Lost in Hotels

by Martin, M.

  “Do you speak from experience?” I reply.

  “Oh, I was worst of the worse. But I was never with such a handsome man. Beautiful men are delicious in bed and difficult in life. I prefer a man who’s sometimes difficult in bed and delicious in life.” Then she adds, “But I just speak very honest with you.”

  Catherine rejoins us as we walk swiftly to the parked golf cart. We all get in and Martina speeds up the hills.

  “There are three parts of the hotel. You will be staying in Raya Alto that is up on the hill. Most times you will walk, but I’ll take you this one time.”

  “Thank you. So has the island changed much since you arrived?” Catherine asks politely from the passenger seat.

  “Everything has changed. When I arrived, I was beautiful and desired; now I am an old woman in a place where you have to bribe people to get anything done. What used to work with just a wink and some dinner, now takes years, and even then you don’t know what’s in store for you.”

  “When did you arrive here?” I ask.

  “It was a lifetime ago. I was considered a foreigner because I am not from the islands. I met a man and we would embark on a love affair that became the best and worst times of my life. He was much older than I was with a life all his own. But when we were here, it was our life. I must say it feels like yesterday, but at the same time, a lifetime ago.”

  The town yields to a more residential setting with open plots of land that smell of trailing rosemary and citrus leaves among omnipresent olive trees. Martina turns the cart up a gravel road with an incline that requires a heavier foot. My eyes gaze up the hillside and at the edge of a mountain where a series of terraced villas looks almost identical to the main hotel lobby. A rounded driveway leads past a swimming pool that Martina says took forty years to build, and to a small roundabout near the foot of the buildings.

  “This is Raya Alto where you will be staying,” she says.

  Catherine’s eyes gaze up at the property that looks like a mix of Positano and Santorini with its earthy colors and white stucco architecture. The smell of fresh baked bread fills the air as two women busy about in white baker’s uniforms in a small outdoor kitchen behind an old walnut tree. Martina says nothing to the women, but takes the lead up the slick white staircase that ends at a small landing and up to the left to a large terrace with white floor and a thatched roof.

  “If you were here a month earlier, you could have danced at the disco that’s outside the main house, but now you must entertain yourselves at night or go to the port. But looking at you, I think you will find something,” she says.

  Martina shoves the glossy-blue door open with a brute force as the metal key chimes against the metal key slot. The door opens to a spare space lacking the edgy design or trendy all-white decor that I expected. Instead, it’s a room of blue hand-painted tiles, a simple white side table, and a platform bed that hovers in a scent of linen washed by hand and dried in the Aeolian wind.

  “It’s quite lovely. Simple, chic while making the most of that incredible view,” Catherine says politely gazing out the window.

  “If you need anything, you know where to find me. But I’m sure the long walk will make you really think about whether it’s worth it,” she says with a laugh and pulls the door behind her without much of a good-bye.

  “What an incredible place. It’s so not what I was expecting.”

  In a good sort of way, I assume?” I ask.

  “Absolutely, although I take you for more of the Hotel de Paris type,” she replies.

  “Meaning?” I say, grabbing her around the pleated waist of her fluffy white sundress that’s still as fresh as it was back in Taormina.

  “Just that you don’t seem the romantic boutique hotel type, that’s all.”

  “Well, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me yet,” I say, resting my nose next to hers.

  “Are you making your move already? We have to stretch the day, Mr. Summers. There’s no Internet or TV here.”

  “No television? How totally awful,” I say in my strongest American accent.

  “I’m just saying we have to pace ourselves.”

  “I’m a couple-times-a-day kind of guy sometimes; I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “You’re insufferable, David, really.”

  “Okay, so I am going to jump in the shower and wash off my four hours of sweat, and maybe you’ll feel differently when I come out, or at least I can hope.”

  “Go shower. I’m going to unpack both of us.”

  “That’s so wifely, but I won’t object,” I say with a shut of the bathroom door.

  The small bathroom just off the room is even bolder than the room with its hand-painted tiles and colorful sink with a row of toiletries contained in pottery vases. In the mirror, I catch my reflection and see dark circles under my eyes, greasy hair, and a thinner torso, lean from too much time on the road.

  A chrome hand shower hangs from a hook that I try to lift higher so I do not have to hunch over to wash my hair. I spill the small container of shampoo into my palm. It smells like a mix of rosemary, citrus, and lavender and is soothing to the touch as I rub it on my scalp and the scent drips down my body. I want Catherine to join me, so I call out for her; I wait, but hear no response. As the moment passes, I turn the noisy knobs off and grab one of the towels that line a shelf opposite the shower, pale white and somewhat rough to the touch. I hold it near my nose and inhale its air-dried scent—smells of days in the country.

  A thick robe doesn’t smell nearly as good, as I tuck it around me and make my way back in the room to find what could be keeping Catherine. With few places needed to look, my eyes find her seated on a long bench at the edge of the balcony with a notepad in hand, her dress heaved-up around her thighs, and holding a glass of chilled white wine. I linger away from her view just a second longer, not wanting to interrupt what she’s doing and becoming equally aroused watching her lost in the moment against a blue sea panorama with its rocky cutouts.

  “Is this your David-in-a-robe look?” she hollers from the terrace.

  “What’s that?” I laugh.

  “I said, is this your David-in-a-robe look?”

  “I’m sorry; I thought you might find it irresistible.”

  “You’re already irresistible,” she says, rising from the chair and joining me back in the room. My robe falls open and my naked, wet body lies next to her. She grabs hold of my back from the inside and rests her face on my chest.

  There is only silence, and I can feel my heart beat against her face; we hold each other tight in the most perfectly removed paradise around us.

  By evening, we have napped and showered and cuddled, and yet still no sex. I resign myself to dressing for dinner, a quick shower-free change in the bathroom into some navy trousers, a crisp white shirt, and some sporty loafers. Catherine follows, barely uttering a word since arising from her nap, disappearing into the bathroom, which she locks behind her and doesn’t emerge from for a good thirty minutes. Lack of Internet means no e-mail or calls, just idling away the last moments of the sun that sets without any notice from Catherine, who alas comes out in an outfit similar to what she was wearing earlier.

  “Are you ready, love?” I say without a hint of frustration.

  “Just about. Let me just change shoes,” she replies, kicking off one pair of heels in the middle of the room for another pair in black that she pulls from her suitcase, which now looks as though its intestines have spilled from its cavity.

  Finally, we make our way down the staircase that she struggles to navigate before finding flat ground and then down the hill back to the main hotel. I’m learning that Catherine isn’t especially chatty upon waking up, preferring her own space for a good thirty minutes to an hour at a time that I would normally be fully engaged. There’s moodiness to her, an irritability I have to traipse around before she’s
ready to engage fully.

  In lieu of conversation, the landscape is my companion as the set sun now allows Stromboli to come into its own amid a turquoise sky with a few boats that try to connect the small dots of islands in front of us. Along the way, we see maids pulling down linens from the line, folding them perfectly on the first try, and setting them into extravagantly large baskets. There’s no wave or acknowledgment of us walking past from the staff as Catherine grabs my hand and slowly emerges from her fog.

  “Are you waking up still?” I say, trying to break the silence.

  “No, I’m fine really.”

  “You seem to take awhile to wake up fully, am I wrong?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m just a little jet lagged still. It’s a long way to get here, you know.”

  “Yes, and have I told you how happy I am that you are here?”

  “I’m so happy to be here with you as well.”

  Hotel Raya is encircled in a flicker of candlelight as our five-minute walk that took more like ten minutes ends at the doorstep overlooking the port. My hand leads Catherine in first. She walks up the staircase and into the main reception where a larger crowd than earlier in the day has gathered. Catherine gravitates to the bar, which is adorned in Indonesian tribal art.

  “You must be the love couple,” says a young bartender rather abruptly. Her glowing brown hair falls on a simple tank top with white jeans that fit her ass perfectly.

  “You must be the couple staying on the hill, am I right? Martina said you are both very attractive, like movie stars.” Her dark eyes connect with mine as she aggressively juices limes with a wooden spoon.

  “That’s very sweet. I’m Catherine and this is David.”

  “Hi there,” I say. “What’s that you’re making?”

  “Well, there are some Americans over there who want something called a skinny margarita that’s just lime juice and tequila. Doesn’t sound very nice to me, but she insists that’s what she wants,” she says with a foreign, halfhearted laugh.

  “That sounds like a lot of work to me. I’ll just have one of your better tequilas on the rocks when you get done,” I say.

  “And I’ll have a glass of rosé, please.”

  The girl maintains eye contact with me even though Catherine interjects her own order.

  “We’ll be sitting over there.” Catherine points to the terraces alit in even more candles and soft lounge music barely heard above the chirps of crickets outside. We make our way to the terrace where only a single table is open. Catherine takes the chair facing the bartenders, either out of politeness to let me have the view or out of concern that I would linger in eye contact with the waitress the entire night. I have to imagine it gets lonely for a woman like her on the island, so full of couples and other women who fight for one of the 150 or so full-time residents.

  I recognize seriousness to Catherine that she hasn’t emerged from today. Usually her playful and vivacious self comes out by now, but today she seems lost in thought and unable to break free from her mind.

  “You know, my friends at the wedding tried to send photos of us to you, but I guess they had your wrong e-mail or something.”

  “Oh really? I’d love to see them,” Catherine says as she busies herself in the menu.

  “She said they were great. I have yet to see them myself. Everyone was e-mailing me for days saying how much they enjoyed meeting you.”

  Catherine lingers her stare over the menu, which is the usual Italian hotel menu of carpaccio, pasta, and fish dishes. Her mood today has me to the point of frustration.

  “Is there something wrong? You’re awfully quiet, especially for someone who has traveled so far to see someone; you’re now choosing to sit in total silence.”

  “Not at all,” she says, looking up from the menu. “It’s just sometimes I get lost in these incredible moments and get so scared they will go away.”

  “They’re special to me as well. That’s why I go out of my way to make them happen more and more often.”

  “But how realistic is it really? I mean we both have entirely different lives that are nowhere near going in the same direction.”

  “How can you say that? This is going incredibly well.”

  “How can it not? We go from Rio to Paris to Italy … how can we not get lost in the magic?”

  “You just came home with me, and they loved you.”

  “Realistically, someone like you doesn’t end up with someone like me.”

  The shadow of a woman across the floor materializes into the bartender who arrives with our drinks. She hands Catherine her wine glass without saying a word, and then with a heated stare, places mine on the table.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asks with a deep gaze.

  “No, I believe that is all for the moment.” I smile and return my concentration on Catherine who looks near tears.

  Around us, the night couldn’t be more perfect. A light wind blows away any separation between the sea and us, and the faint silhouette of Stromboli can be seen amid the bright moonlight. I wonder if it is something I’m saying wrong or not doing to make her feel like this, she being the closest I’ve ever come to a lasting relationship with a woman of substance.

  “You know I would do anything for you if you just asked,” I say.

  “You’re so wonderful. This has nothing to do with you. It’s just my life is very demanding, and when I’m with you, I want it all to go away. You make me not really care about any of it. All I can see and think about is you.”

  I can’t imagine the answer to her frustration is as simplistic as she says. She’s an avid writer who likely invests heavily in her words even if they aren’t entirely accurate. Her heart is there, but she’s far too intelligent to lead with her emotions with the recklessness of an unseemly adolescent.

  “So let’s order and then get an early night of sleep. Maybe you’re still jet lagged or something.”

  In my mind, I’m thinking maybe I should have made more of an effort to see her in her world. Visiting New York is always on my mind, but my company is mainly Europe-based, and my traveling rarely ends up in New York simply because when businesses want a New York company they hire someone local and not us in London. I have to change that. If this relationship is to work, she needs to know I am there for her. I want to know all about her and her life.

  Dinner passes in less than an hour with little conversation between us. We make our way back to the room under a canopy of moonlight that illuminates the hillside and provides a seductive glow to both of us as we stop midway and push into a series of kisses. Back at the room, the chemistry simply takes a backseat to her jet lag. Catherine retreats into her own mental world, and I plop on the bed with a six-month-old Vogue Italia and watch her fade into a deep sleep.

  The night lingers and morning arrives with a series of ground floor rumblings and an unforgettable scent, an unfamiliar one, which rises up the hotel and through the open windows of our room. Catherine is cuddled at the far corner of the bed and lying on her side away from me. Her arm is slipped beneath her pillow and her lacy negligee pushed tightly between her legs. A series of freckles dot her back and her hair is in a neat puddle next to her pillow. I roll over closer to her and mimic her form with my knees directly behind hers. I wrap my arm around her and grab her closer.

  “What’s the smell? It’s insane,” she says with a yawn. Her arm pulls me tighter around her as I thrust her from behind.

  “I think the ladies are baking breakfast downstairs.”

  “It’s making me hungry, baby,” she says, lying still with her eyes closed.

  “Should we sneak down for a taste? Or should I go grab you something?”

  “Oh yes, a coffee and a little nibble would be delicious,” she says.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  I pick up the robe, thr
ow it over my boxers, and open the door to an explosion of sunlight reflected over the panorama of an even deeper blue sea than the previous day. My eyes struggle to adjust from the dark room; its curtains tightly bound and air-conditioned haze makes it feel as if it could just as easily be 9:00 a.m. as 3:00 p.m. The scent isn’t as intense just outside the door, a mix of warm dirt and faint scent of bread rising on the heated air from below. I peek down and see Martina bossing about just the same as she did the day before. Her head cocks up and hushes the kitchen staff with a pat of her hand in midair as I make my way downstairs.

  “Good morning, Mr. Summers. I hope you both had a very good night.”

  “Yes, I think the jet lag caught up with Catherine, however.” My eyes fix on the bartender from last night. She’s working the counter of the breakfast bar dressed in a white smock. Two bakers circle behind her with all eyes in my direction.

  “Are you going to have a little breakfast?”

  At the mere mention of the word, the heavier of the two bakers readies a place setting at a small wooden table with blue-plaid linens and pale-blue plates under the circle of shade from a giant olive tree.

  “Well, I told Catherine I would bring her a bite, but I was also thinking of maybe a run or a swim in the pool.”

  “You sit here; you look like you get enough sport.” Martina forces my shoulder into a wicker chair that’s not made for outdoors, but such things are overlooked in these parts of Italy.

  “You are from London, no?” Martina takes a cup of coffee with a saucer from the previous evening’s bartender. I wrap my robe tighter, unaware I was going to be stuck staying for more than a pass by.

  “Yes, I am from London.”

  “And your woman; is she also from London?”

  “No, Catherine is from New York.”

  “And you are not married yet?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “You know, there were times in Italy that a hotel would turn you away without a wedding ring, especially here in the south. I don’t understand, why no married?”