The Road and The Red Palace

I think I would have been a cowboy in another age.

I wonder what cowboys said back when there were cowboys and they felt like I do now.

~*~

Thursday, November 20, 2014
Mexico City (Ciudad de Mexico, Distrito Federal, A.K.A. “D.F.”)

“Mexico City! Oh my god, I’m so relieved to have made it to through there. I don’t want to call it a nightmare because that’s over-dramatic, but it was very, very difficult to navigate—something of a Minotaur’s lair.

My brain is tired from thinking so hard. Like taking a test.

Without my phone giving me approximate directions, I would still be lost.

It’s the closest thing to a real maze that I’ve ever experienced. Wow.”

~*~

Yesterday, I rode from Puerto Vallarta to Guadalajara.

I asked the motorcycle to please me, and she did as she unrolled the sensuous curves of a perfectly formed road.

Cutting apexes, sweeping around smooth and banked black asphalt that has the reassuring sensation of sandpaper beneath my wheels, I felt I was skimming the ground in flight.

That road, specifically the section between Tepic and Guadalajara, on the 15 libre (freeway), is the best road I’ve ridden in my life thus far. Unequivocally.

No traffic, perfect temperature, perfect road. Just myself and the power of 100 horses carrying me down into a valley, and beyond and above the next mountain.

Near the end, on that road, I happened upon some ruins left by the Tultec.

I stopped and spoke with the elderly security guard. He was affable and offered to allow me into a crypt that housed the burial chamber of two royals of the Tultec people.

Snapping a couple pictures and apologizing for my lack of Spanish, I went to explore a compound of foundations that was spread across a lush verdant lawn.

Large lizards were soaking in the sun on top of an ancient wall. When I approached, they would reluctantly and at the last minute retreat into the cracks and crevices of the rubble.

There were a few other groups leaving when I arrived, and thus, I was alone.

I walked among the fallen structures and read the interpretations of smarter people than I.

Approaching the disused structures, I touched the rock. The sun had warmed everything that day, and the rocks gave me that energy. I wanted to feel the hand of the man who had laid that stone so long ago. I wanted to bridge the gap. I always do.

The only thing separating me from that man was time. I think that is incredible. One variable separates us from many things good, and many things bad.

~*~

The day growing old, I continued on. I was now in a more urban area, and I knew my options to camp would be limited or non-existent, so I wanted to make the most distance possible while I was in such an area. No sense in dallying.

I arrived in Guadalajara as the sun was departing the horizon. I determined to stop at the next hotel I saw.

The night arrived and no hotels did I see.

The traffic was thick and soupy, spilling into every street. I was thankful for the maneuverability and diminutive size of the bike as I snaked through the jams. Around a large traffic circle the cars had twisted like a bird’s nest, and even I was stuck for a short while, but I managed to escape.

Shortly thereafter, I saw the lights of The Red Palace. They were Christmas lights that hung down the modern façade and glowed white.

There was a carport and a marque in polished metal with red backlighting that proclaimed the namesake.

I passed it.

Then I turned around at the next intersection. “The first one,” I reminded myself. And I won’t deny that I was curious about this “auto motel.”

Indeed, I had read that auto motels were a common thing in Latin America. A place for an anonymous tryst, I read, an escape from the generally crowded home life of many Latin Americans. Even more true, maybe, I read that these were places of business for the legal prostitution trade in Mexico.

I pulled into the carport. Grey granite and black glass concealed a reception booth. I pulled up to the intercom, above which was a menu of prices for different amounts of time: 4 hours, 8 hours, or all night. With or without a private garage and entrance for those requiring complete anonymity.

I didn’t understand at first so I just apologized for my poor Spanish and grinned at the black lens of the camera staring at me from the brushed metal box.

A man strode from the office to my bike and happily explained the prices to me in English.

I asked for a room, no need for a private garage, and for the whole night. It would be 400 pesos, he said. About $30 dollars.

I drove the bike into an underground parking garage and took the elevator up to the second floor, looking for room 62.  

I was fascinated by the veneer of luxury that emanated from this place that was cheap in many senses of the word.

A catwalk led to rooms on either side of the driveway that ran below. Frosted glass and rich wood veneer was the motif. Silver metal accents everywhere.

I found room 62 with the door open. In fact, all the rooms were open and unoccupied save but two.

The lights didn’t work and the door wouldn’t latch. I was perplexed. I thought maybe there was a master switch but found none.

I phoned the desk from the phone by the bed but an attendant arrived at the door so I replaced the receiver, hanging up on the polite greeting from the receptionist.

The lights flicked on like magic, and I assume they were controlled by the front desk.

The attendant had a two-way radio and clicked the button, speaking into the receiver that she was there.

She wore a dress with an apron. The colors were red and yellow like McDonald's, and she looked less luxurious than what the building would have invited me to imagine.

She asked for payment and how many people. “Solo Yo,” I said—only me.

“Bueno,” she said. “Si tu necesites una chica, lo ves recepcion.” I laughed, “OK.”

She left but the door still didn’t latch and it didn’t lock besides.

I took my boots off and wedged the door shut with them.

I looked around: a flat screen tv and a large, comfortable looking bed. No blanket, just white sheets. Black pleather loveseat and a small coffee table with an ash tray and breath mints. A large window with venetian blinds.

Beside the bed was a nightstand upon which was a menu advertising gourmet ice cream room service.

Examining the TV mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed, there was a card propped up, indicating what channels you could watch—all of them pornography of some kind, and I’m assuming at a cost, but I didn’t turn the TV on.

On the back of the card was a selection of sex toys—phalli, lubricants, bondage equipment, etc. Everything could be delivered to the room for a price.

At the far end of the room, away from the door, was a central sink flanked by two doors. To the right was a water closet with a frosted glass door. To the left was a shower stall with a clear glass door, and a full length window with large frosted and clear horizontal stripes that looked out into the room.

Most of the empty wall space was devoted to mirrors of various sizes and styles.

The lights could be switched off and only a red mood light left on. It was actually a soothing effect.

I was hungry, so after I showered and gave the empty room a show, I went down to reception.

Admittedly, I was curious to see if there were any “chicas” just hanging out, but all I saw were the attendants in their McDonald’s themed dresses.

I really wasn't sure what the rules were at this place, considering people tried so hard not to be seen coming in, could I just walk out?

I asked the reception attendant for the WiFi password and asked if I could leave, explaining I didn’t have a key to lock the room. They didn't give me a key, but they gestured toward the bank of video monitors and assured me everything would be fine.

I went walking for food, found none, and returned in 20 minutes with a sad feeling because of a bag of “food” from 7-11 I brought inside.

I ate, practiced guitar a little while, and went to sleep.

Around 2 AM the door was opened, the lights turned on, and an attendant began speaking loudly in Spanish! I think she was telling me my time was up and I had to leave.

I couldn’t understand her and I was thankful I was under the sheets because I wasn’t wearing anything. I was definitely caught off guard. I tried to say something like, “Ya pago para el todo noche.” (“I already paid for the whole night.”), but I think it came out like “Ya… already.. paid, er, pago… TODO el noche.” Then when I couldn’t think how to say it, I just kept saying, “Pago todo noche,” Something like, “I pay all night.” But come on, I was barely awake.

Another attendant arrived, and one of them radioed reception. They said something to me, I didn’t understand, then they tried to close the door, noticed it wouldn’t latch and produced a key with which they used to lock me in the room.

I slept the rest of the night. Only once waking to hear what sounded like a lovers quarrel—a high-pitched woman’s voice screaming, yelling and crying, eventually subsiding. I fell back to sleep.

I saw no-one else. No prostitutes, no “Johns”, no couples escaping parenthood for a night of carnal passion. Just attendants in frumpy red and yellow dresses waking me up in the middle of the night. 

I left the next morning with less curiosity and less thrill at the thought of staying in a “sex motel,” but overall, glad for the experience and the chance to sate my curiosity. 

~*~

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!