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Entering a place like this ones ego triples exponentially; eyes, smiles, winks, bodies turn to you, greeting you with the thickest air of sexual tension. I arrived in San Jose a week prior tonight. Visited Arenal, Manuel Antonio, Quepos, did the normal touristy adventure tours: They sip their drinks and bob their heads from the actual thrust of mirth. On stage, two very attractive girls dance in-synch while singing into mics; the red, yellow and green lights shine on their sweaty skin, adding to the licentious atmosphere.
In front of the stage a sixty-something year old Latin man dances to the music. His wet unbuttoned shirt reveals his sagging chest and stomach. Her cheeks are sunken, her jaw and high cheek bones are pronounced, and her thin black hair is pulled tightly back, the loose strands in the back flow like air-conditioning streamers behind her as she whips dramatically to the tempo of the drums.
They dance happily amidst the young girls flirting to the fat and old American men at the surrounding tables around the dance floor. We had read about the hotel on the internet while stranded in our hostel with nothing to do in San Jose for the first night of our trip. It was one of the first things that came up when searching: The hotel is conveniently located a bit off the Main Street, situated at a corner. It stands stoic, looming a facade of purity in its neo-classical form, a dull pink body drapes the old concrete walls with white hoods on top of each window.
A red neon light flickers atop, reading: It looks like any plain hotel from the outside. As we walked through the swing glass doors we were instantly transported. Silently we scan the area. The lobby is populated by about thirty prostitutes; they sit, either resting or waiting for their next job.
Trains of girls walk pass us, smiling and waving. After having our coins ritually sucked up into the non-payout machines and our brims overflowed with glances and caresses from transient fingernails, we decide to have one beer and try to assimilate into the crowd of Viagra induced zombies looking for their hour fix. That beer turned to six, a pack of cigarettes, three shots of Jack and a middle-aged American man named, Frank. I try not to envision her yesterday or last week and the many sweaty fat, horny Americans that pummeled themselves on her.