Lost in Hotels (24 page)

A solo traveler emerges with a rolling bag trailing, followed by a uniformed pilot or cabin crew with an even bulkier bag. Next, are the London kids ready for their Ibiza party, who were likely rowdy on the plane the entire way here, followed by a woman in a virginal white linen dress, familiar oversize black sunglasses, and hair blowing in the perfect amount of wind. She turns and our eyes meet again. She looks different from before and far different from the woman I met in Rio. She’s thinner and has a look that takes my breath away. Despite my loading zone parking place, I jump out of the car and swoop in to grab her. Our lips meet, a more familiar feeling than the last time, and then she grabs my face and stares into my eyes before kissing me again and then again. This is as perfect as love has ever been in my life.

“My David, my David. You are a sight for sore, tired eyes.”

She grabs my arm with familiarity, I take her luggage, and we rush back to the car.

“How was your flight? Did you get into London all right?”

“Yes, it was a very short layover, luckily,” she says, grabbing my hand and holding it with her own.

“I don’t like that you were in my city without me,” I scoff.

“Just like you to skip town right when I’m coming through.”

“Too bad you can’t come home with me after this trip,” I say, hoping she’d surprise me with a different answer.

“I know, things are so busy, and I’ve been traveling so much as it is, you know.”

“I get it. Work first. But we must really try to make that work sometime soon.”

I try to rush those first moments between long-distance lovers when we talk like strangers, the touch feels unfamiliar, and all the intimate moments we’ve had before seem so long ago. However, I look in her eyes and see all my emotions rekindled; just holding her in the flesh allows all the feelings to come over me once more and connect to where we are today. I sometimes worry that we are a relationship of vacations, of interconnected summer romances, never really getting a sense of one or the other in real life. However, she’s here now, and that’s all I want to think about and enjoy.

“So, let me tell you. My friends are a bit of a handful, but I think you’ll totally love them as much as I do,” I say, tempering her expectations a bit in advance of the scene I’m sure is yet to unfold this day.

“It’s Alex and Chrissie, right?”

“Alejandro and Chrissie, and they are very excited to meet you today. I’m thinking we’ll run by the hotel and freshen up first, and then we’ll meet them for lunch at the beach. That’s as long as you’re not too tired.”

“No, I feel great. But how are you? How are you feeling after Berlin? I’ve never heard you so glum.”

“Actually, it feels like a lifetime ago, now that you are here,” I say, realizing she’s one of the few people ever to remember what I tell them about my work life.

“And thank you for the flight, Mr. Summers,” she perks. “British Airways First is ridiculous, and I slept like a baby and should be fine after a quick shower.”

“Terrific.”

“Oh, how do you like the hotel? Was Barbara nice to you on check-in?”

“No, it was great; a little different than what I was expecting, but very charming and totally up your alley.”

“What? No, now, tell me what you really thought?” she counters with curiosity.

“Well, the location is spectacular, but it’s a little old for me,” I say, without sounding unappreciative of her work booking the hotel.

“You mean the room is old? I thought they just renovated.”

“No, the room is beautiful, and so is the rest of it. It’s just the crowd is older than you’d expect on Ibiza.”

“Oh, was the pool not stocked with bathing beauties like David Summers likes?” she says with a note of agitation.

“Forget it, I was just saying Ibiza is very young, and the crowd at this hotel is not. As a travel writer, I thought you would want to know that,” I say as kindly as I could possibly express.

“Well, I’m not all that young either, David, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Okay, the hotel is lovely, and you are lovelier, so let’s not turn this very happy day into something it’s not meant to be.”

“I’m sorry. I just want you to like it. I want it to be as perfect as you are.”

“That’s more like it. You know I appreciate anything you do,” I say.

As we round back to the hotel, Catherine insists on going straight to the room versus through the lobby or taking a quick look at the spa or pool. She’s hesitant with her affection with no more than a kiss before going into the bathroom fully clothed with her bathing suit in hand. She emerges ready to go to the beach without any flirtation, lingering touch, or caressing. She’s incorrigibly sensitive, and I soon realize things are sometimes best left unsaid.

Icy or not, she looks like a knockout in a lacy cover-up and heels that look as if they’re made out of some sort of arty straw, and legs that are far more slender than the day I met her. Maybe it’s a new diet or workout, but there’s a definite transformation. I dare not ask as I quickly swap shorts, throw on a white shirt, and join her on the terrace.

“It’s so much prettier than I imagined, and rustic,” she says.

“What were you expecting?”

“Honestly? I was thinking it would be high-rise hotels and loud beach bars, like Fort Lauderdale.”

“Well, there is that side of Ibiza too, but we don’t go there much. Do you think I’d make you fly halfway around the world for that?”

“You know I would have, in a minute, but this is so much prettier. I never expected there to be this entire agrarian side to it with these old houses and villas hidden in olive trees.”

“We could be farmers; that’s if we ever got out of bed.”

“You’d be one hot farmer, David Summers.”

I can tell she’s enthralled with the landscape of inner Ibiza as her eyes look beyond each turn and savor the sights outside the car. We pass a series of gated houses on the road to Cala Jondal where along a grassy promenade the white stucco Blue Marlin beach club sits for another season. It’s a who’s who of cars in the parking lot from reconfigured convertibles made from old Range Rovers to 1970s BMWs with a heavy dusting.

“Is this it? It’s called Blue Marlin?” Catherine attempts to get past the earlier emotional hiccup and proceed into a better day.

“Yes, this would be the ever-famous Blue Marlin. It’s one of the most fun beach clubs on the island, and it has a great crowd where you always run into someone you know.”

“So exciting! I can’t wait to touch the water.”

“It’s a beautiful beach, too, with a swim jetty where you can just jump in the water. I was thinking we’ll lie out for a while and then join my friends for lunch as soon as they arrive.”

“Are they here already?”

“No. They are on Ibiza time and arrive when they arrive and are usually always the last to leave. That’s how they do it.”

Before we even make it to the door, I can feel the beat of techno. Catherine walks in front of me carrying a colorful beach bag. She begins to tell a story about how Ibiza was actually once a Phoenician outpost, and all along the shore, you can supposedly see these incredible old ruins that simply lie in the crashing sea.

There’s a door attendant, even at one o’clock in the afternoon, who takes our name twice, the second time with spelling, before leading us to the edge of the water two rows in and to a line of four chaise lounges. Catherine demurely settles in, and I take in the surroundings that include a gaggle of loud Irish girls and a group of incredibly hot Russians in the next row who got even better seating than we did.

One Russian in particular takes note of our arrival through her dark-tinted glasses. I slowly undress behind Catherine, first my shirt, and then my shorts and shoes. She watches, not knowing I can see every blink, every glance at and away, and back at me.

Catherine pulls out a book, thick and cumbersome, and lies back on her chaise placed in the second highest notch that gives her a full view of the sea as well as a group of football players clustered around the jetty. I’m sure she doesn’t recognize more than their edgy hair and looks. Despite the two months’ time between our visits, she sits in silence tending to her book between glances at all that surrounds us including the morning-trance music that’s so Ibiza. She doesn’t hate it, but I’m also unsure if this was what she was expecting. The waitress approaches, and I order a full bottle of rosé for the two of us. If there’s anything that will loosen Catherine up, it’s some bubbly.

A bucket of ice later and Catherine is in her full glory chatting with the Russian models in front of her about the football player they fancy and the various parties happening around the island this weekend. She is another person in this moment—flirty and expressive—her touch claiming me as her own and making me not even want to look at anyone else but her. She kisses me while passing a chunk of ice mouth to mouth. It falls into my lap and her new friends laugh in delight. Another bottle is killed with a pop, pouring for all those around us, and alas, Alejandro and Chrissie arrive in a cluster of entourage and my ovation.

“Darling David, introduce us to the new missus!” Chrissie booms across the beach as Catherine jumps to attention and courtesies a hello.

Alejandro swoops in with a more affectionate hug and kiss atop my head. They’re both in full fedora-and-linen Ibiza regalia, taking their seats, and introducing themselves to the wider new group as is always done in these parts. Chrissie wastes no time, and before I know it, the question and answer period ensues between the dueling females.

“So you dated him for how long?” I hear Chrissie ask of Catherine. I realized long ago that it was best not to intrude in such girly conversations, especially with Chrissie.

I thought it also an ideal minute to take a momentary leave. I pull up from the chaise and make my way across the now fully packed terrace, past the Russians no longer even remotely interested in me, alongside the footballer players ten years my junior, and onto the jetty among the thump of music and hum of distant boat motors attempting to moor. As I stand there, my black Orlebar trunks falling off my hips, summer in Ibiza is as it has always been, and with a dip in the hips and tip of the toes, I dive into the slightly chilled water and plunge into the deep.

Two hours later, the party has reached its daytime cruising altitude as we migrate to the dining room with our new cluster of friends. Catherine alas, appears comfortable enough not to be the only one still in a cover-up and crunched ass-to-ass with the Russians along the banquette. Alejandro and I bask in a sea of females, including Chrissie, who manages to be the center of the conversation with her antics and stories. I watch as Catherine slowly awakens to me, caressing my inner thigh ever so subtly, but enough to exude her ownership over me in the sea of sexual attention that lurks among the bass of techno and clinking rosé bottles hitting chrome buckets dripping in condensation.

“Catherine is great, my man. Truly tops,” Alejandro says to me in the privacy of a smoke plume between puffs from a cigarette that he barely holds between his limp fingertips.

“Thank you. It’s amazing that you are able to meet her. It’s such a weird relationship, totally different than I’ve ever had before, but every time I’m around her, it just feels right.”

“Man, I totally get it. I can see it in both your eyes when I look at you two.”

“I just wish we didn’t live so far away and have jobs that are near to impossible to break free from.”

“Listen, one of you is going to have to make the move if it’s going to work long-term, you know, long distance doesn’t work forever especially for a guy like you,” he advises in a serious Spanish intonation.

“But I have to tell you, there’s something incredibly hot about thinking about her for weeks and going without, and then all of sudden, she’s there, and it’s so wild and intense.”

“Yes, but that can’t sustain itself forever, man, that is not real.”

“But we both like our lives and it actually works, especially for me. We seem to pick up right where we were every time.”

“Until she meets someone who can give her what she wants and is in New York then see how it works, man.”

“I think we have something special, though. I’m not worried, Al. Plus, she’s not hung up on kids and all that marriage stuff; she’s like the female version of me. There’s no pressure from her, something I’ve never experienced with a woman.”

Alejandro leans in with a whisper. “At least that’s what she’s showing you; inside, they all want babies and big fat weddings. It’s simply their species.”

“Not her though, I’m telling you. I just wish my job took me to the states more, so we could see what real life could be like.”

“You’ve just got to end being a slave to them, man. Just tell them that this is the way it is, and if they want you, they have to accept it under these terms.”

“Sadly, Al, business doesn’t work like that.”

“You need to make it work like that or you are never going to have a relationship, man.”

Alejandro has gone to that place in drinking where every dream is simply a matter of wanting it bad enough, and his life is about as ideal as one can attain. As I continue to nod in agreement, my concentration shifts to Chrissie. I hear her explaining to Catherine in a similar tone how exactly to make me finally commit without ever having to have children.