By Roberta Rich
We went to Mexico, had some tequila, eloped with a pair of drug smugglers, and took part-time jobs as exotic dancers. You know, same old, same old.
Jennifer Lynn Barnes
In 2020, I met Roberta Rich at a writer’s conference in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She kindly offered me the chance to re-publish her article below from the Toronto Globe and Mail on my website and Facebook Page.
Maggie and the Mexican Hot Sheets Motel
Driving three thousand kilometers from Vancouver to Colima, Mexico, with Maggie is an unalloyed pleasure- except for one thing. She is now seven years old, placid, sedate, the doggy equivalent of late middle age, like us. She has her bed in the back of the station wagon, and as my husband is fond of saying a little too often for my liking, she never criticizes his driving and whines for a pee break.
We are well acquainted with the U.S. chain motels throughout Washington State, Oregon, and California in their splendidly cheap, convenient, and dog-friendly guises. Their lurid signs beckon from the I-5, and at the end of a long day, we and Maggie gratefully snuggle into the charmless but antiseptic arms of a Motel 6, Motel 8, or Travelodge. If you don’t believe me, I have dozens of purse-size plastic bottles of body lotion, shampoo, doll-size bars of bath soap, and a hair conditioner to prove it.
Our grueling schedule of ‘gas/pee –drive- drive- eat/pee- sleep- get up- eat’ and do the same thing all over for six days and nights serves us well until we cross the border. Then the problem starts. There are two breeds of dog in Mexico: the purse dog, also known as a ‘d.w.p.‘ (dirty white poodle), and the ‘roof dog,’ a snarling, teeth-baring creature designed to terrify and intimidate all who come within a block of the roof in question.
Maggie fits into neither category. Being a German Shepherd, she looks like a wolf but has the disposition of a purse dog. ‘No perros (dogs)’ is the rule, which makes finding a motel room challenging in a country of carefully tended, vigilantly guarded Mom and Pop hotels.
However, this was the year of our big breakthrough. We discovered the concept of ‘the hot sheets motel’ (sometimes called ‘love motel’) numerous throughout Mexico. Our personal favourite was the Dix Motel in Culiacan, Sinaloa. (Warning: Culiacan has been in the news as the battlefield for warring narcotraficos. This may deter you.)
The typical Mexican house is small and lacks privacy, and the neighbors are as nosey as neighbors anywhere, so the pay-by-the-hour motel is a popular institution. (Attention President Marcon! Countries concerned about declining national birth rates may want to encourage these discrete, low-rise, anonymous institutions.)
You enter through a curved high walled entrance and drive up to the reception building of smoked one-way glass. An electronic arm extends to receive your two hundred pesos (about $20.00); the arm extends again to give you a key. Then you and your car disappear into the maze of 70’s style motel units with attached garages. Think Mexico meets Edward Scissorhands.
Each room comes equipped with an adjacent parking space complete with a heavy green plastic curtain on rings to conceal your car (or an elephant) as you unload selves, luggage, and dog. Inside is a comfortable king-size bed and a menu from which you can order by phone everything from burritos and enchiladas to Viagra and a cream called ‘Analease’. The delivery of these purchases is effected through a revolving turnstile similar to the one Hannibal Lector received his meals through in Silence of the Lambs. You place your pesos on the shelf, spin, and presto, your piping hot burrito, or Viagra, appears as if by magic on the return spin.
You will see not a soul from the moment you pull into the entrance until you pull out in the morning, cheerful and relaxed after a blissful sleep and a good romp. Dog lovers rejoice.
Want to Know More About Life in a Mexican Hot Sheets Motel?
Check out this article from London’s Guardian Newspaper.