My regular teachers have 4 levels of students: beginners, intermediate, intermediate 2, and advanced. They make a break for Summer holidays, and the end of the year just came some days ago.
Near the end of the last session they asked for silence and announced that "We're expecting to see all of you in October, in our intermediate class." I was fearing than one of them would add "Well...except Pablo, of course", but nothing came. (And it did happen a couple of times that these teachers strongly advise a student to repeat a year)
Hence I'm an intermediate, period.
Ok, technically there are still two months till October but I can already begin to accustom myself to this new title.
Pablo, the intermediate...
I thought it would have happened in a somehow more dramatic way: At the last milonga of the CITA, Fabian would have taken the microphone, would have asked the Los Reyes del Tango
orchestra to stay quiet, and then, with the solemnity of an archbishop, woud have spouted:
Come here, beginner Pablo. The tale of your merits has come to my ear. Innumerable have been the classes you attended. Painful have been the refusals you got from the ladies in the milongas. Sluggish has been your improvement. Deep has been your sadness since you have taken up Tango.
Thank the Gods of tango, Pablo. Thank all your teachers for their patience. Because today has come your reward.
Look at me, Pablo!"
Here Fabian would take the sacred Cigarette (the one hold by Gardel in the Chacarita cemetary) on a red velvet cushion, smoke it with an extatic expression, and then puff out in my face.
"Pablo, by the infinite power of the Everlit Cigarette, I make thee an Intermediate.
Stand up, Pablo! "
Then he would hug me, while Los Reyes del Tango
would strike up the Cumparsita. Afterwards, back home, people in the streets would look at me with an admirative/timid face:
"- Seen this guy, John? Do you think he's an...
- Yes, Helen. He's an Intermediate".
Well, for the moment, I failed to notice any change when I go out. The pizza deliverers keep knocking over me, and nobody in the metro offered me his seat. Maybe in October...