg.
Literally 2 years pass as I play the nomad patient searching desperately for a doctor to fix my frustrating injury. The initial pain from that night goes away, but only for two months. Until my surgery in 2001, the pain revisits me every other month since that night at the theater. When the relapses occur, I am confined to a bed for 5-7 days and forced to use a cane to hobble short distances. To be realistic, I spend most of time in bed because, if you remember, minor movements like rotating my head cause my hip joint to flare up violently. Those 24 months are grueling until an MRI finds the tear and a gracious doctor agrees to perform surgery and alleviate my suffering for the time being. But, this comes with a hefty price:
July 21, 2001. I return home after a successful arthroscopic outpatient surgery where the doctor’s assistant misreads my chart and almost performs a testicular biopsy on me. Way to use your education, Doogie. It’s a success, or so I think. Remember, I have to forget my past active lifestyle so, naturally, depression takes over me as I load my crutches into the car. The years pass and I graduate college with a degree in graphic design and another in massage therapy. I hope to use one to make money sitting at a desk all day and the latter to correct the imbalances of corporate office life. I use neither of the two to make a living present day. My martial arts days are long gone, but I have a supportive family and a loving girlfriend who is about to change my life.
“No kicking, jumping, running, or crazy horseplay. Is that understood?”
“Yes, doctor.” I sadly agree.
A Worthy Replacement
My martial arts days are long gone, but I have a supportive family and a loving girlfriend who is about to change my life with one question: “Do you want to take dance lessons?” Three years of inactivity pass because I’m told to safeguard my hip from further injury, but the dullness of life starts to remind me of my need to feel alive. The answer is an emphatic yes! The lessons last several months as our wonderful teacher tries desperately to explain salsa and tango movements to our group class, which consists of the two of us, my brother and sister, and their significant others. I am in heaven until I become the only who wants to continue learning. At this point, I can not afford to continue, so I dive into my work.
By the summer of 2006 I am working in my family’s bakery nearly 20 hours a day juggling baking, delivery, bookkeeping, and business classes to manage the place. I pass out a total of two times in one year from malnourishment and dehydration resulting from lack of sleep that affects my better judgment. My family sees this and worries for my health and sanity. When a Greek family feels this way, a trip to Greece, they believe, always makes matters better. June 9, 2006 marks my departure back to the motherland and a weight-gain of 15 pounds during my two-week vacation.
Having experienced simple island life in a village, I decide to peruse Athens one night and explore the urban scene of this foreign city. This is where I encounter the dance showcase and experience the past seven years of growth that all start with that single night at the movies.
“Towson Dance Studio, this is Barbara.”
“Hello. Are you hiring teachers?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m sorry, this is Pete who took classes with my family a few years back. Remember me?”
“Of course I do! Yes we are hiring. Training starts next week, as a matter of fact.”
“I’d like to sign up.”
“Wonderful! We’d be glad to have you. See you next week and we’ll catch up then. Goodbye.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”
{ 4 tango-induced comments… read them, love them, and add your 2 cents! }
You have me smiling this morning.
And, yes, I’ll always be dancing the tango….
How interesting. I’m a fresh convert to tango, and also come from a martial arts background. I love how so much of what I worked on for years translates effortlessly into the dance. I anticipate that as my tango develops, my martial art will improve in grace and economy… and the unadulterated pleasure from learning to dance has reinvigorated my interest in life. Thanks for your blog. I’m learning a lot from it.
i too am from a martial arts background! i find that all those years of focusing on my footwork and manipulating the footwork of my sparing partners translated into a much easier time in learning how to lead tango than for many of my other tango friends.
the problem i have with being from a martial arts background is that when i’m dancing i sometimes find my mind drifting to ideas of how i would throw this person to the ground! not good! cheers, lg
The last martial art I took part in was American Kenpo. Much of its footwork focuses on stances and those stances are used as both defensive and offensive movements.
Wouldn’t you know, the first time I performed a sacada, I literally tried to sweep my partner. Poor girl! I know your pain, brother, but, you’re right about how martial arts eases the transition of one art to another.
Thank you for your comments today.