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If you’re coming to Costa Rica to hump prostitutes, a room in the world’s family-friendliest hotel is good cover. So you’re not going to come down to San José and get busted by an undercover cop.Tell your wife or girlfriend you’re staying at the Hotel Del Rey and you might as well be sleeping at Heidi Fleiss’s offshore discount whorehouse. Prostitution is also indigenously rampant and culturally, if quietly, acceptable—70 percent of those who pay for sex are locals—so you don’t feel all that awkward with your arm around a whore.It’s late, and he’s drinking gin.“Now look at the guys.“ Another sweep with the glass. “Guys like them, to get a girl like one of these in the States, they’ve gotta have three things. “All these guys,“ he says, “they’ve probably got one of those things. But I guarantee you, none of them have all three.“When you’re not drunk and the place is almost empty, this is what it looks like: There are tables just inside the door to the right, three rows of them between the windows fronting the street and the wooden rail that keeps people from tumbling off the raised platform that holds the main bar, which is huge, two peninsulas poking out in the shape of an upside-down U.There are TVs bolted to the walls and tuned to sports channels, because this is ostensibly a sports bar, and there are fish—stuffed fish, carved fish, and sculpted fish—mounted above the liquor shelves and dangling from the ceiling, because the “World Famous“ Blue Marlin is also ostensibly a fisherman’s bar, even though it’s hours away from any place where you might actually catch a fish.Seven girls sit on stools in the back corner, smoking cigarettes and looking bored.
Tell your wife you’re going fishing with some buddies, spend a night at the Holiday Inn, two more in Jacó or another one of the beach towns now overrun with prostitutes, then fly home and brag about all the big ones you caught. Exactly how many tourists come here every year looking for sex is impossible to determine; “get laid“ isn’t one of the bos that can be checked off under “purpose of trip“ on the immigration form. Of the 500,000 or so Americans who visit the country each year, for instance, 25.8 percent are single men.
They’ve got the bar surrounded three deep, and most of the tables are gone, too.—Christ, there’s a lot of them. A hundred brown eyes turn on you the second you walk through the door, trying to catch your attention before you even get past the security guard with the metal detector, like you’re Brad Pitt or something. “San José: the very best place in the world to get laid, I am convinced,“ an aficionado who calls himself La Muerte (literally, Death) wrote a few years back in one of the bajillion or so field reports that pop up when you search “Costa Rica sex“ on the Internet. There’s Key Largo and Atlantis and all the other bars, and the strip clubs that hang billboards—THE NEW NIGHT CLUB KUMAR: OH, YES!
Black girls and brown girls and beige girls and even a couple of white girls, brunet and blond and redheaded and skinny and chubby and tall and short and stacked and not-as-stacked, and every one of them single. When’s the last time that happened at the Bennigan’s in Parsippany? Even then, in 2001, the Blue Marlin was legendary among a certain sort of gringo tourist—the sort who likes a wide selection of pretty, inexpensive women in a safe place where the bartenders speak their language. —in English along the highway from the airport, and the street corners and parks parceled out by gender and age and fetish.
That’s a great feeling, but don’t lose your good sense in the original bliss.“Yeah, don’t lose your good sense. She’ll be charming and gently aggressive, in a way you only wish the women back home would be. She’s not going to ask you for any money, not right away. The tourist board is much more enthusiastic about their beaches, rain forests, and volcanoes, and the country’s official slogan—no artificial ingredients—would seem to have nothing at all to do with picking up prostitutes in bars.
Get a seat—one of the hightops by the bar rail is open. “Take your time, be selective, and get to know the seem to enjoy being around you. The best ones make you forget they’re even prostitutes, make you think you’ve stumbled into the greatest singles’ bar in the world. True, every horny American who comes down here is renting a hotel room, eating in restaurants, probably drinking, maybe gambling, and definitely paying the departure tax on his way out; at least some of the money he’s spending on sex goes back into the local economy.
It’s just on the other side of the park, and the staff doesn’t care who you bring back. Costa Rica, on the other hand, can be done in a long weekend.