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On loving the lie more than the truth: A one-night stand in Costa Rica.
“That’s a very bad hotel,” the taxi driver told me. “I know a better one. The Hotel Inca Real.”
I told him in my strained Spanish that I wanted to go to the one I had already picked out.
“It burned down,” he tried.
“Really?” I was too tired for this, having just arrived on a red-eye.
“Or maybe it’s out of business. It isn’t there. I have a very good one.”
I told him I just wanted to go to the address of the bad, burned-down, out-of-business hotel. I told him I had a reservation, which was a lie.
“Listen,” he told me. “The hotel I’m taking you is only 25 dollars American. A very good price,” he said. “ Es nada para ti. ” It’s nothing to you.
I tried one more time to tell him I wanted to go to the hotel in my book, so he finally admitted if he took me to his hotel, he’d get a cut. And he needed it for his children.
Tourists filled the lobby, smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking Cuba Libres. A near-empty fish tank bubbled in the corner. The hotel proprietor tried to improve the smell with rose air freshener, making a sickening smell of fake flowers, rotting fish, and cigarette smoke. The manager showed me to a room with no windows. I was too tired to complain, paid him the 25 dollars.
I dropped my bags and left to meet him in a bar, La Casa de Cerdo, The House of Pig, which was crowded with soccer fans who were shouting in an uproar because Argentina was beating Costa Rica. I ordered rice and beans with, of course, cerdo . And coffee so strong my gums hurt.
He wasn’t exactly a stranger, but he might as well have been. He was a friend’s husband’s brother, and he had moved to San Jose five years earlier. He offered to meet me, show me around before I left the next day for Quepos.
“Museums or parks?” he asked.
“You don’t want to go to the gold museum?”
“Parks, huh? Even in the rain?”
“I’d rather be outside. It will keep me awake. I haven’t slept for more than 24 hours. And I have an umbrella.”
We left the bar and wandered through the rain-soaked streets, and he told me about the pickpockets who slice the bottom of tourists’ backpacks and steal whatever drops out. We wandered past the colonial buildings of the Barrio Amón, walked past the national library and through the Parque Nacional, the Parque España, the Parque Central, and the Plaza de la Cultura.
“The kissing parks. All the young people live with their parents, so at night, they come here to make out. Once it’s dark, every bench is filled with lovers.”
The rain had turned to mist, the trees dripped with rainwater, and the air filled with birdsong. “Listen,” I said. “That’s amazing.”
“Do you want to go to the brothels?” he asked. I was in the moment in the way you are only when you travel. When you’re exhausted, but running on the fumes of the novel. I didn’t stop to think that this was strange — only that I wanted to see whatever there was to see. And whatever there was to do, I would do it. This is why traveling is so alluring: It untethers us from our lives.
“Sure. Why not? Kissing parks and brothels, this is some city tour.”
“We can always go to the gold museum.”
The Costa Rican brothels are not like the ones I had seen in Nevada, trailers hidden in the desert with women walking around in lingerie. Some of the hotel lobbies serve as brothels; you just have to know which ones to go to. And my expat knew. We walked into the Hotel Rey, which was full of middle-aged American men and young, beautiful Costa Rican women. A giant man wearing wranglers and a cowboy hat was flanked by two beautiful women, girls really. Dark rings of sweat circled the underarms of his shirt, and his face shined red like a beet. I instantly hated him.
“Let’s go,” I said, “I need a nap.” We walked back to my hotel in the rain.
In the rose-scented lobby, the hotel manager was talking to two American surfers. The manager had his hands cupped over his chest, saying “ Grande, muy grande .”
I nodded. If we hadn’t just toured the prostitution hotels, I wouldn’t have understood, but I got it, and it made me feel the same anger I had for the beet-faced man. I wanted these women to have better choices, the ability to make money without selling themselves to disgusting men. I was angry that the world works the way that it does.
We made plans to meet later for drinks.
After a nap, I walked to the Dunn Hotel, and the curtain of dusk had already fallen. Men filled the street corners, stood in the shadows of the buildings’ eaves. They whistled at me as I passed, calling out to me: “ Guapita , Bonita .” I hurried by, looked at my shoes. Felt the anger rise once again. I knew I shouldn’t be walking through the streets of San Jose alone at dark but wished I didn’t have to shrink at the catcalls of men.

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