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He made faces behind her back to indicate that my new acquaintance might be a prostitute; but of course I knew that already.
I assured him that I would be fine, and then I went off with her to a land called Hotel Rio, where other hookers were hanging out on the steps and a bald black man stood seven foot tall behind a wire grill at reception, taking money for rooms from the girls and their clients.
Diane and I went to a deluxe room upstairs, in which there was nothing but a bare mattress on the floor and evidence that the basin had already been used as a urinal.
…
I drove back along the new motorway and across the Shannon in the dark, filled with absurd affection for that beautiful American prostitute I had cornflakes with almost 30 years ago.

See the full article from “Irish Times”