Hotel And Casino Del Rey Costa Rica – Passing the Miami security check, Hotel Del Rey’s 6’3″ monkeys are posted at the entrances and check us out before we enter the hotel’s bar, Key Largo. After we checked in, we followed a small path to the trunk door. Like a saint’s nightmare or a cold American dream. , the bar is literally filled with high paying Latin women. Clicking on a place like this triples the ego; eyes, smiles, winks, bodies turn towards you, a thick air of sexual tension greets you. You can see these girls are not the hard to get types. ; they are prostitutes, legally serving as Costa Rica’s main tourist attraction.
I arrived in San Jose a week ago tonight. You visit Arenal, Manuel Antonio, Quepos, do the regular tourist trips: ATVs, canopy trips, white-water rafting, hanging bridges, taste the best food from many towns, Cessna flying over the mountains, lizards fighting for food, imitating the sounds of gay. , meeting distant aliens and talking about the usual theater of countries’ policies and contradictions, which go up and around the mountains in a low-powered SUV of 4 × 4, and finally, accepted by a beautiful woman who whistles to a factory worker. It’s like child’s play.
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Upon entering Key Largo we made sure not to make eye contact with the many sick girls waiting to get their feet wet for an hour and $100 dollars. We head to the trees where we see a laughing grandfather holding two twenty-something girls. They’re sipping their drinks and they’re shaking their heads with genuine joy. We sat away from the cheery side and had a view of a live salsa band performing. On stage, two very attractive girls sing into the mic and dance in-synch; Red, yellow and green lights flashed across their sweaty bodies, adding to the licentious atmosphere. We ordered two Pilsens, pulled out the Romeo and Julieta Robustos, lit them up and filled the air with thick smoke of Cuban tobacco while we waited for our friend Frank to arrive.
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At the front of the stage was a Latin man dancing to the music of his 60s. Her loose clothes show off her chest and stomach. He’s smiling, dancing salsa like a man in a pink suit. Her cheeks are sunken, her cheekbones and high cheekbones are accentuated, and her thin black hair is tightly pulled back, flowing like currents of wind behind her as she whips through the cities time. Her skirt revealed her pink streak as she turned and pulled herself into the older man’s arms. They were dancing happily on the dance floor among the young women flirting with the fat and old American men at the tables around him.
Below is a glimpse of what’s available at Hotel Del Rey in San Jose, Costa Rica. Cameras are not allowed, so pocket cameras and camera orientation are not good
We read about the hotel on the internet while staying at a hostel with nothing to do in San Jose for the first night of our trip. It’s one of the first things you see when you search: “San Jose nightlife.” After seeing almost every link to Hotel Del Rey we went out to quench our thirst and find out why the reviews on this site read: “If you’re in Costa Rica we must come,” “an experience like no other,” “”a day or a week. Be the king of,” “Slumming with the best.” We didn’t expect it to be so ridiculously surreal—an animalistic sex candy-land. We’re tired of ourselves.
The hotel is conveniently located on a corner, just off the main road. It stands, its neo-classical washed-out facade, a dull pink body covering old concrete walls with white hoods above each window. A red neon light flickered overhead, reading: Hotel Del Rey. From the outside, it looks like an ordinary hotel. We were instantly transported as we walked through the sliding glass doors.
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In silence we scanned the area. We don’t say anything to each other but act like we’re here. The lobby is filled with about thirty prostitutes; They sit, either resting or waiting for their next task. Trains of girls walked past us, smiling and waving. We went to the part where the hotel was less; Too many visible awkwardness and whistling too many panted, bulging chests and soft, plump amazing red lipstick girls, who played slots for about twenty games before going to the tree lion’s den. After our coins were swiped into the traditionally non-paying machines and our rims littered with looks and prints from weathered fingers, we decided to have a beer and try to join the crowd. Due to viagra zombies seek their hours solution. That turns out to be six beers, a pack of cigarettes, three shots of Jack and an old American man named Frank. We spoke to him as the country’s most beautiful girls sit and wait for their next encounter, watching glimpses cut from their competition. And girls stand next to us and feel our sadness and wink or put their hands around our necks to play with our hair and ask, “Do you want a date son?” “My girlfriend and I are pretty cool, don’t you think?” “Three for one, dear.” We’ll laugh with them and buy them drinks but we’re not really tempted to go with any of them.
“You’re my first night,” he smiled back at me. I try not to imagine him yesterday or last week and a lot of sweaty fat, tough Americans who beat themselves up over him.
Frank talked to us all night about the girls who stayed with us and the girls he wanted, several times a day and about different girls, people and the genius of the hotel owner. My friend and I played it cool during the conversation but the rest of our innocence was shattered with this release and their followers. But we made it bright in a whole different world of drunkenness, intoxicated and vague and excited. As we were calling it a night, Frank took her hand as he led her up the stairs, and told her to meet him when we finished our trip out into the country. “I’m spending five more days! And I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “So, if you want, come back here, get a room and I’ll buy you boys instead of food. Fun boys and I’ll be here.” As you squeeze it up, “Tolera” tilts the red head and sends his hands down his back.
Although there are no official figures based on Shifter’s research, he estimates that 10,000 to 20,000 sex workers and 25,000 to 50,000 sex tourists visit the country each year, 80 percent of whom are Americans.
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The grandfather and his two daughters left. The girls on stage still sing about the Costa Rican night. A girl/boy in a pink dress is sitting in conversation with another old man, showing off his dancing shoulders. He corrects his step and demonstrates how to move his shoulders to the music of the song. We asked for about ten days and five drinks. There were about a dozen different girls sitting on the empty stool next to us – the cycle time of that stool was about ten minutes – without one of us answering, the girls took their bait and moved on.
We have booked a room for the night not sure if it will be used only for sleeping. We talked about getting a girl for the night, but got to the point of just reminiscing about the “hot girls” we saw the first night we arrived at the hotel.
“Did you see that tall brunette?” I asked my friend while standing in a treetop getting ready to zip-line across the canopy to another tree. “He’s a stud!”
“I know!” My friend said to me as he looked 200 feet down and back. “I’m not sure what I’d do if he went back there. It’s so tempting, it’s amazing.”
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In shorts and shoes, unattractive and reluctant as tourists we sat smoking our cigarettes and smoking our third beer. Gazing at the crowd of perfumed heads and bodies, and white and gray skin, and broken English and bad Spanish; We look forward to taking Frank on a sordid carpet ride of the Central American meat racket.
Through one of the corridors of wine, my friend accidentally turned his head and spied Frank.
I turned around and saw a tall, Colombian, with fake breasts and an hour glass figure walking with her.
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