The Hotel California

Sometimes one conversation can change your whole life. One evening not too long ago I received a phone call at my home in Topanga, California. When I picked up the receiver to say ‘hello’, there were a few moments of silence. Then…

“Hello, Bob?” I hadn’t heard that voice in many years, but I knew it immediately. Larry Kurtz; a guy who would make anybody’s “most unforgettable” list, and not for all the best reasons.

“Larry? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Do you remember me?”

“God, who could forget you!” I heard his familiar snicker-of-contrition.

“I’m only in L.A. for a couple of days and I wanted to say hello. I found your name in the phone book and I just wanted to see how life’s been treating you.”

“How long’s it been?” I asked.

“It’s been a long time.” Larry intoned his words with a humble charm that begged a conversation. 

We talked about the old days, about when he found his way into a small circle of friends that I ran with. There were six or seven of us.  We were a “men’s group” of that era. All of us were professionals with practices and small companies. We called ourselves “The Alpha Apes,” but that’s another story. We would meet in our homes and offices on a weekly basis to talk about our hopes and despairs, our big plans, our broken dreams. Sometimes we’d all go camping together, in places like the Sierra Mountains or Catalina Island. Male-bonding stuff. It was a fine bunch of friends we were and our fellowship lasted for nearly ten years. Eventually we all went off in our separate directions. Still, we each kept something of what we all shared during our time in the eighties. For awhile, Larry Kurtz was a part of that sharing. 

“So Bob, I want to tell you about Honduras.” Larry said with enthusiasm.

“Honduras?” I responded.

“Yeah, that’s where I live now.”

“What’s in Honduras?” I asked.

“There’s a town in northern Honduras called Copan Ruinas.” He went on. “Do you know anything about it?”

“I know that Honduras is in Central America,” I said, “but that’s about it.”

He went on, “Well Copan Ruinas is this little town that’s next to the ruins of an ancient Mayan city called Copan.”

“And that’s where you live now?” I enquired.

“Yes.” He said. “I bought a hotel there. It’s really cool. You should come down and visit sometime.”

“You bought a hotel?” I mused.

“It’s not fancy or anything. It only has seven rooms. It’s a place for ‘travelers,’ not tourists. I get a lot of interesting guests. People who are traveling up and down on the Gringo Trail, in Central and South America.” 

What a coincidence, I thought. A voice from my past who now lives somewhere on the way of this big trip I’ve been dreaming about. “You know, Larry, I’ve been thinking about going a long trip through Central and South America.” I said. “But I don’t know much about what’s down there.” 

“Well, if you make that trip, you’ll probably come through Copan Ruinas.” He went on, “It’s a popular stopping place with all the serious travelers. It’s like Machu Picchu in Peru or Palenque in Mexico.”

“What’s the name of your hotel?” I asked.

“Are you ready for this?” He crooned, “The Hotel California.” 

I was hooked. Until that moment, the idea of a long trip through the Americas was just a dream I had. But from that moment on I knew that no matter what else happened, if I made it to a place called Copan Ruinas in Central America, I would find the familiar face of an old friend. The conversation I had with Larry Kurtz on that December night in 1999 gave me the conviction that I could do this trip. 

Larry and I talked a little more and then said our adieus. He assured me that “The Bob Bresnik Room” would be waiting for me upon my arrival at The Hotel California. From that day forward, I began to learn about Copan Ruinas. At the time, it seemed impossibly far away, too exotic, unachievable, only something you dream about. And yet, somewhere in my bones, I knew I could get there. And getting there would be my mission now. I also knew this was a mixed blessing. 

There was a reason Larry Kurtz was a part of “The Alpha Apes” for only awhile. What can I say about Larry? Think of Shakespeare’s Falstaff, Zorba the Greek, even Axel Foley, but smarter, more charming and always impeccably dressed. Larry was the quintessential trickster…the rapscallion-adventurer. He was the kind of guy who made every woman feel beautiful and every man feel important. He possessed a guileless, boyish charm that all were susceptible to. In his earlier career he was, among other things, a business rep to South America for one of the big American telephone companies. Larry wined and dined South American generals and presidents, securing big contracts to wire up entire nations with his company’s phone services. Larry was a heavy hitter. But with all his flamboyance and charm, he possessed a deeply flawed character. Larry had insatiable appetites for wine, women and intrigues. 

When he joined our little circle of friends in 1985, Larry was at loose ends, living in a beautiful Hollywood Hills mansion, and six months behind on his rent. Initially the life of the party, Larry soon burned us all out. Unpaid loans, seduced girlfriends, bad business deals, he tore through peoples lives like a Kansas tornado. One by one, we all 86’d him. My parting shot, at the time, was “Larry, I adore you but you’ve burned me out. Call me in a year. Get yourself together, clean up your act and live right for a year. Then call me.” His hangdog reply was “Oh Bob, that’s harsh. But I understand. I won’t bother you anymore.” Wouldn’t you know, about a year-and-a-half later I got a call from Larry. He was contrite and said he didn’t want to reopen any old wounds, but that he’d been on the straight and narrow for a year now. I thanked him for calling me. And this was the last time I heard from him until that night in December ’99. 

For more than a year now I’ve tried to imagine what Copan Ruinas would be like, particularly with the personality of Larry Kurtz in its midst. During the whole course of this journey, I’ve been continually drawn by the mystique of finding a long lost friend in a faraway place. And yet I’ve carried an abiding dread with me, wondering if the wild Central American environment might have rekindled Larry’s wild ways. As he had no phone or e-mail, I wouldn’t be able to contact Larry from a distance. I simply had to get there.

After five-and-a-half months of traveling through Mexico and Guatemala, I finally took a bus into Honduras and to the town of Copan Ruinas. It was an early shuttle that left Antigua, Guatemala at 4 a.m. on a Friday morning. We crossed the Honduran border at about 10 a.m. It was a border station straight out of the 19th century–wooden shacks, the highway now a dirt road, men with holstered six-guns and cowboy hats, standing around in a dense tropical forest. Except for the motor vehicles, a hundred years hadn’t passed for this little corner of the world. After minimal immigration formalities, we were on the road again for the two-hour drive into Copan. The countryside was mountainous with rich, green forests. 

When the bus pulled into the town of Copan Ruinas, I keened my eyes for Larry’s place. As we proceeded down narrow, cobblestone roads, we turned onto a street lined by jacaranda trees, with small “traveler’s hotels” on either side. Then I saw the small black and white sign–The Hotel California. “Yippee-Kye-Yay!” I thought. “Made it,” I muttered. I got off the bus and took my luggage over to the front door. I knocked on the door, steeling myself up for a dramatic moment. A teenaged Honduran girl answered my knock. 

Larry Kurtz was gone. He left Copan Ruinas six months ago. He had to. Once more, his wild ways overtook him and once more, he undid himself and his life. In the following days I would hear stories from a number of people who had known him. It all added up to a picture of a man I knew very well. I’d tell the story of an old friend I had who invited me to come to Copan Ruinas. I’d say my friend was the man who owned The Hotel California. The listener’s eyes would light up, they’d flash a grin and then look away, shake their heads and sigh. 

But Copan Ruinas! What a beautiful place this is. A town with a population of four to five thousand, it has picturesque, one-story adobe and tile roof structures with cobblestone streets in a hilly, jungle environment, all in a wide green valley surrounded by high dramatic mountains. This time of year, it rains every night. Everything moves slowly. Local women are handsome and flirtatious and it’s a common sight to see men riding around on horseback. It’s the sensual, undiscovered village everyone dreams of finding. 

The Mayan ruins of Copan are a half-mile from town, connected by a well-maintained, tree-shaded path. This was the southernmost city of the Ancient Maya civilization. I’ve spent many days exploring these ruins. I’ll return again tomorrow. Copan is large. The scale and proportions are considerable. There are temple heights, build into hillsides, that loom 10 and 12 stories above the market squares and ball courts. The open squares and courts are the size of multiple football fields. This was a thriving city a thousand years ago, and a world vastly different from ours. 

In my younger years I traveled extensively, across four continents, visiting the ruins of many ancient cities.  In every place I went, there was always the remnants of amphitheaters, big and small.  But after spending a couple days in the Copan ruins, it occurred to me that I was seeing nothing in the architecture that suggested a theater. 

I approached an English speaking guide who was leading a tour group and begged one question: “Did the Maya have theater?” The Honduran guide was professorial in his response: “I know what you mean,” he said, and paused while he formed an explanation. “They practiced every activity but not theater, because the life they had was so real.” I needed a moment to think about what he said. Then he added, “They didn’t have theater because they were theater.” 

A peaceful village, a meeting place for world travelers, and the mystery of the ancient Maya – what a discovery this is. I don’t believe I ever would have come to this place if I hadn’t received that phone call from Larry Kurtz. 

And what about Larry? He sold The Hotel California to a Honduran woman. I had a long talk with her. Beyond that, there were only rumors. Some say he was lucky to get out of town alive. He was said to be in San Francisco now, or maybe Hawaii. One story has it that he left town on horseback and headed north for the Mosquito Coast. He’d supposedly gotten hold of a treasure map for a fabled cache of Mayan gold somewhere in the coastal jungles. 

God, who knows? With Larry, I’d believe anything. I even had the wild notion of going up to the Mosquito Coast myself.  Imagine, a treasure hunt in the jungles of Central America.  What could be better?  A real, 21st century journey into a heart of darkness. But then, this is the kind of effect that Larry has on people. 

Excerpted from “Along the Gringo Trail” by Robert Bresnik