You can now fly from Malaga to New York. /
THE MUSIC PRODUCER
Now that there are flights from Malaga to New York, I have my trip planned
Good news! Direct flights from Malaga to New York will return from next summer. That means I can go back to thinking about getting on a plane one of these days and having a huge bite from the Big Apple. It’s good to dream and my dreams in New York are very specific.
First, I’d go straight to a diner or whatever they call them and slap a handful of pennies on the counter.
‘Give me a cwawfee!’ I trailed off to the poor bewildered waitress, before sneaking over the bar and opening my copy of the New York Times that I would have just bought from one of those shop windows that seem to put a coin in and then grab as many newspapers as you want. I would order a bagel and then go out on the street with the horns and the falling snow and shout “Taxi!” not because I particularly wanted a taxi, but because I always thought it was mandatory to do so.
The snow thing is very important. If I ever visit NYC and it doesn’t snow, I would be devastated. In fact, I would just wait until it happened, even if it meant getting destitute and sleeping under the Brooklyn Bridge. As soon as the first white flakes fell on my withered features, I knew it would be worth it.
Anyway, and then what? Oh yeah, even though I just ate a bagel, I’d like a hot dog from a hot dog stand that looks like it’s seen better days right away.
‘Give me from woiks!’ I yelled at the chubby salesman with his mustache and greasy apron, sure of the certainty that my flawless accent would make him believe I am a native.
After that, things get complicated, because after that I should really be attending a Broadway show, but I can’t really stand musicals. Maybe there’s a short one called Kittens or something like that. Or maybe I could just skip the superfluous song festival and go straight to a live music venue where, if I’m lucky, some blues cat will show me around The Thrill Is Gone with him before gulping down some beer and gobble a couple of shots while simultaneously patting themselves on the back and saying “Buddy” often.
The perfect day would then end with me, once again, lying on a bar but, this time, a dimly lit nightclub. I would be the only customer and every now and then I nodded to the bartender and he filled my glass with bourbon and a distant saxophone played Everybody’s Got To Learn Sometime. I would ask him if it was already snowing outside. He would look at me with contempt.
“No it is not.”
There would be a long night ahead.
