Amerika
America of the bus to New York on Friday’s night, with smell of cold, of end of shift, of cheap cologne, of cheap aftershave sold a dime to the litre, of beer in paper bags smuggled in dirty backpack, of tar from exhaust fumes, far and away from the paradise of a euro-0, smell of the road.
America of the NYC avenues, Central Park at 4 in the morning, crawling bars serving the best martini cocktail in the known world, dirty martini with vodka and a sprinkle of gin, and they play jazz even if the music coming out is now redhotchilipepper but you hear just jazz and move your ass like it were jazz, in and out from metropolitan station, feeling like the Warriors running home, but there are not gang to cut our way to Coney Island and at the end, who want to go back to Coney Island anyway, now that even the fairground has been bulldozed.
Well, anyhow this is New York, benches on the riverside Brooklyn, to spy over Manhattan like in a b/w cover, smoking American Pride in silver rizla paper, pizza parlours in Dumbo, tagliatelle Alfredo in the Disneyland of Little Italy, and fresh bufala’s mozzarella at the corner shop. Sicilian cannoli at Palermo’s and an espresso as it should be, tar-thick, it is not Quarta but perfection is not easy to get by chance. Desperately looking for a Fernet.
A party in a West Village pub, snuck in by your friend, and what the hell I am doing here, with 18 new york gays, gym sculpted by anabolic steroid as only a new york gay could be, and you feel a zero, out of fit and geeky flat ass and strained metacarpal tunnel, and these Big-Jims smile and you feel invisible, and suddenly a frozen margarita appears in your hands, in tomato jar, pint sized, full of frozen tequila and crushed ice and mint and hot-corn by the stick from the buffet and for a moment you feel it, because in this party, where you sneaked in, you are the only straight, and the hot gym sculpted new york gays have girl friends, lot of them, and you are the only straight and they know it!
This is New York, the booze is cheap, the people is fine and the girls are gorgeous.
Morning in east village, looking for a tattoo and the artist is a bear with sweet eyes and you know you will let him do it, because the tattoo parlour is so medical and not heavy metal stuffed, even if Ozzy came here once and so did I-say-no-no-no.
Later lunch on a terrace to enjoy this new spring hot sun and girls with no stockings and skirt made of wind and tight-fitting pants and tits left loose.Patty Smith was here and she robbed all the bras. Put on sunglasses to look undisturbed.
A crane crashed in the center and my friend is late, she comes when my ankle is already covered in domopak and the blue of my new calavera is now greenish for the blood still to go and I spent the night trying it in front of a mirror. Finally I get the approval of sis and everything is right.
So here I am, middle town Manhattan New York City.
In the morning a Spanish Harlem cutie with big lips serve me three pancake with corn syrup and a large coffee with milk, and sugar. And sis would have had a cappuccino and big croissant and a glass of milk. An espresso to take away, please, and some sesame cookies.
And outside is Upper Manhattan, the west. More north is Harlem, we going south to Broadway, and Soho and Chelsea. And there is a lot of London in New York.
In Upper West Manhattan rows of Jew restaurants and Jew bakeries and Judaicas and Jews with black coat and black curly hair sprouting from pinky ears. We get a giant pretzel and it comes with salt, lot of it.
Finally I buy my camera and now I can stole piece of New York. Replace sunglasses with a 18-50, need something more powerful to catch it all. I am still an amateur voyeur.
But I have to go because this is New York and the booze is cheap, the people is fine and the girls are gorgeous.
Well, me in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, another America, Philly just 40km far, still on the west coast but already America of the inside, with birch woods and country-road-take-me-home-to-the-place-I-belong, no light on the roads at night and it is easy get lost and arrive by chance in a brewery in the middle of nowhere where Guinness-like stouts are home-made and the barman’s jacket is proud-to-be-Irish and his grandmother was from Cork, his grandfather from Glasgow and his father from Salerno. Blood mixes well in this big cocktail bar, and I feel like merging, with my mix of South-Italian-Spanish-Jewish blood, hearth in Salento, and liver in Dublin.
Philadelphia is just like Dublin. Red-bricked homes, green-lightened pubs on Saint Patrick night. Philadelphia too far away for a night out and too near for a weekend trip. Philly homeland of home, where women will give you a smile and some room on the bench near the bar and tapas with Mexican jamon y tequila. Bruce the Boss was here and maybe he too ate at Rotten Ralph, cheese Philly steak and over fried fries.
Coroña is the worst beer in Mexico, just Yanquee can drink it. At least do not put lime in it.
Philadelphia is a Buddha bar and Cuban puros smuggled from London Heathrow waiting for a sip of rum, no ice no coke. A limo for our use, complimentary of the company, big boss wants a night out in style and we play rock-stars, drinking California’s champagne with unstable glasses. Thursday night traffic goes smoothly behind dark screens and we wear sunglasses in an unlikely color to cover shadowed eyes.
KoP is M., South America a few hours away, and an American son, and small ass and big tits, and seeing her naked, in the dim light of a motel bedside lamp, the highway just a few meters outside the window, and a run before sunrise, tomorrow we will not know each other again. And I come back in my room alone, driving this big black American car, with an out-of-date Italian driving licence in my pocket and this morning sun licking my eyes, and I will get a homemade coffee in my room, and, pretending nothing happened, I will switch on the TV set for another episode of Family Guy. Well, it is OK like that.
So back to Barcelona.
This Barcelona, that has just pescaditos y red wine, pulpo a la gallega, mojitos that not even in Cuba you could find, rums and cokes, and bars empty before midnight.
Barcelona better than Madrid, because here you can feel the sea, the whole of it, the Mediterranean just 200 meters from my window. Barcelona in plaza del trippy, in plaza Catalunya, in plaza de España.
The Barcelona I love, now at 7 in the morning, with dizzy eyes, this Barcelona pure and clean and blessed as a 2000 euro whore.