IN HAUTE WATER

by Corey Levitan

    Can't afford to stay at one of L.A.'s swanky "in"

hotels? You can still use their pools. Sure, rules

require you to be a guest. But how many celebs and

scantily clad bimbos are you gonna hobnob with at the

Motel 6? (OK fine, maybe Anna Nicole Smith.)

    When I first received this important assignment, my

head swam with intricate schemes. Sneaking into pools

would require names and room numbers, so I imagined

hanging around registration desks to overhear who was

checking in and eye unguarded luggage tags.

    Maybe I'd call a Mr. Smith from a house phone,

claiming to be the front desk with extra towels for his

room, 909. 

    "No, I'm in room 303," Mr. Smith would say. (Every

nice L.A. hotel has a Mr. Smith, judging from how many

codgers check in with wedding rings and young

girlfriends.)

    If all else failed, pool-cleaning equipment couldn't

be too expensive to rent.

    To my shock, all it took to soak up the sun at some

of L.A. most exclusive hotels were my two feet and a

Motorola V60. Short of a huge goiter, a heated phone

conversation is the best way to avoid the questioning

gaze of the omnipresent clipboard Nazis.

    Every important person visiting Hollywood talks on a

cell phone. Sometimes, you'll see two walking together,

both talking on them (perhaps to each other).

    At the Peninsula, the poshest hotel in Beverly Hills,

I entered an elevator and ascended to the rooftop pool.

    "Good morning, sir," said the concierge at a desk

directly to the right of the elevator.

    Since I was obviously brokering a major film deal, I

could only wave my finger in acknowledgment. It didn't

matter that I was talking to my own answering machine,

reciting some of very observations you're reading now. To

the concierge, it seemed like I was on too important a

call to be interrupted, and that's all the proof he

needed that I deserved to be there.

    Towels were somewhat of a problem, since the pool

attendant was requesting room numbers. But I found a pile

of them in a rooftop gym. I slipped into a nearby

bathroom, out of my jeans, and returned ready for the

sun.

    The W and Downtown Standard were much easier to

access, since they apparently don't frown on walk-ins

patronizing their poolside bars. I felt so comfortable

walking in, I didn't even bother wasting my phone

battery.

    The Mondrian pool looked intimidating, but wasn't. A

clipboard Nazi in a baggy beige suit sat smack in the

middle of the lobby floor. I don't know what his job was,

but apparently it didn't include stopping the path I beat

to the hotel's pool, which shares a deck with the highly

restrictive Skybar.

    Here, I flirted with Italian girls and took a dip.

Within 10 minutes, two waitresses in red sarongs

separately solicited drink orders while a cabana boy made

up my bench and deferentially handed me a towel to the

beat of a Moby tune.

    I considered charging an Absolut Mandarin to Mr.

Underhill's account, then I recalled what my editor said:

"If you get arrested, The Post had nothing to do with

this assignment."

    The Chateau Marmont gave me problems -- not as many

as John Belushi, who died there in 1982. But celebs still

enjoy the Sunset Strip fixture for its privacy, security

and reputation for not halting overnight coke parties.

    "Only registered guests at the pool," said the

registration clerk. I knew approaching him was a mistake,

since I was now a potential pool terrorist. But I simply

couldn't find the pool. (The person at the other end of

my fake cell phone conversation didn't know where it was,

either.)

    "I'm checking in soon," I said, accessing the part of

my brain that normally doesn't think of what to say to

the cop until AFTER I receive the ticket.

    "I'm waiting for a friend, Adam Glass the

screenwriter," I insisted. "He's checking me in and told

me to meet him by the pool."

    Even though George Glass is the name Jan Brady made

up for her imaginary boyfriend, I really do have a

screenwriter friend named Adam Glass.

    "Sorry," the man said. "Nice shades, though."

    The Marmont pool is accessible via a separate, locked

entrance, only to guests. I discovered this when I

returned armed with the legs of a fellow reporter, the

very cute Sandy Cohen, who smiled her way into that

locked entrance thanks to a horny maintenance worker.

    This place was so V.I.P. there was only one person

there besides us and it was Geoffrey Rush, reading a

paper in Hilfiger swimtrunks. And let me tell you,

Geoffrey definitely does not shine in Hilfiger

swimtrunks. 

    The pool was in even worse shape. Whereas the

Peninsula's featured a Roman veranda and the Standard

Downtown's had a breathtaking rooftop view, the Marmont's

was tiny, dirty and taped off, as though some violent

crime had occurred.

    We moved on to the Bel Air Hotel, an all-bungalow

deal where I once saw Nancy Reagan eating lunch. Sandy

proved her worth here, too. Not only did we get in, but

we got Jeff the pool guy to snap our picture. Twice he

asked us for a room number, but we diverted the

conversation swimmingly.

    "I thought the sun was supposed to come out today,"

said Sandy as I grabbed Jeff's hand warmly and introduced

myself.

    "Nice to meet you, Jeff," I said. "We'll be here the

whole week."

    Alas, even Sandy couldn't get us into the pool at the

Beverly Hills Hotel, a bastion of old Hollywood.

    "Name and room number?" asked a pool boy who

resembled Gilligan. I finished the last 83 cent sip of my

$10 Mimosa and pulled out the old Adam Glass story.

(Little did he know he'd be checking into so many hotels

today.)

    "I'm sorry," Gilligan said. "Only registered guests.

Liability issues."

    Sandy suggested retreating to a bench directly behind

registration, where we could pick up a name. But we

discovered that no one could check in for another hour,

since the hotel was booked solid the previous night. Not

wanting to lose the sun time, Sandy headed back to

Gilligan to try her charm.

    "It's a long wait," she said, smiling. "Can't we just

use the pool until then?"

     "What's your name?" Gilligan asked as he phoned the

front desk. Sandy gave her real name as I checked around

for the nearest escape route from police.

    "I'm sorry, you're going to have to leave now,"

Gilligan said.

    I knew I should have hipped Sandy to my cell phone

trick.

POOLING YOUR RESOURCES

1) Get in the front door by saying you're going to the

bar.

2) Once inside, pretend to be a guest looking for the

pool. Bring a plastic bag with swimwear if you feel

comfortable changing in the bathroom.

3) Do not ask anyone anything. You are an outlaw. Would a

burglar ask a bank guard which teller was the best to

rob?

4) Don't bring your own towel. It won't match and will

give you away.

5) Signs saying "hotel guests only" and "private" should

be read as "you're getting warmer" and "stop looking so

nervous."

6) If caught, pretend not to speak English.

7) Be a hot chick. You'll get in anywhere.