EL GRINGO PERDIDO (The Lost Gringo) PART 6
Le Hôtel Itchy-Scratch
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BLOG POST #023 - El Gringo Perdido (The Lost Gringo) Part 6, Le Hôtel Itchy-Scratch
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
"Was that a café Mocha? Aggressive sex act? Stabbing?" Terrible thoughts flooded through my brain about what this stain could be.
The hotel room was filthy, but I didn't care. I must have been a dog in some prior life, judging from the privation of personal hygiene I'm willing to accept in certain situations,.
All I needed was a quick meal, a few hours sleep, and an early start to my ride the next morning. These short, one-off stops all through Mexico were the last leg of my journey south towards Oaxaca before the Day of the Dead festival. After four or five days there, I would continue my long-term plan of riding all the way to Argentina.
The door handle to my room was slightly sticky with the residue of old glue or fresh snot. I couldn't tell which. The walls were stained and pitted. The carpeting was at least thirty years old, and embedded with dull, yellow, grimy dust. Little crumbs vibrated out of carpet fibers every time I took a step. My guess was that a DNA analysis of these particles would return Cheez-It cracker flecks, morsels of human scab, and ground-up segments from a cockroach leg.
I'm sure that one day long ago, the place started off shiny and new. I wonder if there was a public event for the ribbon cutting and a fancy white cake that said, "Grand Opening!"
Maybe it was a low-budget chain hotel that had a few good decades, before hard times hit. Then it staggered onward through years of neglect until even Motel 8 wouldn't fly their flag on the lawn anymore. Next thing you know, it was bought by some fat, middle-aged man in a wife-beater tank-top from New Jersey who left his home town because of "a few minor warrants."
Whatever the case, I could measure the level of degradation by the generations of dirty paint—layered like the cracked, filthy, rings of a long-dead tree stump.
Having stayed in similar rat-hole motor lodges all around the world, the moniker I coined for this kind of place was, "Le Hôtel Itchy-Scratch." The name was meant to be a combination of both disgusting (as descriptive) and classy (as ironic). Saying something in French always seems to sex it up a bit, so I use the accent whenever I say the name out loud.
Referring to a "Motel 8" is also an inside joke. One franchise is called "Motel 6" and another is called "Super 8", but they are equally trashy. I combine the names to see if anyone notices. When a friend points out my "mistake,” it becomes clear I know more about their lodging preferences.
There's a half-full beer can in the corner of my room. According to conventional wisdom, "half full" indicates an optimistic view of life. In this case, however, the reverse applies. Suspecting that something might crawl out of it, I set the can outside of my door.
Having a better look around, "Please let that be a coffee stain on the bed," I muttered to myself.
For once in my life, genetic red/green color blindness worked in my favor. Not being able to identify the dried-up substance on the duvet blocked out any ugly possibilities for a moment.
A second later, terrible thoughts flooded through my brain, "Was that a café Mocha? Aggressive sex act? Stabbing?"
"MAKE IT STOP!" I blurted out.
A broken flat-screen was mounted on the wall above a second defunct TV, with a stray coaxial cable hanging nearby. The last component in this junkyard of electronic appliances was a CD/DVD player with no power cord.
The Haunted Television
NEXT POST COMING SOON: October 7th, 2025
