Every Thursday night I attend a music class. For an hour I, along with a group of Argentine locals averaging about 40 years my senior, listen to international tango music from the early part of the 20th century and compare the sounds and technicalities to those that exist in jazz during the same era. More than a lecture, the class surpasses a formal structure and becomes more like a meditation: history comes alive through the notes of composers and leaves its mark on us as we concentrate, slightly leaned forward in our seats, our heads unconsciously cocked to one side. For 60 minutes our room blocks out reality and time gives us the freedom to live in the past through our ears.

Time doesn’t exist in La Academia Nacional de Tango. It survives, humbly, through the pictures on the walls, relics preserved behind glass and memories captured in books. Despite its central location downtown, La Academia itself is actually quite easy to miss, Avenida de Mayo swallowing it up with its traffic. Try mentioning the place to a local and he will give you a blank stare. Add the statement that it is next to Café Tortoni and his eyes will immediately widen, and a smile of recognition will spread across his lips: “Ah, Tortoni!”

But unlike Café Tortoni, La Academia is a quiet, reflective experience. Once past the main entrance, you will be greeted by the man who works there every night who, upon recognizing you as a non-local will assume you are looking to take a tango class (offered upstairs). “Quince pesos,” he’ll blurt out before giving yourself a chance to introduce yourself and explain, like me, that you are looking to take a tango class—but an academic one. He will then change his expression to a smile, not unlike that of the person you may have formerly announced to that you were going to the Academia National de Tango. He will then tell you “segundo piso” and point to the steel cage elevator (seemingly circa 1900) and watch, perplexed, as you choose to take the staircase instead, its carpet-lain wooden steps leading you up, and up, until you reach the second floor.

If you arrive a few minutes before the scheduled class on Thursdays, you will walk through a small gathering of people who all know each other and may look amused to see you walking through their crowd, like a tourist without a visa. Nevertheless you brave the stares and proceed to the tiny room where Julian is beginning to set up the CD player. After a quick roll count and pause for everyone to find a seat, he explains the aim of the class and grins ear-to-ear as he presses the play button for the first track of the night. Like a little kid waiting for a surprise, he shuts his eyes, then listens as the music ensues, nodding his head occasionally to the beat, and then opening them to confirm the collective response of the class. The other students, mostly dressed in suits and slacks, nod with him, remembering, thinking, listening. The collective pull of the music silences everyone and the rotation of the earth halts, reverses. Guitars play versions of “El Choclo”, hands assume different personas on the piano—one tango and the other jazz. Julian’s expression has settled into a pensive euphoria, his brows furrowed and eyes closed while his chin rests on the back of his hand, his elbow propped on the table. The music flows through the room, leaving impressions and prompting occasional verbal references and questions. But the music is the magnet that silences.

Just before Julian begins to play “Evocación” by Juan Jose Castro, the arresting buzz of the bell rings in the Academy, reminding you (as it does me every time) of a fire drill bell. Hard to break old habits. Back to the music. Flow interrupted. The deep notes of the piano force you to close your eyes this time and the humming of the blended notes drown out the echoes of the bell. Julian is mimicking the pianist, moving his fingers, but you’re not watching. You are absorbing the music through your skin, allowing it to seep inside—a melodic osmosis.

The end of class is marked by a sudden rise, everyone evacuating their seats and filing out of class, rendering the former bell useless. The older classmates make their way down the stairs slowly, holding onto the thick varnished guardrail as they take one step at a time, following the stairs as they curve clock-wise in a square-shaped manner.

Once outside again on Avenida de Mayo two cars honk their horns, the wind picks up, blowing past lines of people waiting for the colectivo para ir a la provincia, and a passerby pauses to ask you: “Tenés la hora?”