Lost in Hotels Read Online Free Page B

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