Lost in Hotels (22 page)

His thumbs work my flesh, delicately tracing me fully from both ends before rising above me and thrusting inside with a force that almost sends me over the edge. There is a primal magnificence to his sheer strength; it’s almost like the instinctual rhapsody of two creatures consumed in a mating ritual. The cold water chills his skin. I kiss and then bite his neck with full force. He responds by grabbing my face and forcing his thumbs inside my mouth as far as he can reach, then he kisses me, and then thumbing me again as I struggle for breath. His rhythm intensifies to where I lose all control in climax, and I feel him explode inside me as he holds firmly with two hands on my back. He’s drained of all passion and emotion, falls limp, out of me, and onto the chaise next to the pool. His long torso glistens with water under the winter African sun. As he lies there, I pull myself under the shower and savor what remains of him still inside me. I feel as though the world could not be any more complete even if it’s only in this moment and only in this instant. He is a perfect sight, his eyes closed and legs rolled out to the side in vulnerable dominance.

There is a glamorous malaise to afternoons in Africa. David slept on the terrace through most of the day, and I worked on my own story of Londolozi. Time ticks slower and life is more about actual living in this wildly magical place that transports you to a bygone time as giraffes, elephants, and hippos head across along the horizon. In between, we would meet for a kiss in the doorway or outside on his chaise, and I would tuck myself next to him and bask in the winter sun that felt as hot as any summer day. He enjoys his silence, taking to whatever book or magazine he can find in the room and settling in for a good hour before making his way over to me with another kiss. By the time of the evening safari drive, I had pretty much convinced myself that I could live in Africa, or anywhere, as long as he is by my side.

David emerged from the bathroom bundled in his quilted plaid Moncler and I in a heavy sweater as we made our way together, hand in hand, out of the room and back to the main lodge.

“So, he finally showed up,” Duarte says to David as they exchange firm handshakes.

“I was polishing up on my lion tracking skills, that’s all,” David playfully replies as he climbs into the truck and onto the front-most seat behind the driver, closer than I would have preferred.

“That’s what they all say until they come face-to-face.”

“So, what will we be following tonight, gentlemen?” David says to Nogo. All three men, now fully in conversation, left me the doting woman to enjoy their back-and-forth dialogue. The talking elevates to new heights as they tell the story of the male lions. They talk about how the mother has tried to stay away from them after catching their scent. David encourages Duarte with more questions about the flora and fauna as well as tracking techniques used by the natives. Between pauses and dramatic tales, David turns to me with a kiss and holds my hand tight under the warm blanket as my mind and heart exhale in happiness.

The chatter comes to an abrupt halt as our truck rolls to a stop, and we can hear rustling in the bushes as well as the thumped heartbeats of our guide and tracker. David grips my hand as I slide closer to him for a better look.

The sun has fallen and the night settles between twilight and darkness; a deep chill has set into the bush. And there, in a close pack of four, the lions encircle the lioness. She is the color of sunlit wheat with a mane of cleverly soft hair and ferociousness that reveals itself through a series of trebling roars that rattle the nerves and make even the brave feel just a bit fearful. Their heightened purrs are aggressively amplified with one of the four males showing scrapes of a fight not won. The wounded mother limps under a tree, and up in it, a lone cub holds tight to a limb.

Life stands still in that moment, lost in the noise of an unbalanced fight where the innocent will lose, and life will continue and forget this story of the unfair. The men look on as if disconnected through television or distance, while literally five feet from us a lioness’s baby will die and maybe even she will too on this horrible night. The lions begin to circle her as one by one they lunge for the cub in the tree, and one by one, she takes them down. They have the eyes of blood-hungry warriors, hungry to expunge any genetic trace of their rival male and its offspring. The fact it’s an innocent cub makes no difference to them.

It’s a perilous fight of the truly ferocious, but one the lioness knows is about each minute she can prolong the inevitable. The lioness continues despite knowing it is a battle she will lose. I see myself in her determined eyes, knowing my own journey is about having as many moments with David that I can create, even though I can clearly see what the future holds for both of us.

We sit still for a good hour watching their endless attempts as the cub sits high above in the tree. Each one of us whispers the narrative of the struggle, while inside, I wish somehow we could just chase away the males or somehow intervene. Before I have the courage to utter such a suggestion, the stronger of the male lions attacks the neck of the lioness with full force. The three other males circle her and one climbs the tree toward the cub. The cub struggles on the limb, weighed down with the heavy lion on it, pushing him closer to the edge.

The mother lioness struggles under the mouthed grip of the largest male lion; the sound of a ravaged virgin as if heard from her soul. Then her cub falls to the side clinging for its life on the dangling branch before dropping to the ground in an innocent thump as the three male lions pounce on him. The ferocious vibrato of the warring lions reaches its peak above the shrieks of the ravaged cub in his final agony. Among the victorious feeding frenzy of the male lions, in the distance, the distraught lioness retreats before our eyes in a solitary pace into the wild without even a single look behind her in fear or grief; she returns into the bush to face life on her own once more.

CHAPTER 6
IBIZA

I
T’S BEEN ALMOST of week of Berlin, and I couldn’t be happier to get away, even if just for a quick trip. First, from a business perspective, there’s nothing worse than dealing with Germans who seem to get lost in an endless cycle of meetings and pointless deliberation that’s surprisingly inefficient, at least on an executive level. What could have been accomplished in a matter of hours in the US or even in a day in London requires an unyielding cycle of conversations about an online art auction website that’s neither profitable nor very good.

Then there’s the hotel I had the unfortunate experience of booking during one of early summer’s first true heat waves when the humidity in Berlin is unyielding and accommodations are best booked based on who has air conditioning. A series of sleepless nights made me more and more nostalgic for Catherine, someone who has been all but missing in the flesh but comes to life via her e-mailed banter that keeps my heart warm since seeing each other in South Africa.

Catherine is inconsistent with calling though, totally detached when it comes to her day-to-day life and has a schedule almost as busy as mine is, which most times has me outright begging to see her. Between the occasional Skype sessions and texts, the time we spend together in these incredible places and the intensity she brings to each moment is what glues us tighter and tighter together as the time between our visits seems to deepen the passion I feel and lengths I’ll go to have her near me.

This emotion led me to drop off the work grid for a few extra days and make the usual summer pilgrimage to visit my friends Alejandro and his wife, Chrissie, in Ibiza for a party weekend in which I still indulge to this day. I wasn’t sure how to handle the trip or if to avoid it altogether, but I needed an escape from all that is Berlin right now.

When I initially told Catherine of the idea, she scoffed and idled off some comment about not being seventeen anymore, or that there are far more glamorous destinations than the packed Balearics in which to spend a July weekend. I understand her need to be dedicated to work, but we also have something good going that can only last as long as we make time to see each other. I managed to convince her to join me through a mix of first-class airfare and bribed sexting, in which I almost never engage. Plus, my attempt to be fully faithful to Catherine, despite our lack of conversation about monogamy, has led me to an almost two-month dry spell that I know can only last for so long, even in Berlin.

So life plants me at an airport once more, this time at a relic of the DDR known as Berlin-Schönefeld that’s in the process of being replaced with a far more modern terminal, which will finally phase out all the Berlin airports that had anything to do with the Cold War or Third Reich. Yet, I’ve never been so happy to see an airport, the gateway to my escape from the rigidity of Germany. The cab driver almost seems embarrassed by such an icon of the past as he unloads my luggage and sends me on my way into commuter aviation hell. Sadly, the only nonstop flight today is one on Ryanair, the be-all and end-all of flying and the absolute antonym of first class.

Despite it being the middle of summer, the airport is surprisingly dead; a security line took little more than a few steps to get through. On the other side, a duty-free shop of international logos pushed like airport heroin by German fragrance models, line the entrance of the terminal. Among a mix of Eastern European girls looking for any job they can get in this regimented society, one in particular stands out like a bombshell, and she is holding a pitcher of Pimm’s. Her short navy work dress and natural platinum blonde hair with pieces that fall perfectly in her pouty face.

Our paths connect as I walk directly for her. I notice our remarkably similar electric-blue eyes and pale skin that could almost make us siblings if not for the ten or so years of age difference. She rattles off something in German, the only word being
bitte
that’s at all recognizable to my English ears; it hurt somewhat to see her subtle lips mouth this treacherous language.

“I’m not German.”

“You Englander?” she says with a shy smile, but with the gape of a seasoned seductress who doesn’t lose a moment of eye contact as I stand two feet in front of her.

“Yes, British, actually. And you? Where are you from?” I say while stressing each syllable of my question, given what I imagine to be her rudimentary English skills.

“I am from Poland,” she says as if the answer would be a disappointment upon speaking. I can imagine the judgment such a reply conjures up in her everyday German life where foreigners are lumped together whether from a country a hundred miles or a thousand miles away.

“Do they drink Pimm’s in Poland?” I say with a smile bigger than usual, hoping to lessen the load of her day.

“No, not really. In Poland, we drink vodka, not Pimm’s. It is too sweet for Poland,” she stutters, reciprocating my smile.

I imagine her naked, her tiny breasts that likely curve up at the end with tight pink nipples and a perfectly toned body that’s agile in bed as she begs for it again and again.

“Krakow?” I ask as a compliment, alluding to the more progressive of the Polish cities, even though I would imagine an immigrant would more likely come from the rural areas of the country.

“Bromberg, small town in north of country where many Germans.”

Her scent is a mix of fruity German shampoo and Pimm’s, her eyes inciting an erection not easily concealed in my jeans as I shift to one leg. My mind immediately goes to eating her out from front to back, tasting her as I imagine her to be, even though I know I must restrain myself. It seems at all moments of the day all I do is think about sex. Even though I do a sort of preemptive masturbation almost every morning and night to avoid these moments that arise on a daily basis. I simply won’t allow myself to assume the role of my father. I’ve told myself I won’t fuck up what’s evolving with this relationship by searching out endless sex that simply dilutes the passion I have with Catherine.

“Do you have children?” I ask, hoping to douse the situation with verbal cold water as various places where two adults can explore each better in an airport terminal flash through my mind.

“Child, me? I am only twenty-one and still in university,” she giggles, a reaction that makes her all the sexier.

“Well, I need to get to my gate. But thanks for the Pimm’s cup.”

I make my way away from her and her leggy entourage before I do or suggest something I might regret. I think of all that could be ruined with Catherine if I pander to the momentary indulgences that will eventually mount and lead to me succumbing to my own instinct. And without a lingering stare or a quick look behind me to see if she’s watching, I escape to my gate and into the impossible scene of crying children, teenagers lost in their iPhones, and bickering couples trying to put on a happy face prior to boarding for their two-week romp on Ibiza.

It’s amazing to me how such a short flight can connect a place like Germany to a wonderland like Ibiza. However, the near three-hour flight is often the worst part of Ibiza, a flying dormitory of teenagers who catcall on takeoff and deejay a techno dance party through their headphones for much of the flight. Germans clap when planes land; they also run through the arrivals area to be first in the passport control. I attempt to keep pace with those too old for such a spectacle but too young to trail in the back with their parents.

Ibiza shouldn’t be judged on the road leading from the airport: a mix of Germanic mid-rise apartment blocks and a distant silhouette of its walled city that looks like so many other fortified Mediterranean towns of old that today serve no other purpose than hawking wares to tourists and framing the photos of those who come once and never again. The road turns to highway and then a series of elevated bypasses where first-timers begin to judge the overdevelopment and congestion. Shirtless motor-scooterists weave in and out of roundabouts before the six lanes turn to four, and then to three, and then to two as the perfect pavement turns to a darker tar and then to a mix of asphalt and rock before the evening horizon clears into the island’s incredible rural interior.

Rural Ibiza is a bohemian paradise for those who arrived, like myself, in their late teens and continued coming every summer, even as their peers canceled one by one due to new families or relationships, only to be replaced by those locals you find who share your passion for this incredible place.

I met Alejandro and Chrissie, two fellow Londoners whom I met at a beach club one afternoon when I was fighting with a girlfriend du jour. They interrupted, or intervened, to share their own fight that evolved into all of us enjoying the next few days in a mix of drug-induced beach dancing and late night partying. The girlfriend didn’t last much longer than the trip, but Alejandro and Chrissie remained and have been a part of my every summer since. I’m not quite sure how Catherine will take to the two of them, which is why I opted for us to stay in a hotel this time, versus my usual room at their farm near where we’re booked.

Since Catherine does this for a living, I let her select the property, even though I’m a full day early. Rural roads in Ibiza have few markers, no signs, and almost no house number, which means come nightfall, you had better know where you’re going, or you’ll probably end up somewhere else. Most people don’t know this side of the island, or at least don’t pay attention to it as much as towns like Santa Eulalia and San Antonio with their big dance clubs and mega-hotels. It’s here the bass and boom beats a little lower, at a more livable volume, where lifetimes are abandoned in places like Hamburg, London, or Paris to bet everything on a simpler life with like-minded people who want nothing else than to have fun and live out their dreams. Some of these dreams come to fruition through yoga compounds, hippie art stores, or boutique hotels like the Cas Gasi that comes into view as the evening claws onto its last few moments before night.

A peat gravel drive meanders up to a farmhouse compound of white stucco buildings with glossy green-painted shutters and wrought iron railings that overflow in lush ivy in front of arched windows and terraces. The smell of wet grass is cocooned by pure night as crickets already chime and a young bellman emerges from the double doors.

“Good evening, we’ve been expecting you, Mr. Summers,” he says. I feel ever so slighted when someone doesn’t address me in the native language, as if I don’t blend in with the locals.

“
Si, buenos noches
,” I reply as he takes my roller bag.

A sturdy olive tree with a twisted trunk looms over the walkway in between squatty palms and terra-cotta pots overflowing with demure blue, yellow, and red daisies. The inside of the hotel is more traditional than I expected, a two-story lobby of three-hundred-year-old stone walls and Spanish tile floors with a fireplace blazing as though it were Christmas and not the beginning of summer. An older crowd clusters in a mustard-painted lobby, their hands cradling goblets of red wine as the interruption of my footsteps is greeted with silent stares.

A tall, attractive woman nears with a tablet in hand; her other hand extends several feet before she’s even reached me.

“I’m Barbara, Mr. Summers. It is very nice to have you in my hotel.”

I sense a German accent in her authoritative manner as she sweeps me along her side and into a dining room where diners hover over wedges of elaborate fruit tarts at the tail end of dinner, despite the relatively young nine o’clock hour.

“So you will be here for five nights, Mr. Summers,” she said more as a proclamation than a question.

“Breakfast is in your room until eleven o’clock or as you desire, as long as you let us know the night before. Also, please let us know if you would like to join for evening canapés in the lounge each night. They are quite delicious and it’s fun to meet other guests.”

I catch the roaming eye of an older woman forking her last heave of pie. She is wearing stylishly retro eyeglasses. Her wink alludes to what lies beneath and what draws her not to Mallorca or Minorca, but Ibiza.

There’s a uniquely Ibiza dream realized through the individual details of the hotel from the restaurant that utilizes all its own garden ingredients to an on-site spa with a staff of yogis and body healers who “are the best on the island,” as claimed by Barbara. I can’t imagine the profitability of such a property only desirable during June through September and then purely beholden to local patronage. I assume money from other sources keep it alive, much like everyone else in Ibiza who made it elsewhere and come to live off it the way they always wanted for as long as they can.

Barbara gives me a full tour of the property from the kitchen to the individual massage rooms in the spa that she added a few seasons ago. Finally, we make our way to the room arranged within a former barn that’s been converted into upper-level accommodations that aren’t suites but also aren’t standard rooms. Whether this is her usual check-in procedure or she’s trying to procure good press, the lengthy narration adds suspense as my eyes absorb the charming space of our room with its canopy bed centered in the middle of the room with soft floral fabric that matches the drapes concealing a wall of French doors.

I want to make Catherine proud with minutiae learned from the owner, but I also want to freshen up and make it over to Chrissie and Alejandro’s place before it gets too late. And with Barbara’s wordy departure that lingers out onto the terrace a bit longer, she relinquishes me to a quick drop of clothes and a shower in a surprisingly alluring bathroom with its perfumed soaps made on site, and toiletries wrapped in a single twist of ribbon that I know Catherine will love.