The Hotel Inca Real. 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.
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 offered to meet me, show me around before I left the next day for Quepos. It will keep me awake. And I have an umbrella. All the young people live with their parents, so at night, they come here to make out.
