Road music

Fridays in the office have a different atmosphere. The idea of a close weekend floats in the air, and although we are eager to disconnect after a long week of work, we want to play music and creativity beats more than ever.

I am of the conviction that it should always be Friday because it works better. The tiredness dragged throughout the week is stuck at the door. We are purer on that day, because our souls are ahead of the facts, freed from the weight of responsibilities and already on vacation. Laughter and ideas flow more mischievous and relaxed.

Today is not just any Friday. Today I promised the team that we would continue at lunchtime to dust off my Californian adventure and they are all looking out for me.

"California 1960" is already under construction. Sketches have been drawn, while layouts and prints are being planned and assigned. The drawing of the Calafia cushion has been very well received by all and has been sent to the stitcher, as it is an ideal composition for embroidery. We are eagerly awaiting the result.

-Bring snacks and we'll make a circle around the fire like when we used to go camping," I told them.

-I guess we're not going to have a bonfire," joked Sofia.

-It wouldn't be a bad idea, but we don't have much time. Our fire will be the music," I answered with a laugh.

-Start with something thematic, Joaquín," I tell him when my watch strikes 1:30 p.m. and I see that they are all expectant. They look at me out of the corner of their eyes as they fondle their picnic bags carefully prepared for the occasion. I spread Stripes' throw on the floor, cover it with a pile of cushions, take off my boots and settle in. Everyone follows me, forming a circle.

Joaquin lets the first song on his playlist play; an old country tune. I smile, recognizing it instantly.

 

 

-The lyrics are a little creepy, don't you think? - I commented to Max, as I turned up the volume in the car. He smiled.

We had taken turns driving and he had been assigned the first round. An unspoken agreement had run between us: the driver would be the one to choose the music, so the other should respect where the dial was left.   

-Don't you like Johnny Cash? - Max asked me.

-Yes, but this is not one of his best," I commented. - And even less to start a trip.

Max looked at me, trying to decipher whether I was being sarcastic or not.

-It's a country music landmark! - he said indignantly in response.

-I know, but this particular song? - I answered him. Something instinctive urged me to keep tugging at the thread, to see how he would react. - And he's not one of the best either - I said slowly, savoring the words.

With that, I made it. Max looked shocked.

-Let's see, expert, show me your musical taste, then," he said, gesturing toward the radio. - Find me a song that goes with our trip.

I began to surf through the stations, stopping at each one, eager to find the tune that would put him in his place. All around me, the houses and trees were beginning to disappear; the green gave way to the yellow of thistles and thistles, like a prelude to the landscape we were about to plunge into. The road, the car and we were the only constant.

 

*** 

-But Manuela, I don't know, but Johnny Cash is one of your favorite singers," said Martina, and the others nodded in agreement.

Many Fridays, during our musical moment, they had complained about my Cash monographs.

-True, he always has been, but I had just achieved my goal: I was now in charge of the music.

Hotel California's guitar invaded the car. I instantly turned up the volume, started singing and drumming with my hands. Max laughed. He let me sing, but then he pulled me:

- Could your choice have been any more predictable?

Indignation now covered my face.

-Predictable? It's a classic!

-It is, but I asked you for a song that symbolizes our journey and the first thing you stopped on is one that has "California" in the title. I'll give you points though because we're going in the same direction as that hotel.

I smiled. My partner had just bitten the dust.

-But the Hotel California doesn't exist," I said.

-Yes, it does.

-No, it doesn't.

-Yes, it does.

***

An exchange of whispers had interrupted the thread of my narrative. The discussion of the car of yesteryear had crossed the threshold of memory and infected my team, who were debating the same issue. It was one of those anachronistic and interminable disputes, so much so that not even the Internet was able to clarify, since there were sources on both sides.
While they were debating, Joaquín approached me and asked:

-Manuela, does the Hotel California exist or not?

-Something like that. I found out the answer when I arrived in Los Angeles. But first I want to tell you several things.

-Tell me, tell me! - Sofia told me.

Now we were crossing the desert. The road looked like a knife cutting the ochre-colored plain in two. Looking in the rearview mirror, we could see a thin layer of dust that our wheels were kicking up. Ahead, and in the distance, the cliffs, impressive. I rolled down the window a little. The cold weather of the San Francisco Bay was already behind us, giving way to a very pleasant warmth.

-I have an idea," Max said to me.

-I asked.

The discussion about the origin of the Hotel California had grown and perished after a few minutes, under the promise of a detour, where Max would show me the hotel he swore existed.

-A game," he replied. -To see how well you know how to make connections.

I looked at him, defiant. I hadn't enjoyed our discussion about the Eagles, in which I'd been left with little argument, so the idea of a possible rematch appealed to me.

-Count.

-Find a song that symbolizes my photographer.

-Your photographer?

-Yes. I assume that, if you want to pass the course, you have researched both Slim Aarons and Dorothea Lange.

I remembered his riddle about Calafia and Dorothea Lange's husband. It was clear that he had studied them both in depth. I, for my part, had been lost among stories of African animals and their Californian goddess, so my knowledge of Slim Aarons boiled down to the books I had borrowed from the library and had not yet been able to read. I knew he had devoted himself to photographing the high life of America's most powerful, but not much else.

-Okay," I said, and began to turn the radio dial.

-How did you get out of that one? - Sofia asked me.

-It was a coincidence, but the perfect song came along. Joaquin, let me play you the song I'm talking about.

I took the computer that was connected to the speaker and searched for Elvis Presley's greatest hits.

*** 

 

-This one! - I shouted, startling Max. I had been changing stations for almost half an hour, eager to find a song to settle his challenge.

Max took his hands off the wheel for a moment and applauded me.

-Finally! - he said. - I was beginning to lose hope - and patience!

I looked at him, not knowing whether to be amused or annoyed.

-Let's see, if you're so smart, you tell me a song for my photographer.

-That's easy," he said, pressing play on the car radio cassette player.

-I had set you up! - exclaimed Sofia.

We all laughed.

-That's right, I had it set up," I said. - Then I got her to confess.

-And what was the song? - Joaquín asked.

*** 

 

 

Touché. Tracy Chapman's commanding voice melted like chocolate through the car and the scenery. My eyes watered, but I don't think he saw it.

-I think we have a winner," Max said with a half-smile.

-It's not fair! You had it all worked out! - I protested.

-Well then, next time you come prepared.

We laughed, looked at each other, and immediately went back to our own side of the horizon. Chapman's voice covered that moment when we both lost our breath.

-I think it's time to change drivers," I said after a while. -Do you mind?

Slowly Max stopped the car. As he got out he stretched and woke up. I went straight to the driver's seat. I had an idea.

After driving for a while we came to a fork in the road. Although the route to the Kaufmann house was to the right, I took the left exit.

-Where are you taking us? - Max asked me.

-Let's see how well you know how to make connections," I said, imitating him, and pressed the accelerator.