Lost in Hotels by M. Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

disagreement.
    “They eat it everywhere, including to-go with scoops of tartars and sashimi … that’s going to be the best snack you’ve ever tasted.”
    She still hesitates.
    “Just try it, I promise.” I handed Catherine her first cone, a salmon one, which tends to be the safest bet for first-timers.
    Catherine goes in for a bite, turning the cone with its sesame seeds and wasabi powder, to find the most approachable side. She goes in with her teeth, demure and tactful, making certain no pieces fall, and making the napkin she took in her hand unnecessary.
    “Oh my god,” she gushes with a partially full mouth.
    “And it’s even cold, right?” I say sarcastically, watching for her smile and nod of agreement before I take my first bite.
    “The first hour or so I’d stay close to a bathroom just in case,” I say in jest.
    I like that she’s unafraid to try something out of her comfort zone, trusting my guidance as I lead her through the parts of Rio that inspire me so much, and yet I’ve never really had the chance to share in conversation with anybody.
    “So you travel all the time for your job, David. Do you ever get sick of it?” Catherine asks.
    “I love it. It takes me to these amazing cities and allows me to feel like I’m a part of them for a few weeks or months. Normally, when people travel, by the time they get to know a place, it’s time to leave. This way, I really get to feel like I’ve lived and felt each place.”
    “Don’t you miss home or your family?”
    “You know, it’s not for everybody, I guess. But I love it.”
    “So how much longer will you be here?”
    “Actually, you have me on my last day,” I say, looking into her eyes to heighten the stakes. “But no pressure, you have all day to fall in love.”
    “What? To fall in love with you?”
    “Rio … all day to fall in love with Rio,” I clarify.
    “Well, I am quite honored, and I’m already seeing a side of this city I like a lot more.”
    Catherine’s eyes linger on the surfers who pass her way and they linger with their eyes. She studies the small home shops and magazine racks and points out the publication she works for in the United States.
    “This is the magazine I work for back home. Have you seen it before?” she asks, pointing to the periodical that’s tucked in the back of a second shelf and covered in plastic.
    “That would be a negative, but perhaps I’m not really the demographic, am I?”
    “You know, it’s not Vogue , but it pays the bills and allows me to travel a lot.”
    “So, travel writing, mainly?”
    “A mix, but mostly I write the cover stories and stalk celebrities to be on the cover.”
    “So you meet most of them. That has to be exciting.”
    “Sadly, most of them don’t live up to what you imagine. But I try to remember it’s just a job for them, and they’re not really trying to be my friend.”
    “Does anyone live up to what we make him or her out to be in our minds?”
    “I’d like to think so, otherwise, that’s such a grim outlook on life,” she says having pondered the idea deeper and with more emotion than myself.
    By late afternoon, the humidity has almost become intolerable, and we tuck into Doce Delicia, a fashionable café along Rua Aníbal de Mendonça with the best salads and generous pours of rosé around. Inside, the honey-colored woods look freshly oiled along the floor with simple rosewood chairs and cheery striped cushions. Catherine and I take a seat in a quiet corner.
    “So tell me about you … where is your family from in the states?” I ask as I spread a starched white napkin across my lap.
    “My parents live in Albany where I grew up,” she says as if starting a longer story.
    “And they’re still happily married?” I ask as she stays safely on her side of the four-top table, but her legs are so close that I can feel the warmth of her body radiating to my bare knee.
    “Well, they’re still married, but I’m not sure how happily. They are