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About Malaga

I saw this one gal, all sass, smokin’ a ciggie, leanin’ on a wall. I’m like, “Oi, she’s the one!” But then—surprise!—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, yellin’ at her. Pimp, probs. Got me mad as hell! Why’s he gotta ruin it? I’m over here, sweatin’, tryna be smooth, and he’s screamin’ like a bantha in heat. R2-D2, where are you? Save me from this mess!

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Long slender woman legs come down the stairs. A handsome young lady leaves the spacious villa. Remco and Robert, two bodyguards, grin.

Picture this: narrow streets like Calle Real, where locals hang out and gossip like crazy. I always see these people hustling on Calle de la Paz—trust me, it's like a daily drama unfolding. And then there's the park, Parque del Llano, green and chill, where I sometimes take a break from kneading out knots and listen to the birds. Oh, and the river—yeah, the Rio Verde. Not a huge one, but it flows quietly and kinda reminds me of how life just meanders if you let it. “Pretty, pretty good,” as that flick Toni Erdmann says, right? But here, it’s more like “pretty… weird sometimes,” if ya ask me.

On Phil French