Lost in Hotels by M. Martin Read Free Book Online

an evening Rio beach still teeming with life even in darkness.
    As I stand naked, the small kiosks that sell juices and coffees still perk to life as barefoot businessmen run off their day, grandmothers walk one pace at a time with strollers in tow, and teenagers sludge around attempting to find mischief. I imagine dinner at Sushi Leblon or a drive to Aprazivel in Santa Teresa with someone other than myself, but tonight it’s only me at this tiny table and the work—truly the only constant in my life.
    Little did I know the next morning would begin my last day in Rio. Most of my work would be in vain, and my time here was going to be cut short, as my company discontinued their plans to acquire Adib, the Rio advertising company, due to “non-transparent accounting practices” that made the value of their operation infeasible to calculate for an outside buyer.
    Sadly, my company didn’t communicate this to me before yet another all-nighter and a commute to those musty offices that were actually a bit more charming when I knew it was my final day. I used to have a feeling of failure when deals like this would simply collapse after weeks, sometimes months, of working on them. Now, I just see it with excitement for where and what is next to come, providing I get out before having to see the disappointed business owners who don’t always greet the news as well as they did in Rio.
    A layer of cloud cover blankets the Rio sky, not so much that it’s raining, but just enough to shade me on my return to the hotel under the penetrating sun. I had enough time from work to take a quick shower, and promptly at three o’clock, I arrive in the lobby wearing even less than suggested—a spare pair of beach shorts and flip-flops.
    “Well, hello there.”
    Catherine is already there, popping her head up from the lounge with a bag in hand and an asymmetrical T-shirt that dips around her breasts and covers her simple swimsuit. She beams with no lingering hesitation or previous negativity to detract from our day.
    “So no,” I say even before hello. “This is not what I said you should wear. You want to homogenize with the locals in Rio. So tie that thingy around your waist,” I say, pointing to her scarf-like shawl, “and leave your bag here.”
    “What if I buy something or need money?” she responds as she hands me the bag.
    “I got it today; just leave it at the front desk.”
    With business cleared from my mind, the day is as much about having fun for me as it is showing the American around Rio. In our coordinated Fasano flip-flops, we set out under an uncertain sky along my favorite street just around the corner from the hotel. R. Farme de Amoedo is lined by attractive, yet unassuming apartment blocks from the seventies interspersed with newer construction that blends into the sky of converted balconies, satellite dishes, and outdated antennas. A busier corner approaches with overflowing shops and cafés on all four corners. I wave to the coffee woman who chats at me every morning across from the greasy chicken place with its 3:00 a.m. hamburgers and hangover breakfast platters.
    Part of falling in love with Rio is knowing which streets to take when walking and which strips of endless concrete and traffic to avoid. Keeping a speedy pace even in flip-flops, I see Catherine looking at the windows of Osklen with its sexy-surf style, which she’s obviously never seen before, and studying each of the passing men in their utilitarian business suits, and teenagers with impossibly perfect skin and edgy hair that suits their skimpy beach outfits. We pause in front of a small kiosk on the park with the words Sushi Cone written in bold neon lights.
    “Um, no thank you.” Catherine backs away from the window as I step closer.
    “Sushi is a big deal in all of Brazil, part of the country’s fascination with staying fit,” I say with a show of my abs. “And it’s so refreshing, even on a hot day.”
    Catherine wrinkles her face in