A Night at a Sex Motel

After a long day of driving and visiting two archeological sites (see previous posts), Nancy and I were exhausted. The sun was nearing the horizon as we prepared to leave the El Tajin ruins, north of Veracruz. We asked an elderly parking lot attendant about nearby hotels. He recommended El Castillo, a nice big hotel, he said, but expensive. Cheaper ones could be had a few kilometers further, in Posa Rica, a small city with ties to the petroleum business.



After laboring along a pitted road crossed with treacherous speed bumps, we came upon Hotel Castillo, an imposing stone edifice that looked like a medieval castle. Hurrah, we thought, we can call it a day.


As soon as our car nosed through the “drawbridge” gate, we realized that we were in a motel, not a hotel. In Mexico, as in Costa Rica, “motels” cater to couples needing absolute privacy. They rent rooms by the hour.





A young man hurried over to greet us, and invited us to look at a room. It cost only 370 pesos, he said, (about $33), and we could stay until noon the next day. Nancy and I exchanged a look. If this was the expensive hotel, the other hotels must be flea bags.


So, we gamely looked at a room. It actually was quite nice but with a few peculiarities. No closet to hang clothes. No chairs. A metal pole in the middle of the room. A little rotating cubby in the wall where drinks and snacks could be delivered discretely. But the room was very clean, the king-sized bed was comfortable, it was getting dark, and we were exhausted. We handed over our pesos, parked the Buick in our private garage, pulled the curtain to hide our car, and climbed up the stairs to our room.


We checked the TV. Three channels of porn as well as soap operas and Los Simpsons. But we entertained ourselves on the bed with a rollicking game of cootie, a form of competitive double solitaire, probably the only time that surface has been used as a card table. The lighting was so low (we didn’t bother turning on the red headboard glow) that we had to wear our camping headlamps to see our cards.


As we prepared for bed, Nancy looked around for a water glass. No luck. Oh wait! There was one on a ledge with napkins in it. “Perfect!” she cried, reaching for the glass. It wouldn’t budge. The glass, the ashtrays, and the TV remote were all glued down.


So we spent the night at a sex hotel, the only real danger being the chance of running head-first into the pole on the way to the bathroom in the dark. Before daybreak we rose, packed the car, and were on the road with the morning sun.


No, I did not duck in the passenger seat as we crossed the drawbridge, as Nancy observed one woman doing, protecting her reputation while her partner drove.


The roads were so rough and congested it took us 45 minutes to go the eight miles through town. As we finally reached the edge of the city, guess what we saw. A huge Holiday Inn!



Becky