Follow my every step, Francesco Di Bartolommeo Di Zanobi Del Giocondo says as he twirls about the small studio towards

his partner, Lisa Del Giocondo. She smiles at him and mimics the move, her dress fluttering at her sides while she takes over the room, barley dodging other dancers. I was born to do this dance, Lisa says, finishing her step at Francescos side. Good, Francesco says, moving Lisa back into place on her mat before advancing to the front of the room, facing the class. Hes teaching the students the tango his ancestors did, centuries before him. Its a difficult dance and hes never tried it before but its his best class. He trusts theyre skilled enough to keep up with the 4/4 tempo. Youre messing with Big Leagues now, Francesco tells his class before he breaks into a flurry of hands and hips, grabbing Lisa on his way around the studio, urging the rest of the class to move with them. The other dancers stand idly for a few awkward beats before pairing together, copying Lisa and Francescos moves. Theres fumbling feet and hands slipping of shoulders before the class works into a rhythm. Forward right. Forward left, and left again. Back right. Back left, and left again. A classroom of sashaying dresses and half bent knees moving in a swishing sea of color. Lisa and Francesco Giocondo at the front of the wave, tapping out each step they take. Moving in sync, like the tide against the shore. Youre just a guest, Francesco tells the class, tugging Lisa closer and spinning faster though the studio. This dance could never be your home if you dont let it in. The class dances harder at his words moving smoothly through the room like liquid. Francesco just smiles and laughs because it was exactly what he wanted.