THE SEX MOTEL

For five nights, Evan and I stayed at the pricey, hip Ace Hotel just off Broadway in Manhattan’s NOMAD district. This is our fourth time together in NYC and we always stay at the Ace. We like its central location, the Stumptown café adjoining the hotel and I enjoy accessing the gym in the basement. Our visits begin with a sit-down session in the lobby’s photo booth for a half dozen tiny black-and-white photos. Our room typically has an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building. We’re close enough to walk to Times Square to catch a Broadway show but far enough away to have a healthy separation from the posing Elmos, the herds of people and the massive light displays that come from mammoth billboards. The Ace is our familiar haven to begin and end fully packed days in New York.

 

After yet another pleasant stay, we packed up last Tuesday and took a cab to LaGuardia to catch our Southwest flight back to Denver. Due to weather conditions, we taxied on the tarmac for almost four hours in an increasingly warm cabin until the pilot announced that we had to return to the terminal to refuel. 

 

At the gate, passengers were allowed off the plane to stretch their legs, keeping mindful about reboarding signage and announcements. An hour later, the inevitable happened: the flight crew timed out and the flight was cancelled. The LaGuardia departures board indicated a great many cancelled flights. Basically, no one was going anywhere Tuesday night.

 

Knowing that thousands of passengers were scrambling just like us to find accommodations, I hurriedly searched “hotels near me” while Evan called Southwest to rebook our flight which was not scheduled to depart until two days later. Flight and hotel booked, we headed out from baggage claim and grabbed a taxi. The hotel near me turned out to be nearly an hour away in The Bronx. 

 

When the cabbie finally pulled into the parking lot in the middle of nowhere around midnight, we knew we had left Ace standards far behind us. The two-story motel circled the lot, every room having a view of parked vehicles and red neon cherry tree installations. Pink, blue and white hexagonal lighting dotted the overhang on both floors and room doors were adorned with white and green vertical signage that alternated the words BLISS, MODERN, CHILL, RELAX, ENJOY, EXPLORE, REPEAT.  

 

My first impression was that the place was kitschy. Evan, however, through an oh-my-god-where-are-we laugh, managed to say, “We’re at a sex hotel.” 

 

I dismissed his comment as Evan being Evan and proceeded to roll my oversized suitcase to the lobby, a small room in which the reception counter was a fully sectioned off with protective glass. While I slide my ID and credit card through a metal slot, Evan told the man behind the counter, “We’d like a room for more than two hours.”

 

“Stop it!” I told him, tired from a long day of non-travel.

 

Grabbing the key card, we lugged our bags up a central flight of stairs and passed by the BLISS and EXPLORE signage to the end room. As I opened the door, Evan resumed his laughter while we surveyed the black-lit room that made the white pillows glow. A wall-sized mirror faced us from the far side of the room and, looking up, a giant mirror was mounted to the ceiling, fully capturing the king-sized bed which had a sheet but no blanket or duvet.  

 

“Sex room,” Evan repeated.

 

View from ceiling mirror

Even though the bed didn’t vibrate, the ginormous flatscreen didn’t play porn as a default offering and the vending machine sold soft drinks instead of condoms, I couldn’t argue. Yes, we’d checked into a sex motel.

 

Rather than think in terms of sexual things, we both thought about bed bugs and questioned how clean the room might be. Despite both of us being simultaneously amused and uncomfortable, we fell asleep in minutes, motorcycles and adjacent above ground subway trains rattling away throughout our two-night stay. 

 

In all likelihood, we’ll be back at the Ace next year but the sex motel will remain but a memory.

  

TREATS AMONG THE GRUNGE

The last time I stayed in Portland, I had two sleepless nights since the hotel was right across the street from a gay bar. No, I did not suddenly hook up. That would just be awkward for a prude like me. Instead, I laid awake listening to the pulsating club beat and then the drunken shouting that passes for a conversation in the middle of the street after last call. As nice as my boutique dorm room was at the Ace Hotel, I swore I’d never stay there again.

Instead, I chose the historic Benson Hotel, which turns out to only be a few blocks from my previous accommodation. It’s still part of the Grunge District, out-grunging similar areas of Vancouver and Seattle. After settling in, my dog and I set off for a self-guided walking tour—with no guidance whatsoever other than a map littered with advertised establishment logos. All the ads seemed so anti-grunge.

We walked by a block of food trucks and, although my dog would have settled for any of them, nothing satisfied my picky vegetarian tastes. We moseyed onward to a vegan restaurant, recommended by the hotel concierge. A very nice woman whose body was completely covered in tattoos—remember when tattoos meant DANGER? (Or was that just me?)—offered to hold my dog while I stepped in to order. As I retrieved my dog and waited for my carrot beet apple ginger juice (“The Rising”, of course), the tattooed woman ran to fend off her car from two drunk men who were insistent on breaking in, even with her present along with a cluster of outraged citizens. (I was clueless, positively un-civic, mistaking the yelling for some early partiers leaving a certain nearby club.)

The dog and I zigzagged along sidewalks, working our way to the water. We encountered many friendly homeless folks and a few drug users caught up in their own escapist state of mind. (No judgment. At a certain low point, I can see how escape would feel like the best option.) Each corner I turned led to something seedier. It got to the point where I stopped letting my dog sniff pee spots since I couldn’t be sure if the scent was canine or human-derived. The distinct stench nostalgically reminded me of Santa Monica parking garages back when I lived in Southern California.

An oasis appeared! I lucked upon a Ben & Jerry’s and allowed myself a double scoop waffle cone (Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz and White Russian!). I can’t get either flavor in Vancouver. It’ll take some intense workouts to work that off, but one must indulge every now and then. It is my vacation, after all. (There. Suitably rationalized.)

I walked along the river, crossing on an old train bridge, now a pedestrian/cyclist pathway. Graffiti artists competed with one another to tag the posted signs, so much so that I could not discern any part of the original message (“Danger. Bridge Subject to Collapse”?!) On the way back, I passed a naval ship from California, moored at river’s edge with sailors looking utterly bored as they sat in lawn chairs, smoked cigs and stared back at passersby. The men acted like zoo animals with attitude.

Next to a congregation of early street campers with heavily marked up arms, I came across a large line of people for what I presumed was the night club du jour; instead, the patient folks awaited a doughnut fix, the street marked off with the temporary rows one might navigate to go on Pirates of the Caribbean. Doughnuts? How ridiculous! It was an easy judgment, being as I’d already filled up on ice cream, a far better cause for treadmill penance.

Come morning, I trod familiar ground, fueling up at Stumptown Coffee and, yes, “accidentally” happening upon Voodoo Doughnuts and finding my way in the line, something I could justify as it was only half as long as the night before. (Besides, the bathroom mirror at The Benson was the most forgiving I have encountered in months. (Forget towels and mini shampoo bottles. I wanted to smuggle the full length mirror (and lighting) in my carry-on bag.)

I asked for the two most popular vegan doughnuts. I know, Dear Reader, that must seem like a paradox, mixing “popular” and “vegan” in the same sentence, but they don’t raise an eyebrow in Portland. This is the No Judgment Zone for all walks of life. Were the doughnuts worth the wait...and the weight? Probably not. I’m not exactly a doughnut connoisseur. As I tourist, I dutifully seek out lines and get sucked in by the hype. I’d say that most people would have oohed and aahed over the peanut butter chocolate doughnut. I preferred the drier, more subtle other one until the candied gobs slapped atop the icing became overpowering and nuked my tastebuds.

And what of the Ace Hotel, that unfortunate lodging that came with complimentary, albeit ineffective, earplugs? Still in business. The gay club across the street two years ago has shut down, replaced by a ramen noodle house and an under-renovation space that looks to house future trendy shops. My timing was all off. Or I needed to support the gay business with a few dances, drinks and one of those forgettable hookups. Yes, it’s all my fault the gay bar closed.

Driving away from Portland, I began to pay for my sins. Yes, that sugar coma feeling overpowered the last-minute caffeine surge I imbibed at a café called Public Domain. This after I had repeatedly brushed my teeth in the hotel room in a frantic moment of regret reminiscent of Lady Macbeth. Out, damned sugar! Out, I say! And as if to rub more sweetener in the wound, the oldies station on my car radio played a perfect piece of pop confection: The Archies’ “Sugar,Sugar”.

Sweet memories, indeed.

RUNNING AWAY

When I think of going on a vacation, I envision sipping margaritas while lounging by a pool and reading something “lite”, something so breezy that silly spellings like lite are liberally sprinkled on each page and I take no offense.

Traveling on my own, I can do exactly that. There is no one else’s itinerary. I don't have to tactfully explain why lining up for thirty minutes for free cheese samples would not be "fun". I don’t even have to defend why I am holding a copy of a Candace Bushnell novel or the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly or, gasp, The National Enquirer (let’s assume someone else left it behind on the neighboring chaise lounge).

Of course, the last time I had a kind of lounge-by-the-pool-and-pretend-the-sunglasses-make-me-look-like-somebody-famous vacation was spring break, 1985, in Puerto Vallarta. I just don't do that anymore. Maybe it's because I know it would take much more than some fine eyewear to make anyone mistake me for a celebrity. More likely, it’s because the margaritas on my one and only Mexican vacation led to illness like I’ve never experienced. (Yes, my mother had warned, “Don’t drink the water.” I assumed freezing it was the same as boiling it. And how did I get an A in high school Chemistry?!) I lost ten pounds that week, but the sacrifice was too great.

My vacations tend to involve too much driving, not enough sleep and an overused VISA, this latest jaunt being no exception. I booked one night in Bellingham, Washington, two in Portland and one in Lincoln City on the Oregon Coast. Half my suitcase was filled with workout wear: in case I find a pool to swim laps (tanning and lounging lost its appeal after a string of skin cancer procedures), in case I rent a bike, in case I find a gym.

I did none of those things. But I needed some sort of exercise to serve as penance for my ice cream indulgences. Portland has five Ben & Jerry’s! And, for some inane reason, you can’t buy Häagen-Dazs’ Bananas Foster flavor in Canada. My Member of Parliament has yet to respond to my request for assistance in this matter. An aide mentioned something about a global financial crisis. Priorities, people!

So I did my least favorite form of exercise. I jogged. For a change, it wasn’t a miserable slog whereby I pass the time counting blue cars just because a song tells me to or contemplating what kind of tattoo I’d get (and where) if I ever drank THAT much (and, specifically because of that worry, I never will). Three different places, three unique experiences.

In Bellingham, I stayed at a small hotel in the historic Fairhaven district, well removed from hideous outlet malls and Olive Gardens. Three blocks away marked the beginning of the Interurban Trail, a fully shaded pathway for walkers, joggers and bikers. I ran until I came to a marker for Teddy Bear Cove which caused me to cross the scenic Chuckanut Drive and railway tracks to the water’s edge where I had the view to myself. On the return run, I proved that I still have not overcome my sense of direction challenges. Where did that road come from?! Is it possible that I didn’t pay attention to this wooden bridge? The bright side: I extended my run. I returned to the hotel feeling exhilarated and not having counted cars of any color.

After a groggy day of shopping in Portland (see previous post), I revived myself by walking ten blocks to the Willamette River and then jogging on both sides, crossing on a former railway bridge, continuing on a floating bridge, passing small homeless encampments under other bridges and finding narrow dirt pathways where tall grasses tickled my calves. Again, the return route proved surprising. When did they put the Portland Opera building there? Do they add dead ends after 8 p.m.? I’m sure I annoyed a few joggers as I passed them, took an unexpected detour and passed them again. I was just really happy to see them again!

The noise outside my hotel room in Lincoln City may have been just as loud as the bar frenzy across the street from my quarters at the Ace Hotel in Portland, but the constant crashing of ocean waves calmed me more than any poolside margarita. Normally I jog once or twice a week maximum when I can’t conjure up an excuse to stay in and watch THIS or THIS. But on this trip, I became one of those crazed runners—except without the bright red designer gear and the pedometer/timer gadget affixed to a shirt sleeve. I was compelled to put on my sneakers again, even as the blisters between and at the bottom of my toes begged me to give it a rest. (Blisters speak in teeny tiny voices that, while grating, can be easily tuned out.)

As other beachgoers strolled and crouched to admire starfish clinging to rocks or to grab another beer from the cooler, I ran along the shoreline. I took in the sea air, viewed the soaring gulls (wary that they may find the dude below in the neon green shirt and easy target) and watched the sun go down—not a technically perfect sunset due to the low clouds, but still pleasing. Fortunately, the route was rather simple, allowing for a straight return leg (other than one foray onto a sand bar). With the sun fading, the people cleared, a good thing since my stride became jerky as I looked down and realized that sand fleas were hopping all over the beach.


How many had I unceremoniously squashed?


How many could I spare?


I tried to gaze out at the ocean and block any thoughts of the little critters, but I couldn’t get them off my radar.

Today I’m home again. In a few moments, I’ll drive to the gym, embarrass myself through a weight routine and then wind down on the treadmill. If I count vehicles that pass outside, I’m thinking pickup trucks will keep me more engaged than blue cars. But if I allow myself to imagine, I’ll be back on vacation, not at a pool, but on a wooded trail, along an urban river expanse or on a beach where little critters dig tiny holes and seek refuge before my arrival.

A good vacation lingers.

SLEEPLESS IN PORTLAND

As mentioned in my last post, I am taking a breather from romantic comedies. And so when I spontaneously decided I needed to zip off on an American shopping adventure, I consciously bypassed Seattle. Best not to risk re-enacting rom-com movie scenes, hanging out at gorgeous float homes and precious beaches, stalking cute, witty single dads with meddling sons named Jonah.

On to Portland!

But first, of course, I needed to book my accommodations. My friends are into Hotwire and Priceline, bidding on unknown hotels. I’ve tried that and paid dearly for it, not from my wallet but in all the extra time schlepping back and forth from a Holiday Inn Express that was in a very liberally defined “downtown Victoria”. Bargain hunting has never worked for me. No playing games with hotel rooms. I searched for exactly what I wanted. No surprises.

I surfed the internet to find a trendy boutique hotel I’d read about somewhere a year ago. God bless Google. While it seemed like finding a needle in a haystack, I typed in “hip Portland hotels” and The Ace Hotel popped up. Kind of like a chic dorm. Definitely not your run of the mill Hilton or Holiday Inn. I was excited to experience something different. One of the advantages of traveling alone is there is no one to blame you if the booking turns out to be a bad move.

It was a long drive with many stretches of inexplicable stop and go traffic—no construction, no accidents. I searched the radio dial, half expecting to hear a DJ giving directions for a vehicular flash mob. Simon says go slow. Simon says go even slower.

Once I reached my destination, I pulled up and got my room key (on a dog tag chain which fell apart within three minutes in my care). As I unloaded items from my car, I spotted a young gay man having a drink on the outdoor patio of the bar directly across the street. No doubt about his gayness. His limbs constricted and jerked in the equivalent to a body-length Notice Me hair flick. Later, I left to explore the amazing Powell’s Books and identified other gay patrons on the patio. My, Portland is a gay mecca. Who knew?! Picking up a copy of the free gay rag, my gaydar suspicions were confirmed. My hotel was directly across from a gay bar.

Pure coincidence. I’ve had partners who wanted to base entire trips around gay bars, gay plays, gay coffee hangouts. I always resisted. When I travel, I search for vegetarian restaurants, not gay bars. With the club constituting my view from my hotel room, I wondered if I should pop over. And then the question arose, “Why?” What need did I have to connect with gay Oregonians? I wasn’t looking for a hookup and I’ve never been skilled at mindless chitchat. I decided to turn in early.

Of course, when a bar with an open patio is directly across the street from where you’re staying, sleep is a challenge. As the club got busier, the noise wafted up to my third floor room. My bed vibrated like one of those coin-operated “rides” I think they used to have in motels in Niagara Falls. Sorry, there’s a reason that “luxury” never caught on.

I putzed around my room, flipping through complimentary copies of artsy magazines I’d never heard of before surveying the other extras for hotel guests: eucalyptus body wash, cilantro conditioner and, most telling, ear plugs. While a thoughtful touch, they didn’t help. I spent a fit-filled night,

partially suffocating myself with a pillow as I tried in vain to sleep.

At daybreak, I finally found silence but my body had resigned itself to insomnia. My mind wouldn’t relax, a vigilante mentality taking over, just waiting for another noise to prove that any attempt to doze was futile. I gazed groggily at the wall in front of me. Each room at the Ace has a kitschy design. Since I came here to write as well as shop, it was fitting the entire wall was covered by a black and white mural of a boy resting his chin in his hands as he holds a pencil before an open notebook. Well, it seemed like a perfect touch when I’d checked in. However, in the light of the new day, staring blurry-eyed at a giant sized little boy from my bed was mighty creepy.

I needed to get out of my room so I showered, fuelled up on caffeine at the neighboring Stumptown Coffee and wandered the streets. It was just me and dozens of homeless folks. I think my zombie impersonation scared them. Whereas the night before I was regularly asked for money for coffee/transit/dinner, they’d suddenly cross the street as I approached in the early morn. I looked to be the needier case. Excuse me, do you know how to hook me up with a caffeine IV?

I did manage to recover at some point after a few catnaps, some extravagant clothing purchases, a walk through the Pearl District and an invigorating run along the Willamette River. Come nightfall, I thought about the if-you-can’t-beat-‘em-join-‘em option, but by then a massive sty had formed on my right eye and the club’s apparent glow-stick/pajama party theme was most definitely not for me.

My Portland adventure underscored what I already knew: my forays into the gay nightlife are a thing of the past. The only thing I regret is that I don’t have anyone else to blame for my poor choice in accommodations.