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(“Hotel Del Rey and Blue Marlin Bar, the best known Sport-Bar and Casino of Costa Rica, are San José’s number one meeting spots, specially for single men looking for sexy girls, and night live activities.“) No, better to stay at the Holiday Inn. The hard-core-sex destinations—Thailand, Cambodia, the Philippines—require major investments in airfare and flying time, twenty-two hours to Manila on a direct flight, twenty-three to Bangkok.
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.
What’s nice about it, though, is that it’s a Holiday Inn. And by the early 1990s, they’d branded Costa Rica with a reputation as a sex haven—a reputation that stuck and then exploded near the end of the century. For one thing, prostitution is legal, or at least isn’t illegal: The business isn’t tad or regulated like, say, casinos or bars, but there is no law against an adult selling his or her body for cash.
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.
Costa Rica ranks a 54th in the world's human development index.
The Del Rey’s Web site is respectable enough—“Children under 12 stay free“ is a nice touch—but the bad shit, the stuff that’ll get you in trouble, starts on the first link that comes up on Google. For another thing, Costa Rica is close, a four-hour flight out of Atlanta.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.Also, it’s a gringo joint: There’s a crinkled American flag, like the ones newspapers printed after September 11, taped to one wall, and dozens of shoulder patches, left behind by American cops and firemen, tacked up behind the bar—San Francisco, Chicago, Detroit, New York City, Boynton Beach, Waynesboro, a hundred other little towns you’ve never heard of.The Red Zone, a few dirty blocks around the Central Market. There’s four by the pay phones at the edge of Parque Morazan. They’ve all got their own turf close by, and the cabbies all know exactly where they are.
“It’s very easy to become like a kid in a candy store when you first go to San Jos é,“ as Death says. No, at the better bars in Costa Rica, at the Blue Marlin, you’ve got to give a girl a signal, make eye contact, let her know you’re interested. What’s the tattoo, the one crawling up the small of her back? “But the little girl kitty is lonely, and she needs a big, strong male tiger.“ She means you, even though you’re neither big nor strong and have never been mistaken for a tiger.Back home, you’d spend that on dinner and a movie, and for what? Down here, that gets you laid, and by a woman who pretends she doesn’t think you’re a pig. The tall one in the tight white pants, the one who’s been eyeing you for the past hour, she’s at the table asking for a light, but she’s speaking in Spanish, so you don’t realize what she wants until she grabs a pack of matches from the ashtray. “You might be sure that this type of tourist are not wanted here,“ says one Costa Rican official.No, it’s an average hotel with an intermittent ant problem. “We only want the people that want to spend a Pura Vida’ time.“Yet the whoremongers came in droves anyway.The country offers many benefits, including tax exemptions, to foreign companies bringing business to the country.