Lost in Hotels

by Martin, M.

  “A-mer-i-can-o?” she asks in a five-syllable sprawl that sounds like there’s a period behind every other letter.

  “No, eu sou britânico.” I look away so as not to lead this hungry, overly flirty woman on for something more.

  My gaze returns to the terminal and my lost driver, who is most likely on a cigarette break or tipping off a security guy so he can park at the gate and leave his car idling. Then, among the cab drivers in their best working suits and a cleaning staff in their utilitarian blue uniforms, there she is.

  An embroidered white linen shirt suits her, complementing her porcelain complexion as she does everything not to look at me even as she walks in an almost-straight line toward me. All the noise and commotion of the airport seems to descend into silence as with each step she cuts the distance between us like a knife. I finesse her with my own stare, passing over her, and then returning in a direct gaze and yet, nothing.

  She holds copies of Vogue Italia or some other voluminous magazines tightly under her arm and approaches within a few feet of me without so much as a glance of her iridescent green eyes in my direction. She comes so close that I can actually smell her, a citrusy scent with a hint of jasmine and a smugly robust spice that’s noticeable even above an air of coffee beans, fresh-squeezed oranges, and burned toast. As I move just far enough from the register to allow her space, she shoves her roller bag between us and greets the waitress with a neutral semi-smile without teeth or tensing of her eyes or a mere notice of my presence even though I am three feet from her lips.

  “Café com leite, por favor?” she says with the most un-American of swift dialects and without a single missed syllable.

  A stillness washes over me as I listen for more, so much so that the waitress interrupts in a yell of choppy English above their conversation, “Mister, here is your coffee!”

  Here I am, revealed as the outsider. I take my coffee and retreat to a standing table near the edge of the café to watch. I watch for a sign of her slipping up that will negate her in my mind and explain her total ignorance of me, maybe pulling out a credit card as if she’s at Starbucks instead of the cash these types of places require. Her perfect posture and shiny bag make no mistakes, and I resign myself to calling the hotel to inquire about my car.

  As I become involved in conversation with the hotel receptionist, I can feel a single stare fall on my neck. I quickly look and with a swift turn in response, she looks away, perhaps never looking at all, distracted by her coffee and conversation that lingers with the chatty waitress. Despite my attraction to rejection, this proves too much even for me, so I mentally say good-bye to her and that Fasano driver, wherever he might be.

  I forget that you actually see more in the back of a taxi. The glass widows clear for viewing Rio’s elevated highways that wind around the motionless lagoons with their fabricated beaches by the airport and through two of the now tamed favelas that claw their way atop a hillside. Their poetically crumbling facades are enveloped in a geometric glaze of brick and mortar chaos, capped in satellite dishes and electric wires. There’s a long tunnel that you pass through that seems to divide the black-and-whiteness of suburban Rio from the Pantone city itself, a dark and mysterious strip of roadway that in its day was prone to well-publicized robberies, when traffic would be halted by drug lords and bandits targeting passing taxis and buses.

  Today, the worst thing that can happen is that traffic might make you late for your dinner in Santa Teresa. It zips along with ethanol-guzzling SUVs and puttering motor scooters with shirtless guys and their girlfriends clinging to their shoulders with penned in colorful tattoos that draw the eye. Together we all emerge at the end of the tunnel that spills onto the famous Lagoa and its incongruent residential high-rises with their first three or so floors trimmed in chain-link balconies facing the holiday Christmas tree that lights up every December and then sits out the rest of the year along the shore. Along the lake, women saunter along the sidewalks in nothing more than a bikini and flip-flops, their chocolaty hair blowing behind to lure chiseled men in those wide-banded Speedos that try to catch up, even to just see her eyes.

  Signs point in various directions that define the city, from Leblon to Copacabana. These were once the narrow parameters for tourists in the city that’s expanded and thrived under a stronger economy and better management of the police. My bosses insist it’s only a cycle, and despair and financial ruin will return to these lands. Rio has a long history of being savaged by us Westerners, who loot it for its minerals and fleshy innocence, only to leave it in ruins and then pick it up again in some sort of whirlwind romance.

  Today it’s the international conglomerates and private equity companies, like the one I work for, that purge the country of its resources. And really, that’s what my job as their risk analyst is all about, finding the prettiest of financial novices who are like those virgins of old who have no idea their value as we write them a check and strip them of most of their business rights. Then we put them in a pretty dress, smear them in the finest make-up, and spritz them in the most intoxicating of fragrances before we parade them on the world’s financial markets where the highest bidder wins.

  There it is, and it wows me even on the umpteenth time. That most beautiful shore of the Atlantic dotted in numbered lifeguard towers with a long boulevard and promenade of wavy geometric mosaic tiles that almost hypnotize you into this sexually charged trance that lasts every moment in Rio. The beaches are full, even on a Tuesday, a cavalcade of almost naked bodies running, biking, and rollerblading in all shapes of perfect, past the numerous identical kiosks that sell coconuts with a straw and the strongest rum drinks you’ll ever taste.

  With a swift stop, the door swings open and a line of six or so men in suits and security uniforms line the cobblestone valet of the Fasano with its glassy-steel frontage framed in swags of white drapery and cool chrome signage.

  “Are you checking in, sir?” asks a young valet lingering in the doorway in a white shirt and pants far too woolen for this humid February day.

  “Welcome back to the Fasano, Mr. Summers,” says a suited man, interrupting him from the reception with an apologetic undertone that translates even in his broken English.

  “We are so sorry about the car. There was an issue with the driver, and he missed you by ten minutes. Please accept our sincerest apologies. We’ve upgraded you in hopes that you can forgive.”

  Sadly, an upgrade at the Fasano usually just means a higher floor.

  The luggage flies out of the taxi in a melody of formal Fasano footwork and through a separate entrance from the guests. The taxi driver approaches for his tip, and a few more of the footmen hold the glassy hotel gates open for another visit.

  This hotel was supposed to be an Argentine property by Alan Faena, a fashion-guy-turned-hotelier from Buenos Aires who fell on hard times after the opening of his Faena Hotel+Universe, after Argentina’s ultimate devaluation. He was partnered with designer Philippe Starck, who stayed on the project once it was sold to Sao Paulo’s Fasano family, a three-generation group of Italian restaurateurs who made this their second hotel property, and really their best to date.

  The dark lounge, with its futuristic leather chairs and Sérgio Rodrigues sofas, is separated from the lobby by a succession of white drapes that billow with every opening of the glass doors. The front desk is a step back to Rio in late 1950s, but filled with the young and rich in designer linen and complicated straw hats that make the grand trek to this place, which is like the architectural incarnation of sex itself. Silk-screens with folkloric scenes of the Amazon hang from antique glass behind the reception carved of a single fifty-foot piece of timber.

  The staff, in their matching vintage khaki uniforms, appears as if cast for a movie, most having been here every year since I started visiting. The same woman, Isabella, tells me the latest restaurant opening, while the chap named Marcello, who looks like a thug version of Antonio Bande
ras, stands next to the door and assures guests are actually guests and that no call girls or hookers or escorts make it to the rooftop pool, even to the point of his own embarrassment.

  The elevator lingers a little too long on the lobby level as a rush of guests make their way in and push me to the back. Fedoras are everywhere in these parts of Rio as the door stutters open again to let in that inevitable sixth guest. There it is again, the spicy citrus scent of the American woman who shunned me in the airport. Now she simply turns her back to everyone, including me, without a “hello” or an “excuse me” as the door shimmies to a close.

  Her scent makes immediate friends, even if all remain silent and pretend they’re actually alone instead of crushed together in a six-by-six stainless steel box built by construction workers constrained by a tight budget and an almost too-timely contractor. And there on that second floor, which offers either a loud room facing the beach or a dark room facing the rear of an unattractive apartment block with strings of dirty laundry and too-chatty housekeepers, the American leaves me yet again without a glance or an acknowledgment or even a look of the eyes.

  The fifth floor is where you want to be at the Fasano. It faces the ocean and is the perfect distance above the beach crowds to still be able to see who has the hot body, but not so close that honking buses or 2:00 a.m. crowds leaving the basement bar wakes you up. The Fasanos were an unlikely pairing for Philippe Starck, the infamous designer of gilded seven-foot wingbacks and acrylic ghost chairs, who suddenly found himself working for a family more familiar with old-school deco styling than slutty baroque. The result was a success, even if the personal relationship was not; a hotel that mixes rich Old World style with abstract artwork and Rio glamour that I always look forward to visiting.

  The rooms are the perfect beach crash pad. A head-on silhouette of the Cagarras Islands frames a two-person balcony with teak deck; Eames chairs and mirrored walls make it hard for nosy neighbors to see inside. A king bed like you’ve never seen straddles the center of the room, with black-and-white images of lifeguards on some sort of massive diving pier in a Brazilian beach Neverland that makes for good daydreaming from a cushy leather chair I’m sure the Fasanos had to plead for Starck to accept.

  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 b
elieve,” 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.