Read The Travel Writer for Free Online Page A

over.
    The bar was growing yet more crowded; the heat and noise had all the urgency of rush-hour traffic. Kenny leaned back to finish off his beer, but someone jostled his elbow as he was drinking and the dregs spurted on his shoes. His eyes widened in puzzlement. He didn’t know where to direct his rage.
    “Why do you get to go to that hotel?” he demanded. “Why not me?”
    * * *
    That night I called American Airlines to move up my departure date two days. I was informed that since the Hotel Matamoros had paid full fare for me (but full coach fare, damn them) American Airlines would be delighted to accommodate me on the Wednesday morning flight to La Paz, the only other flight that week with seats available. I hung up, chortling at my diabolical cleverness, and though it was almost midnight, blasted off an email to the Gran Hotel París in La Paz, providing a list of my credentials and explaining that I was coming down to conduct research for
The Caravan Guide to Bolivia and Ecuador
, of which I was a coauthor (I added the title page as an attachment, as if a well-formatted Word document were unfakeable), and also to write an article on La Paz for the renowned publication
Condé Nast Traveler
. I always mentioned
Condé Nast Traveler
when writing to South America. It was often the only magazine PR people had heard of, and while they were congratulating themselves on having heard of it, they usually gave me a free room without further scrutiny. In the end, as in all my freebie letters, I emphasized that whether or not the esteemed marketing staff of the Gran Hotel París was able to help me further the cause of journalism, they could rest assured that I would continue to review their hotel fairly and impartially, with all the integrity they had come to expect from the esteemed publications I was representing. Pilar had once told me she thought that was the best part of my comp-request letters—the gentlemanly bow at the end.
    I put the teakettle on and then sat down again to write an email to Pilar. It was the first I’d sent her in a year.
    I’ve spoken to Hilary’s parents and her boss to get background. I know we can do this. I’ve got some ideas already. We won’t let her down.
    Really I had no ideas, but I was sure I could think some up on the plane and I wanted to demonstrate initiative and independence. Pilar must have been at her PC—what else did she have to do at night in the Bolivian tropics?—because two minutes later she responded, though from a personal account:
    Be careful! Don’t write to me at work again. Better, don’t write at all. And watch who you talk to. It’s not as safe as you think. Management thinks you’re coming to do a promotional piece. And management is right. Just now I was putting the finishing touches to your article. I hope you find it up to your standards.
    You’re doing more than you know just by coming here. I’m glad you spoke to her parents, but don’t put yourself at risk. I just wish we could forget everything.
    What did that last line mean? And now I couldn’t write again to ask for an explanation. I cursed myself for using her work address. Could hotel spies really be reading her email? Would hotel spies even know English? At least she approved of my interview with Hilary’s parents. Maybe this was just the type of investigation she had in mind. I would be more circumspect in the future but no less bold.
    A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. I stood up from the desk. Another knock, louder this time. I peered through the peephole and saw Gonzales’s face, distorted by the lens, a brown jack-o’-lantern.
    “What do you want?”
    “Only to talk.”
    “I’m comfortable talking like this,” I said. “I’m in my pajamas.”
    “I promise not to laugh at your pajamas. If, however, you refuse to let me in, then I’ll leave and return with a friend. One of us will wait for you outside your apartment, and tomorrow or some other day—but someday