When I wake in the morning it is eerily quiet, which makes me
nervous until I remember that, of course, a brothel operates at night.
Florescent lighting was kinder to this environment than the stark,
bright morning light. The short red carpet is a puzzle of dark splotchy stains.
The walls are stained with moisture and the bathroom tiles are caked with mold.
The tiles themselves were shattered with a hammer to let the plumbing in.
Caulking does not seem to be a talent the local handymen possess. Neither do
they seem to have a grasp of the force of gravity since the bathroom drain was
located at the highest end of the room. A puddle of stagnant water sits in a corner,
drowned bugs float at the edges.
I half-fill the red basin with cold water from the dripping sink faucet, and uncork one of the green plastic thermoses of hot water the girls provided the night before. Amazingly, it is still piping hot, hot enough for a cup of instant coffee. I check my skin for bedbugs. None. I hope that this will be the rattiest place I ever have to stay in.
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