On a cool summer's eve, along a slow, side street of a northwest Patagonian town, a hint of Astor Piazzolla floats through the air. It is a quiet Sunday night, without much street or pavement traffic, nor regular shop lights to distract a casual stroller. The lilt of the rhythm drifting out of the purple dark comes from the direction of a group of casual eateries, a block or three away. A pause in the beat, a faint clapping of hands chatters lightly, until a minute or two later a different yet similar tune filters from what must be now just around the corner. Tango. A tiny piece of a nation's soul is playing out on a small, round, roofless suburban plaza - an urban salon, perhaps a more appropriate appellation. Not large, some 20-25m in
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