Lost in Hotels (3 page)

Traveling for work has its benefits when you’re working for the likes of my firm. A chilled bottle of Moët and a whole coconut with a straw poked through its top awaits me in the room, but so does an in-box full of messages that suddenly make my iPhone vibrate like a popcorn machine as I contemplate how many hours I can goof-off without replying and before it becomes obvious that I’m goofing-off.

At different times of my life, I would arrive in Rio only to rush out again to the beach or to the bar or to the gym, but at the Fasano, there is that incredible pool on the rooftop that’s like an attraction all its own and like nowhere else in the world.

Etro swim trunks, same shirt—fully unbuttoned of course—and retro sunglasses that make me look like a modern version of Rudolph Valentino or Errol Flynn. Fasano also gives you free flip-flops, which I never want to own until I’m in Rio, and then they never seem to come off unless I’m headed to a meeting, and maybe not even then. It’s always an awkward moment standing at a hotel elevator half-naked when someone like a housekeeper scurries by or a man in a business suit on the elevator stares, likely wondering what this grown man is doing at 4:00 p.m. on a Tuesday in beach attire.

Then the elevators open to the Fasano rooftop and its showstopper bar laced in pinewood sectionals with creamy white-striped cushions under a shaded trellis. Endless lounge chairs are strewn with fashionable couples sipping rosé and snacking on tartares, and who scrutinize every person who passes from the elevator to the main pool. One of the prettiest pools I’ve ever seen, it never ceases to inspire me. Its chunky white marble and infinity design spills over its edges every time someone closes his or her eyes and jumps in.

Paisley-shaped mirrors line the perimeter brick walls and reflect the high-rise horizon and jagged skyline, which I think is actually prettier than Sugarloaf. The mirrors also generate a little-known death ray that I discovered the first time I came here when I got the most excruciating sunburn across a slice of my torso.

Cabana guys, a good decade past being able to call themselves boys, fetch towels and umbrellas as I circle the edge of the pool to glimpse the fish that will be filling my pond for the next week or so. The hotel is incredibly incestuous, as most guests opt for the pool in lieu of the beach and spend most of the day spilling their guts to new friends over endless passion fruit caipirinhas and platters of fries.

I take a spot at the edge of the pool where only a few loungers remain, next to a circle of Russian rich guys in stubby shorts smoking cigars with an entourage of hot Russian models, one of these women tries hard not to look my way. There’s an American or Canadian couple with their Four Seasons hats and plastic bottles of water from the room because they’re too cheap to buy them at the pool. Then there’s the lone gay guy in between visits to the local boy’s club baking to the perfect shade of eggplant before he exploits his next victim for as little as he’ll accept.

“
É esta espreguiçadeira tomadas
?” I hear a crisp voice encircled by a corona of sun as I pull away my sunglasses and sit up to look.

As I squint, that familiar voice repeats, “
É esta
, I mean, is this sunbed taken?”

Before I have a chance to reply or even mentally connect the translated sentence, a flurry of three cabana guys move her lounge chair a good five feet away below that fateful mirror. Her bag overflows with magazines and a clunky object I assume is a laptop.

“
Não, ele está disponível
,” I reply in my gruffest and most manly of Portuguese accents.

“
Muito obrigado
,” she replies in a soft voice as she struggles for cash from her purse and slips it to the attendant.

She’s more glamorous than I remember. Even at this upward angle, where I see more thigh than I would have expected under a sheer top and colorful bikini cinched so tight to her ass that I could make out her even more personal silhouette. She places all her belongings on the opposite side of the lounge away from me. Her face, now covered by a hat that is fashionably large without being too big, sits above a face fully concealed by a pair of black sunglasses far more South of France than Brazilian beach.

I straddle my lounge to sit up and pull my shorts down from their rolled-up norm that makes them look more like Speedo—the surest way not to land an American chick. The music gets louder into afternoon, a sultry mix of acoustic lounge anthems where you don’t know who sings them or even the name of the songs, but they ooze an Ipanema sensuality that makes everyone ready to let loose.

“What brings you to Rio?” I ask in the worst of a scratchy, premeditated voice attempting to rise above the volume of the music and pool, but not so loud that the loungers of Canadians turn around in recognition or join in on the conversation.

She removes her glasses without leaning forward or even moving her head.

“I’m here on business,” she says, an aura of mystery that I plunge into headfirst.

She bites the tip of her sunglasses and raises her head to reveal eyes the color of cut kiwi with a beautiful black center.

“There are worse places,” I reply.

“It’s definitely prettier than sitting in an office back home,” she says, her smile soft, and then she lies back under her hat.

Her glasses are too dark to tell what she’s looking at, perhaps my legs or my shorts or my chest or maybe nothing but that amazing view that hovers on the horizon and just makes you want to savor such moments of beautiful life.

“Funny enough, I’m here on business as well,” I intrude.

Not even a crack of a smile emerges from her increasingly tense face. The music, the kids in the pool and the noise of Ipanema itself seem to come to a long, exaggerated silence as I wait for a reply.

“We were actually on the same flight, I believe,” I volunteer, hoping to cut the tension and tease out a response.

She leans forward and adjusts the towel around her waist, partially getting up to readjust her shorts or perhaps flee our conversation.

“Yes, and in the coffee shop as well,” she adds with an asymmetrical grin as if surprised by my admission.

“I thought I was going unnoticed as a Brit until you barged through with your perfect Portuguese.”

“Hardly perfect, I would say. Just a few too many times not getting the cappuccino I asked for in Lisbon one summer.”

She relaxes a moment, and for the first time since I’ve seen her, she pushes back in her lounge and adjusts the colorful straps of her bikini underneath her cover-up and drawing my eyes, even though I try desperately not to look. Obviously, many beautiful women occupy lounges at this pool, but something about her simply sucks me in and has me watching her every move.

Silence seems to suit her better, perhaps it’s the jet lag, or feeling uncomfortable in a corner of the hotel pool to talk so openly with another man. My instincts say she’s in a relationship and quite happily. In the moment of granted silence, she relaxes enough to tug on the sleeve of her white cover-up. She lifts it over her head almost in slow motion above two perfectly molded breasts, sculpted masterfully into a bikini that’s neither too large nor too small. She tilts her sunglasses just enough to allow me to see her looking at me watching her every move like a ballet.

With a quick push up from her lounge, and without a single word, she walks to the pool, her lower body with more of a curve than I could hope for and legs that make even the Russian models take notice. She ties her hair up without slowing in step, and then sits on the white marble ledge of the pool that retains its chill despite the muggy Rio air and warm water. Without causing much of a wake, she pushes her body into the water with the grace of a woman who wishes to go unnoticed.

Not one to chase too closely, I grab my shirt and make my way past the pool with a single hand wave to that woman who still bears no name. I hope to find the real Rio and its attainable women who lie beyond the hotel. You don’t capture the real feel of Rio inside the Fasano; the city comes to life only once you escape the double-glass doors and step onto the cobbled-marble sidewalks and the zippy roadway that runs along the beach.

Rio of today is nothing like it appeared when I first visited a decade ago. Gold-speckled apartment blocks fortified with wrought iron gates no longer have the barbwire-draped ornamentation or multiple armed guards. Today, there are only sleepy guards in security booths crowded with portable TVs. Overgrown trees with branches that reach from the sky to the sidewalk shade the congested streets leading from the beach. I pass the rainbow canopies of gay bars where beady eyes are best avoided, and then the corner café with its orange plastic chairs, shiny Formica tables, and chatty waitresses who serve coffee that jolts the heart and the only sugar-free acia I’ve found in Rio.

From the leisurely residential streets of Ipanema, grandmothers carry plastic bags of groceries with granddaughters in hand, appears a cluster of hardware stores where workers rush in and out next to grocery conglomerates with flashy logos that mean something to local eyes. Here, Ipanema succumbs to more downtrodden Copacabana that was once the most fashionable part of the city. Here, you’ll find the more dated apartment blocks where the elderly linger by propped-open doors, and faded hotel towers disappoint first-timers above a few American bars that are the Brazilian version of a strip club. Back in the day, you could find the most beautiful women in the world literally dancing to eat, but these days, the economy has left these places to aging drunks and drug addicts to operate.

For those who want a little action, the beaches of Copacabana are where to go, especially around the Orothon Palace that’s enveloped by the ladies of the night as well as the prettier ones who gravitate by day to the strip of sand directly in front of the hotel. While I’m not one to pay for sex, I always find it fun to go for a swim and take in the sights in these grittier urban parts that remind me of that old Rio I once knew. Ipanema guys are a softer bunch than the steroid-fueled gym Barbie’s who preside over the beaches of Copacabana. You don’t want to carry much or stand out on this strip of sand than I already do with my English skin and eyes, across the wide sidewalk that’s far less congested than the one back near the Fasano. The sand is painfully hot as I tiptoe around the clusters of locals sprawled toward the sun, and I make a direct line for the water.

The crush of people who clog the beaches in late afternoon can be overwhelming, most bringing coolers full of canned drinks and bags full of food to share with friends. Even the water can be crowded, a shoreline packed with those who lack air conditioning at home and clog the entry points. Despite its brownish color this afternoon, the warm water washes my body clean of its sweat, airplane staleness, and a layer of Rio dirt that sticks to you almost any time you walk through the city.

Heads bob in the water as women, men, and even children stare at a white man in these parts, wondering what he’s doing in this section of the beach if not for sex. Not for first-timers, this part of Rio can still intimidate those not familiar with the ground rules. First, don’t even look at a woman if she’s with another man—at least when he can potentially see you doing so. You never, ever make the mistake of chatting up a girl younger than eighteen, even if you and she are thoroughly up for it. Lastly, you never, ever dare bring a woman from the beach back to your hotel.

As I sit on a ledge of sand closest to the water, the beach feels like the grittier Rio I knew of old, with its familiar vendors hawking those puffed peanut-flavored rings, fancy ice cream bars, and mate that are all staples of the Brazilian beach. There, in the distance, our eyes meet over no fewer than three women and a child building a sand castle precariously close to the waves. She stares without so much as a blink walking in my direction with her black swimsuit cinched tight in its wetness to her thighs, which curve in an almost immoral angle making them seem like they were built by God for grabbing.

She inches closer as if blown by the wind. Her black eyes pierce, entrancing mine with her mocha skin and curly exotic hair dripping on the ends. A smile erupts even before a word. She sits next to me passing a touch of her foot over my sandy ankle as wave’s crash and crowd’s hum around us.

“You Americano?” she secretes from her fleshy pout with glaringly white teeth of which I can see only a trace as I fantasize about the taste of her perfectly drawn lips.

“Englander.”

My direct gaze says, I’ll fuck you right here on the beach if need be, and it’s definitely going to happen; I’m going to get inside you. Her eyes struggle against the sea breeze as a single strand of hair beckoned by my perverse thoughts shoves itself into her mouth; her generous fingers tug at it but only push it in more, deeper, as we gaze into each other’s eyes that feel as though we’ve sunken into each other’s souls.

“You sleep at Hotel Copacabana?” She references the posh hotel down the beach where most businessmen stay, and most Brazilian girls like her, only venture into once they are married or rightly dressed for a private client.

Her question gives away her intent, a cash deal negotiated with a guy she would probably do without even being paid.

“No, Marriott, da.” I point to the nearby hotel. Her sexy exoticness fades in just a single question as a look of disappointment echoes across her face. She inches a bit farther away and ponders my fallen value.

My instinct is to continue to flirt and watch the salesmanship of a prostitute give way to the more primal desire of a girl who’s obviously into a guy. However, I also realize that leaving the situation without a room or intent to seal the deal would have her following me off the beach or causing some sort of commotion that I would not likely win given her home-beach advantage. Despite her knowing she cannot make money off a guy like me, she lingers with her eyes as we savor the passing light of the sun retreating to half-brightness beyond the staggered skyline of Copacabana.