You Can Bring Your Girlfriends...

The Hotel-Motel is nestled inconspicuously on a quiet pedestrian street lined with bridal shops. A quick consultation of the pillows will inform you that the establishment is called Hotel Independencia, whereas the towels quite clearly attest to the name Motel Mirage. Either way, it is sensational value. The location is central, practically inside Guadalajaras grand Cathedral, and the price is right. A mere twelve dollars per night, a price that the man at the desk could hardly believe himself. Both guidebooks and friends had told us such a room would be around twenty dollars a night. What's more, the cleaners work as if possessed, racking up what seems to be a rotating 24 hour shift. 

Some would attribute this discovery to luck, but I am inclined to credit our finely honed travel skills, a sort of sixth sense for good deals. Never before have I been so elated with a discovery and as Amelia and I slip into bed on the first night we laugh deep belly laughs at the fools of the city. We also pause a moment to admire our graceful forms in an enormous wall mirror adjacent to the bed. We haven't seen anyone all day, but the other guests slowly trickle in, their shoes clicking on the tile floors. At last sleep comes with the vague sound of our neighbors showering before going out for the night. As I drift away, a final tappity-tap even penetrates my dreams. 

Because the hotel is so perfectly situated, the guests are again gone all day. Only the cleaners remain, busily restocking fresh toilet paper, towels, and sheets. After a long day on foot, we return well past sunset to prepare for dinner. In the fading light, the front of the hotel presents itself as a meeting place of sorts. Unattractive women in short skirts and green eye-shadow enjoy the company of equally unattractive men with heavy guts and oiled mustaches. Never mind that the newsstand only sells pornography, this little pedestrian grotto is where unlikely strangers fall in love. The warm light filtering through wedding dresses somehow softens their features and makes these labored lovers almost seem romantic.

Since it is later than our usual hour of return, the ever vigilant staff is waiting at the door. They recognize and usher us inside, while at the same time yelling at some of more uninhibited lovers to get a room. Looks are exchanged and Amelia and I laugh as we begin to climb the stairs. We are passed by a small leather skirt and animal musk, immediately followed by a generously proportioned man whose girth pins us against the wall of the stairwell. On the third floor landing the cleaners briskly move about the rooms. A second disheveled pair of short-skirt and overweight jerk make their way toward the stairs, eyes looking down, heels clicking, and brows sweating. 

When we get to the room we lock the door and do not talk for a long time. There are none of the mutual congratulations from the previous night. Nor does either of us present the notion that we must recommend this to our friends. Rather, we slip into bed fully-clothed and try not to look at the wall mirror next to us. The clicking of heels picks up to a steady march throughout the night and we check-out very, very early in the morning.