You can now fly from Malaga to New York. / AFP

New York state of mind

Now that there are flights from Malaga to New York, I have my trip fully planned

Peter Edgerton

Good news! Direct flights from Malaga to New York will return from next summer. This means I can go back to thinking about hopping on a plane one of these days and taking a humungous bite out of the Big Apple. It's good to dream and my New York dreams are very specific.

First, I'd walk straight into a diner or whatever they call them and slap a handful of dimes on the counter.

'Gimme a cwawfee!' I'd drawl at the poor, bewildered waitress, before slouching over the bar and snapping open my copy of The New York Times which I'd have just bought from one of those display cases which look like you can put in a coin and then take as many newspapers as you want. I'd order a bagel and then step out onto the street with it's honking horns and cascading snow and I'd shout 'Taxi!' not because I particularly wanted a taxi but because I've always thought it looked sort of obligatory to do so.

The snow thing is very important. If I were to ever visit New York and it didn't snow, I'd be devastated. In fact I'd just wait around until it did, even if that meant becoming destitute and sleeping under Brooklyn Bridge. As soon as the first white flakes fell on my wizened features, I'd know it would have all been worth it.

Anyway, what next? Ah yes, even though I've just had a bagel, I'd immediately want a hot dog from a hot dog stand that looks like it's seen better days.

'Gimmee da woiks!' I'd bellow at the chubby vendor with his little moustache and greasy apron, secure in the knowledge that my flawless accent will have him believing I'm a native.

After this, things get tricky, because next I should really take in Broadway show but I really can't abide musicals. Maybe there's a short one called Kittens or something. Or maybe I could just skip the superfluous songfest and head straight to a live music venue where, if I'm lucky some blues cat will let me have a crack at The Thrill Is Gone with him before chugging back some beer and downing a couple of shots while simultaneously slapping each other on the back and saying 'Buddy' a lot.

The perfect day would then be rounded off with me, once again, slouched over a bar but, this time, a dimly-lit late night joint. I'd be the only customer and I'd nod occasionally at the bartender and he'd fill my glass with bourbon and a distant saxophone would play Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime. I'd ask him if it was snowing outside yet. He'd look at me with contempt.

'No, it ain't.'

There'd be a long night ahead.