Lost in Hotels Read Online Free PDF

from the in-house accounting to the lack of earnestness of the local management. It literally felt as if their last twenty-four months of accounting was made up at the last minute by the owner, who seemed to have second thoughts about bringing on an international partner for what was really a domestic online advertising agency that would never reach outside Portuguese-speaking counties.
    When I work, I vanish, in mind and physically, into the job that takes every moment of my attention and makes everything else in life secondary. It’s only at the end of the project that I look up, often realizing that life has moved on and sometimes without me. To my inner consolation, I did not miss any beach time, as it had been a hellish two days of Rio weather with almost unbearable heat that made leather loafers and even a thin summer suit unbearable. Add to the equation the wall-unit air conditioner in the accountant’s office I was working out of, heaving with an asthmatic wheeze and blowing lukewarm air as I sweat through my white shirt and even my boxers, which began to weep through my suit pants.
    As I’d look out of my downtown window, I could see everyone struggle with the heat. Through their windows, I saw bankers working in undershirts and an older woman sitting in only her bra attempting to air out her blouse as her grandmotherly arms waved in the wind. The inside of my own window was constantly wet with humidity even though it was entirely rain-tight. Without a view of the mountain or crashing shoreline to console my thoughts, for a while this inner Rio felt like hell on earth.
    It is late evening as I make my way back to the Fasano, and now I’m one of those overdressed businessmen I always scowl at on my first day for interrupting my vacation fantasy. And to the rooftop without interruption, I make my way to the bar, which is as packed as I have ever seen it. It’s brimming with tightly packed families eating plates of Brazilian hamburgers, that lonely gay man who now has a similarly tan fellow in tow, and that American woman in full fedora and flip-flops captured in the waning afternoon sun. This is often my frustration with the Fasano, a rooftop with not nearly enough loungers or chairs to accommodate a half-filled hotel, let alone a sold-out one.
    “Can I get a passion fruit caipirinha, please?” I say to the barman.
    As my lips move, I feel a single bead of sweat unleash from my upper lip as the barman nods. I can tell a thirty-minute wait is inevitable. I walk over to the glassy ledge by my dear American friend who is deep inside her laptop. As I edge closer to look, I see her typing a mile a minute in some sort of software program with a glass of rosé in front of her and a half-eaten bowl of nuts. A single seat sits in front of her, but in all honesty, I’d rather stand than endure the non-conversation we shared on the first day.
    Whether it’s my mood or not, the crowd seems livelier than on the first day including a gregarious Russian man chewing on his unlit cigar like it’s taffy. Next to him is his waif model girlfriend who looks at him only when her wine glass is empty or the bill arrives.
    “ Un caipirinha de maracujá ,” the waiter mouths off in a louder-than-expected voice as he holds a full tray of drinks including mine. He sets the drink on the American’s table in front of the lone empty chair, which he tries unsuccessfully to turn toward the sea.
    “May I take this chair, madam?” he asks.
    The American looks up as if startled from mid-thought despite her fingers having been long inactive.
    “Of course, no problem at all. Just let me …”
    “Absolutely not, I’m totally okay standing at the bar. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say.
    Her gaze rises to meet mine. Her eyes, a mossy green color, and a stare so deep I can’t tell if it’s interest or disdain.
    “No, please, I insist. Plus, I heard you don’t want to miss the sunset,” she says.
    As I maneuver around her back, I