Even the most lackluster love life can be improved by a visit to a sleazy motel. Something about bad lighting, institutional duvets and greasy carpeting speckled with cigarette burns really brings on the horn. Or maybe it's just me. Not that my sex life isn't fabulous. Not that it's any of your business. No really, I just wanted to go back to the Air Travel Motel.

"Go back to the Air Travel?" Gazing up at the motorlodge's grimy white sign, which stands sentinel over a parking lot littered with forty oz bottles and used syringes, one might wonder why anyone would want to venture in once, let alone return. The motel is tucked away behind the Szechuan Second¹ restaurant, its fake rock wall entryway a wistful reminder of what must have been a disco-dipped naissance. Inside, the mayonnaise colored walls and flickering fluorescent bulbs reinforce the bad trip ambience. Your first impression is correct: If motels were movies this would be Deliverance.

My introduction to the A.T. came within a few weeks of moving to the Tenderloin. I was invited over to 'party' with a group of CCA² students. The charms of true T.L. squalor became apparent when I asked where I could smoke. My host shrugged nonchalantly. "We took the smoke detectors out last week," he said, tossing an empty malt liquor bottle out the window. When I asked if he had an ashtray he handed me a paper cup. The butt burned through the bottom and I looked around frantically for the sink until someone took it and threw it into the trash can. The trash burst into flames. Leaving with the smell of smoke in my hair, I declined to wait for the thirty year old elevator and instead tried the ' fire exit.' Locked. A sane person would have vowed never to return. Predictably, I can't seem to stay away.

So here we stand at the entrance to the Tenderloin, my date and I. It's past 8 pm and the shopping cart brigade of lower Hyde is dissolving in the wake of dealers and drunks. My companion asks what I want to do and I hang my head, blushing.

"This might sound forward...."
"Uh huh."
"But it's almost time for The Simpsons...."
"Uhhhh. Huh."
"And all I really want to do is get a hotel room and some chicken and beer. Do you have a problem with that?" He doesn't.

No one is ever stopped at the lobby of the Air Travel, so when we exit the elevator on the 3rd floor I do a quick check for winos wedged between the wall and the buzzing cola machine. My mother always told me to check for intruders in the bathroom and closet before closing the door of a rented room. I feel a surge of girlish giddiness when I realize that isn't necessary tonight. Really not necessary, because we spend less than two minutes in the room. There is no bed.

"No bed?" says the little concierge, putting down his newspaper. He seems to think we're being problem guests.
"No bed."

He double-checks his card file. No one's ever stolen a bed before. With an attitude of resign he hands us a key for a room on the fifth floor.

The soda machine upstairs is even louder than the previous, a stern rumble added to the general annoying buzz which suggests imminent meltdown. My knees are trembling with anticipation as we approach our room. At last! When I open the door, however, the first thing I see is the humped comforter of an unmade bed. Fuck.

"Fuck," says my companion, looking at my disappointed expression. There was a beat of awkwardness earlier when I paid for the room. It was $90—much more than I expected. I'm sure I could have talked them down, but I'm a pussy. Handing over my credit card, I wondered how this situation would have played out thirty years ago. Would Gloria Steinem wonder if paying for her own room made her a slut? Would she worry that haggling over the price might make her seem "high maintenance?" I didn't expect my partner in crime to pay. Wasn't it my fantasy, after all? Why am I worried about him feeling emasculated? Fuck post-feminist quandaries, The Simpsons will be starting soon.

As though reading my mind, my friend leaves without a word. I gingerly smooth the blankets of the small bed and lift my feet off the sticky floor. On the Formica table, next to a lipstick-blotted tissue, is a clear plastic binder with information for tourists. It explains that the Glide Memorial Church's homeless shelter is responsible for the state of the neighborhood and says DO NOT WALK DOWN ELLIS STREET. I remember the firm way the desk clerk told me there were no refunds. For the first time in a long time, I feel empathy for tourists.

There is a knock on the door. I check the peephole then undo the chain lock. It's my man, holding a new key and a wad of twenty dollar bills. With an attitude of silent competence he ushers me up to the 7th floor. Our new room has a stunning view of a wide tarmac roof and the ubiquitous Federal Building. I am a-twitter as he recounts his demand for a cash refund from the desk clerk, whose near-perfect English mysteriously unraveled at the first signs of conflict. He spreads the money on the (king-size) bed and I roll around in it for a while. When I look up at my date he is smiling proudly, a lit cigarette in one hand. This one's a keeper.

"So what do you want to do?" he asks.
I get up off the bed, feeling a wicked grin slide across my face. I raise an eyebrow.
"You know what I want to do."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."

So he kisses my forehead and leaves to get fried chicken and beer . I turn to the patio. When I lived in this neighborhood I would sometimes feel a guilty sense of well being as I looked down from my little rented room. I was safe and warm while below the dregs of society were turning tricks and shooting up, counting the change that had to feed them for another day. "Lucky me," I would say through a mouthful of Ramen.

Now, a year older and wiser, I no longer need junkies to make me feel better. So why do I find myself drawn back to the Tenderloin? Is it just my compulsion to eat greasy food on a dirty bed, or something deeper? Tomorrow I'll have to pass the usual gaggle of dealers. I've learned the attitude you need to live in this neighborhood unmolested. Eyes direct and steady, neck straight, shoulders back, five seconds of stare for everyone you meet. One of the thugs will say "Good morning," and I'll return the salutation. Maybe this artless camaraderie is what I really miss. Strangers never greet me in the Mission. The swagger I learned on skid row seems to unnerve my neighbors there. But tomorrow on Ellis I'll met every eye and not care what my untucked shirt or bleary eyes reveal. Am I a fallen woman? An alcoholic? Maybe. Nobody on the street cares because they know what I know. When you step out of the Air Travel, there's only one way to walk: like a survivor.

1 There is no Szechuan First. I've looked. Interestingly, however, this eatery is almost kitty-corner to Vietnam II, which as sequel restaurants go is pretty decent.
2 California Culinary Academy.