Last week, Friday afternoon, we kind of ended up in the wrong neighborhood. It’s happened before, but not like this. We came around the corner and there was a really cheap hotel with a line of stunning hookers out front. They were nice. Tamiko smiled at them and they smiled back and we walked on about our business.
This morning we were out of sugar and I like sugar in my coffee. I rode my bike up to Primera street, AKA Gringo Gulch, to a nice cafe. After my coffee I decided to ride around a bit more before I returned to do some boat work like scrubbing cushions and cleaning out the new head and great stuff like that. I headed east away from the water and I realized that I was near that same hotel. I turned to ride past and see the hookers again, but DAMN! That was a mistake. Thursday mornings are not the same as Friday afternoons at whorehouses.
There were two hookers out front and they looked like middle aged tortilla makers, there was another across the street and she looked like somebody’s grandmother after a hard day’s work. Then there was the junkie puking in the gutter.
Not the same at all.
Hotel Paso del Norte-- with some rough looking Ensenada hookers waiting outside for johns.
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Seems like the damned bike has a mind of its own. Or somethin’ does.
That hotel is between my favorite coffee shop and the Ensenada marine supply. I could take a different route but then I’d miss all the entertainment!