November 2008

With the engine sputtering the three us rattle up the mountain and into the dirt lot of the  gas station. The bike´s where I left it and now I need confront the problem of getting it into the back of this little truck with the help of two frail old men and a skinny little ramp. Looking around I see a little hill about as high as the back of the truck and I tell the driver to back up to the rise. We were able to push the bike up the back of the rise, into the truck and haul it back to town.

At the mechanics there are a hundred questions, but I have to be at the police station by five and its 5:30. I tell the mechanic not to touch anything until I can come back tomorrow and I catch a taxi to the police station, leaving Sr. Taxi with the mechanic. Fish isn´t there and I wait. At about 6 he shows up and tells me that I need to take the insurance papers to the hospital and come back at eight tomorrow to assist in the ¨investigation¨.  Why did I come back to the police station?

So I take Shannons boots, helmet and cloths down to my bike and size up the next problem – how do I get all this crap on my bike? Lots of ropes, thats how. Once I have his gear strapped to the back of my bike using a crazy macrame of straps and ropes the pile is stacked higher than the top of my head. I see Latinos with stuff piled higher than this riding around all the time. If they can do it, so can I. I high-kick my leg over the seat and start the moto up. I´m hemmed in all around by police motorcycles and directly in front of me are about six motorcycle cops shooting the shit on the sidewalk. I give a little honk to make my intentions known. They back off about a half a step and I rev the engine. Letting out the clutch, the front tire rolls up on the sidewalk, but the back tire catches and I start to list over to the right. Loaded down like this, once she starts to go there´s no stopping her, and I fall over, knocking over one of the police bikes in the process. The crowed loved it and showered me in gales of laughter. What a day. They helped me get the bikes back up and I took off to try and find some dinner for Shannon and then find the hospital.

I find the hospital first so I just pull in to see how things are going. After 8 hours Shannon is still on the cafeteria tray of a stretcher in the 12 bed room. We talk a bit and he says that his hip doesn´t hurt if he doesn´t move and he tells me that nothings really been done for him. I´m told by the doctor that theres not much they can do with the type of break he has, and they want to move him to a better hospital on the other side of the parking lot, but first theres the problem of the bill. I´m done being a hard-ass and demanding that Pobre Sr. Taxi pay for everything. I just want things moving so I step up to the counter to pay the bill. $8.90 Soles. About three dollars. Shannons been sitting in that tray all day over three dollars.


Dude…. thats NOT a bong

Raising hell isn´t going to help, lets just move forward. I pull what I think is a helpful doctor aside and ask if it would be possible to get him a private room. He thinks a minute, then two so I get out my grease gun to help these wheels turn faster, I offer a little tip to the doctor if he can help with this. Problem solved.

They start moving people out of one of the rooms in the better hospital to make it private when I´m struck by a thought. If they can´t do anything for him, lets just get him out of here and into a comfortable hotel with a good bed, decent food and a TV – and without all the coming and going of sick people and their families. I suggest this and they think about for a while. The Dr says OK as long as its on the first floor. He even suggests a hotel and offers to take him in the ambulance for free. Things are looking up.

By nine-thirty that night Shannon was in bed at the Hotel Imperial, watching a movie in English and eating roasted chicken. I was talking to Michelle on the internet and she was mobilizing the troops in the USA to get him flown to a better facility.


The next morning I go down to the police station and Fish and I get a taxi to the site of accident - there are no police cars and the cops take taxis everywhere, …and you know who pays . We go over again what happened and Fish takes lots of notes and draws some pictures of what I say happened. Then he says he missed breakfast because he had to meet me so early. I can read between the lines and ask if he would like to go for a bite before we interview Shannon. ¨¿Porque no?¨ And I´m greasing another wheel.

When we finally get to the hotel things are moving fast. Michelle has done a great job mobilizing and Shannons been on the phone with both her and the insurance company most of the morning. They´ve arranged for a helicopter to land in the socker field and take him to Cuzco in an hour, but are waiting for permission from the local police. I had asked the doctor from last night to lunch and he showed up with his son just in time. He helps by calling the police and making sure everything will be smooth – and theres a hitch. The field is locked and they´ll have to cut the lock. Who´ll pay for the new lock? Really, they were holding things up until I volunteered to pay for the lock.


Cutting the lock on the socker  field

Then there was some MORE paperwork that we needed. Fish, the Dr and I leave Shannon and get a taxi go to the police station. We are now VIPs because of the helicopter and the Captain and Sargent come out to shake hands all around. The five of us now get in a taxi and go up the hill where the Sargent gets out and yells up to a window. A shirtless guy sticks his torso out and yells back from the second floor. The Sargent gets in and we dive downtown. I have no idea whats happening but I do know that this is the most inefficient use of the little time we have. The cops should be getting the field ready, I needed to be getting things from Shannons motorcycle and the Dr should be getting the ambulance. Instead we´re all in the taxi, as it turns out, looking for some woman to sign a paper.

We get her signature, I get Shannons stuff and head to the hotel. The ambulance arrives and with much wincing Shannon is loaded into the back. We drive to the socker field and wait while Fish gets a hack saw and cuts the lock. As the ambulance drives past the socker goal the helicopter can be seen in the distance getting ready to land. It makes a pass over and the whole town takes notice. Kids flood onto the edges of the field to watch. They don´t often get helicopters landing in Abancay and with Shannon waiting in the back of the ambulance all the cops and attendants want photos.  After the photo ops four of us gather at the back of the ambulance and lift the stretcher out. We carry it to the helicopter and as we start to load it in someone asks where they will put Shannon because he can´t sit in a seat and the stretcher belongs to the hospital, so its staying. Somone suggests they just put him on the floor and someone else suggests that they let him lay on the mattress but keep the stretcher with the ambulance. They can send an orderly along in the choper to bring the mattress back. Do I have 50 soles for the orderlys bus fare home?


Shannon signing MORE paperwork from his mattress in the helicopter


The medic finds out he has to ride to Cuzco in chopper and back by bus

After the pilot gets some photos they take off and I watch as my friend disappears, literally, into the sun. Theres more business to take care of and when I finally return to the hotel the crash of adrenaline and the weight of the realization that now I´m on my own is huge. It makes me question if I can even keep on. But I know that everything will be better in the morning, so I get some dinner and a beer and go to bed.


Bye Shannon


Shannon was examined in Cuzco where they determined that he needed some screws and a plate, but they didn´t have what he needed so he was flown to Lima. Michelle met him there. He had his surgery and now has five screws and a plate securing his right femur.

Michelle, with the help of the Andrades and friends has an apartment secured and she and Shannon will recuperate in Lima for the next few weeks.

Shannons KTM was sold in Abancay. It had a broken frame and who knows what else, so bringing it home wasn´t the best idea. I feel like I sold a kid a loaded gun though. There is no such thing as 950 motorcycle in Peru and I´m afraid this guy will kill himself on it.

The helpful doctor turned out to be a teacher that volunteers at the hospital. His name is Erasmo and without his help everything would have been much harder. Thank you so much Erasmo, we owe you a huge debt.

I´m now in Cuzco for  a few days, then on to Machu Pichu, Lake Titicaca and on to Chile. Its hard to do without my friend, but now even more, I need to continue on. Quiting because I´m scared would invalidate the whole trip.

My computer is in a shop in Cuzco and may be fixed tomorrow. If so I´ll post pics of the whole ordeal.


We got a good, early start on Friday. The road was paved all the way from Abancay to Cuzco and we were anticipating about a two and half hour ride into town. We´d found a hostel in the guidebook that we were aiming for and I had made a little map of the center of town to help us navigate. Spirits were high as we both were looking forward to a few days off in a nice colonial town after having ridden for two weeks straight on some really challenging roads.

Pulling out of the gas station with a light rain falling, I was in the lead and Shannon was about fifty yards behind. Ahead was a van full of volunteer firemen slowly following a runner with a number pined to his back. We were rolling to Mecca and I had no patience for them. I passed with simple shifting of my weight to turn the bike out and back into my lane. With oncoming traffic, Shannon was caught behind the van as I throttled up the hill. He´s usually faster than me, so when after a few miles he hadn´t zoomed passed, I pulled over to wait. I gave him about ten minutes and then turned around and headed back down the hill expecting to see him at some turn I´d missed, helmet off, wearing in its place his patient look of indulgence. Instead, as I rounded a corner there was crowd in the street. The volunteer fire department van was pulled over and there was an ambulance in the road. A green station wagon taxi was parked diagonally in the wrong lane. I could see Shannons bike upright in the road. A good sign. He was in the back of the ambulance and there were people in red and white sweatsuits buzzing around. A bad sign.


I don´t clearly remember what happened next, but from that point through the next two days it was pure chaos.

Shannon had been riding behind me as I passed the Fire Department van. I threaded back into my lane between an oncoming car and the red VFD van without a thought, but for some reason, the oncoming car didn´t make the left hand curve. It skidded into the right side of Shannons lane. Shannon swerved to miss it, but it was so far over that it hit him head on. He flew over the hood like Superman, landing in the street still on the right of the double yellow line.


The taxi that hit him.

We wear a lot of protective gear every time we get on the bikes; good helmet, a jacket with shoulder, elbow and back protection, pants with knee and hip pads, boots similar to ski boots and heavy gloves. Without all of this gear things could have been really bad. Even with all of it Shannon had a lot of pain in his right hip where he´d made contact after his brief flight, but all the EMS type people were standing around talking and trying to decide what to do next – and the cops wern´t much better. Shannon sat in the back of the ambulance waiting in pain.

He needed to go to the hospital – NOW, we needed a police report and we needed to get his bike on a truck and into safe storage for a few days. All of this seemed to be outside the understanding of the ten or fifteen professionals on the scene. I took some quick pictures of the taxis license plate and the damage to the car and the bike, as well as the people on site. If things started to unravel later I wanted as much documentation as possible.

While I was doing this, a plan started to emerge from the fog of foreign language, stress and inaction. The guy that seemed to be the head cop got in his truck and drove off, leaving a brown Barney Fife to wrap things up. I was told by the VFD in red sweats to park my bike at a gas station and follow Barney to the police station on Shannons bike. Their thinking was that Shannons bike would be safer at the police station…. I took a quick look and the front tire was flat, the handlebars were so far forward as to almost be inverted and who knows what else was broken after a head on. No way could or should this be ridden back to town. I said I´d ride it the hundred yards to the gas station and park it. We could come back for it later. I got on it and surprisingly, it started. A little throttle and I let out the clutch a bit. The engine revved and surged, the back tire spun and the front stayed put, turning the bike in a circle and it fell on its side, then died. We picked it up and pushed it down the hill to park it.

As I walked out of the dirt lot of the gas station the crowd up the hill was breaking up. Barney was in the passenger seat of a taxi yelling at me to run and get on my bike to follow him. I followed the taxi through town and we ended up at the hospital. I´m not sure why.

I checked on Shannon and they had him on stretcher in a room with about 12 beds. He said he wasn´t in too much pain so that was good. I assumed he was in good hands now, but yall know what they say about assumptions…

From here, things got downright Byzantine. I got in the police truck with the two cops. We went to the site of the accident and they wrote down the license plate number of Shannons bike. We all got back into the truck and went back to the hospital. The head cop then took off. Barney and I stood around for a while more. I was told to pick up Shannons gear and take it somewhere else. Where? I´m on a motorcycle and we´ve got no place to call home, so I stand around with a trash bag full of  riding pants and jacket with huge boots in hand.

After a while more, Barney tels me we´re going to the police station and I need to follow on the bike. What do I follow? The taxi. Yes, that taxi, with Barney Fife riding shotgun. We go the police station and I sit around downstairs for while. They call me upstairs, so I go up there and wait some more. After about a half an hour Barney tells me his part of the show is over and he hands me over to Fish.

Abe Bagoda then tells me to wait in this paint peeling, piss stinking second floor office while he and Sr. Taxi go down stairs. I watch incredulous as they get into a taxi and drive off.

I wait. And wait. I go across the street and have a cup of tea. I come back and wait some more.

Three went out, but four return. They went by taxi, four hours after the accident, to have Sr. Taxi´s blood alcohol tested.

Now that we´re all at the police station I nearly get into a fight with Abe “Fish” Bogoda. He wants proof of medical insurance. Its obviously the taxi´s fault, and its his responsibility to pay for EVERYTHING as far I´m concerned and I tell everyone so in my best and loudest Spanish. But things just escalate so I say OK, get me on the internet and I´ll print out Shannons proof of international insurance, but we aren´t paying for anything.

There’s some fast Spanish chatter and plans change. Now we were all going in Sr. Taxi´s car, without results of his blood alcohol test, back to the hospital to have Shannons blood tested too.

We get to the hospital and Shannon is still on the stretcher and all they´ve done for him is insert a port into his arm and take some X-rays. No meds, nothing. Number Four sticks the head of a syringe into Shannons arm and lets the blood run free out the back into an open bottle, for sterile testing at a later date I assume. I tell Shannon I´ll be back when we´re done and I´ll bring him some food then.

Our Merry Band heads back to the police station in Sr. Taxi´s taxi. But first we swing by Number Fours house and he jumps out.  Then, in the middle of a town I know nothing about, they tell me to jump out of the car. Theres an internet house and I can get my things printed there and catch a taxi back to the station later.  And they´re serious. I say “No!, theres an internet place across the street from the police station. I´ll do it there” They argue some but I don´t move.

Back at the station, Fish tells Sr. Taxi to escort me to the internet place and then to help me get Shannons bike somewhere safe. He´ll be back at 5 and we should meet him with the papers then.

As soon as we hit the pavement and are alone, Sr. Taxi starts whispering to me about how poor he is and how if we make him pay for everything his kids won´t eat. Yall know me and I´m a patient man, but we´re getting really close to the end of my rope. I quit listening and just ignore him as we go into the internet place. I sit at a computer and log into Shannonms email. There´s everything we need. I download the PDFs to a USB drive and then open them, or try to. No Acrobat Reader. The only program that EVERY computer has regardless of operating system is Acrobat Reader – except these. I show the lady behind the counter that its a free program and I can install it with no problems. But she doesn´t have administrator access to any of the machines so I pack up and we head up the street with Sr. Taxi crying poor at my heels like an old starving dog.

The next three places are closed. We finally find one thats open! I plug in the USB drive and open the docs. Smooth like a rhapsody. I hit print but I don´t hear anything chugging like a printer. I ask about it and find out they don´t have a printer….  A few more closed doors and we find another place thats open. I sit and open the docs, hit print and… nothing.

I´m there now. The top of my heads popped and I feel the tingly ants crawling as I flail and speak as slowly and deliberately as possible. They take my drive in back and I hear a printer.


But it stops. And then theres debate from the back room. I´m done. I march in the back and take what the lady has. I don´t care that the quality´s no good. Its all in English and the people I´m dealing with have little education and don´t speak my language. It really doesn´t matter what I have as long as I can wave some papers around.

Marching back to the station in my storm trooper boots, Sr. Taxi starts it up again, but this time hes saying that all we need to do is put air in Shannons tire and it´ll be fine. Its his turn now. Imagine the spectacle of a Gringo, possibly the only Gringo in town, marching down the middle of a busy street, lots of foot traffic, with a broken-down taxi driver in tow. The Gringo is dressed in full off-road motorcycle gear, boots and all, yelling in English and accenting the finer points of his argument by slapping rolled up insurance papers into the palm of his hand.

A lot of people went silent and just watched. Poor old guy. I kind of felt bad for him.

Back at the station Fish is gone, so we get into a taxi. But not Sr. Taxis taxi, because the cops have the keys to that one. Sr. Taxi tells the driver where to go and tells me he knows of a truck big enough to haul the motorcycle. We end up at a mechanics shop and he wants tyo take a taxi up to look at the bike before getting a truck to tow it back down. This getting really ridiculous. We argue back and forth and finally he gives in and calls a friend with a pick up.

I see it rattling down the hill. This can´t be our truck, a beat up blue pick up held together with bailing wire and rope. It doesn´t even weigh as much the KTM. But it is. If Shannon could see what I was about to do with is motorcycle he´d freak, but I was so tired of the round and round at this point that just I went with it.

Two old guys and I crawl into the cab and we start to drive off. As I´m wondering how the three of us are going to get the moto into the bed of this truck, it stalls. He tries and tries, but the driver can´t get it started. So he gets out and walks around and pops the hood. Somebody off the street jumps in the drivers seat and, as the driver taps the carburetor with a hammer, the guy from the street turns the engine over.

It starts and we´re off, up the hill, sputtering and coughing and shifting with a loose leaver on the steering colum!

(to be continued…)


We´ve been riding on the moon or at least thats what Peru feels like. On the coast, huge dunes give way to bare red rock mountains and nothing grows. Not even weeds. The wind blows sand and dust and mist and gives the whole scene a washed out water color look. Heading south we turn left up dirt roads and ride half lost into the Andes. Following river valleys higher and higher we ride through little towns of ten or twenty buildings made of mud brick. There are no road signs so when we come to intersections we wait for someone to come by and ask them which road we should take. Sometimes we get where we´re aiming and sometimes we get somewhere else.

Like the day before yesterday. We were aiming at a town called Huancayo but ended up about 150 miles north. The road up was a full day of single lane dirt cut like a step into the side of the mountains. With two way traffic and thick fog. After a trying day, like Hanzel and Gretel, we found ourselvs in front of a hotel with a trout pond for our dinner and a hot springs for our tired bones.

Luck runs big both ways, and for balance, yesterday we were making good time on a paved road and set to get to town with time to walk around and take in the sights. But not thirty miles from our destination all traffic was stopped. We rode past cars and buses pulled to side and found some police. They said there were problems ahead. Some kind of protest with angry people armed with guns and rocks. They said if we went back a few towns there was another route through the mountains to the west. We hooked up with two other adventurous cars and struck out through farm fields and gravel roads, and then struck out all together. The tracks were a maze going nowhere.

Shannon and I gave up on that route and went back down to a small town perched above the paved road. We could see a good dirt road going in the direction we wanted and on it we could see groups of locals around roadblocks. We stopped and talked about what our next move should be. Go back and look for a place to stay and hope we could get through tomorrow or roll the dice and see what we could make happen?

We´re gambling men so we rolled the dice past rocks in the road and around trees cut to block the passage of cars, but we were on motorcycles. Arriving at the first group of locals, we rolled in with our engines off. They said pas on by, the guy we needed to talk to was at the next blockade.

Coming to a group of about twenty men behind a tree cut across the road, one stood up and said You can´t pass here! I took off my helmet and walked around the tree to introduce myself. Shaking hands all around, passing out cards with my picture and a map of our trip, and being as respectful as I could, I explained that we were in a bad way. With darkness falling we had to make Huancayo fast. We had no place to stay and the roads are dangerous at night. He thought about it for a minute and said we could ride the paved road and take our chances there. But another guy from the group argued that it was safer to take the back roads. I agreed and after some conversation, the boss man said OK.

Riding up the good dirt road, our two adventurous car loads of friends could still be seen in the red dust of sunset looking for a passage out of the fields.

Crackers. He must have had dry crackers for breakfast. Now his mouth’s all dry and that’s why he’s talking like it’s full of sand. It might also explain his mood. I don’t catch much of what this little Napoleon of a government functionary is saying, but he keeps pounding his finger on the stack of papers I put in front of him and saying something about a letter. He has my passport, title to my motorcycle, drivers license and a huge stack of papers from the company that shipped the bikes. What would he need a letter for? With the way he’s talking and my bad Spanish, I can’t understand what he´s after, so to divine this mystery I repeat a rudimentary line of questioning that goes something like this: “Letter?” “What type of letter?” “What letter?” He started out impatient and this is quickly driving his mood south, so maybe I should retreat a bit.

Turning to relay what little info I’ve garnered to John and Shannon I find they are talking to a guy in a white T-shirt and woven reed fedora. Papers pass from hand to hand. They’re way ahead of me on this. Under the fedora is George. Hes Mexican and is in this customs office in the center of Cali for the same reason we are. He and his friend Salvador are riding a BMW Dakar and a Ducati from Mexico City to Terria Del Fuego and they shipped their bikes on the same plane we did. ´The paper George gives us is a hand written letter of intention saying that we promise not to sell the bikes in Colombia. Cross our hearts. It’s a fill in the blank so I take that, along with our other documentation, across the street to make copies.

Now, armed with our letters, I storm the Bastille a second time. Napoleon is ready for me though and thwarts my attack by waiving my letter in the air and yelling “mas copias!”. 

Back across the street for copies and now a third foray.

SUCCESS! Napoleon eases into action entering info into the computer, and stamping and stapling papers. He leans back, reviews his work and deems it good. He keeps his stack of documents and hands me a copy of my letter of intent telling me that I have to go out the building, around the corner and up the stairs with this copy. There, they will know what to do next.

So off we go, past armed guards weaving through throngs of vendors in the street selling magazines, fried mysteries, fruit, sodas and belts, up the stairs to Lilly. And it was true. She knew exactly what to do. She signed the copies and told me to bring them back down to Napoleon.

Reverse the path and Napoleon trades my documents for Lilly’s signature.  And tells me that I need to bring the stack back to Lilly. At least this time I know where she is.

Back at Lilly’s she takes our papers and shoos us into the hall where we sit and wait. And wait. A deliveryman with lunches in hand passes us and goes into the office. This doesn’t bode well. About and hour and a half later she  opens the door and calls our names, hands us our papers and tells us that we have to hurry to the airport because the inspector quits for the day at 12:30 -and its already noon!

We fly down the stairs and get a taxi to the airport. On arrival we attack from the flanks. Shannon goes upstairs to the office, John rattles the gate at the warehouse and I go over to the customs house. George and Salvador are already there getting their bikes cleared -and we have no more problems with paperwork! Our spirits are running high as we repack gear, get our boots and jackets on and fire up the bikes.

Then they come crashing down when we’re told we have to take these 600 pound machines down the front stairs.





OK…. Lets try it.

And we do it. I’m amazed.

It feels so good to be rolling again. Out past cane fields and cows and horse carts on good roads with the mountains rising hazy in the distance. We bypass Cali to the South East and head to Papayan, a colonial city where all the buildings are white. In our hotel we watch as the election results push Red to Blue and wake up with President Obama.


From here we ride into the Andes where the vistas expand across valleys inconceivably deep. The light green of the mountainsides is broken by darker greens of hedges and white houses with terracotta-tiled roofs dotting the fields. Its beautiful and I want to open myself up, absorb it through my skin, I want to take it in and make it a part of me. I want to remember forever how this looks and feels and smells.

The moon, like mischieviuos bacon
Crisps its desire
While I harbor myself
Towards two eggs over-easy
~ Richard Brautagan

Colombianas don’t seem to struggle with negative body image the way American women do. Regardless of age or body type they wrap what they have tight, push it up high and put it out there for all to appreciate.

Thank you Ladies

Word on the street is that the Marimba Dance video link isn´t working on Windows. Heres the link directly on Youtube.

It’s a bit discouraging. The motos are in Cali. We saw them when we went down to Copa de carga in hopes of getting on them and riding out of this big city into the mountains to the south. But hope ran head-long into reality when we were told the inspector, whose signature we need, isn’t working today. And tomorrow is Sunday, so he won’t be in. And Monday is a holiday. So we can come back on Tuesday, after getting our papers stamped at the customs office downtown, and pick up our bikes then. We tried everything we could think of including offering a “tip” to the inspector. That got his attention, but there are two more people who need to sign-off on our documents, and they aren’t available.  So we got nowhere and now we’re back in Cali for a few more days.

That makes seven days between arriving in Panama City and potentially throwing a leg over my bike in South America. Add to that the time we spent waiting for my clutch in Patulul Guatemala and San Jose Costa Rica for Shannon’s oil leak, and that’s almost three weeks of sitting around. Its left us both a bit discouraged, short tempered and antsy.

We’re trying to make the best of the situation and have left the sketchy hotel.  We’re now in a nicer place in an area of Cali called Granada. It’s more affluent here and there are a lot of restaurants, bars, galleries and shops. Its really the nicest place we’ve been since crossing into Mexico. Walking around here is interesting enough, but no matter how you slice it, its still just killing time.

We had originally planned to take a boat down the Amazon from Yurimagas Peru, out past Iquitos and on to Manaus Brazil, and from there drive south into Argentina. But with all these delays we abandoned that idea. Without the boat trip I thought we might have enough time to ride together down to Ushuaia, but even that idea seems to be slipping away as we sit flipping channels in another hotel room. I had expected shipping the bikes and customs to take a while, but I though that we would be spending this time in Quito with friends. Things didn’t work out like that and we’ve been flexible, but this pig’s going to need a lot of lipstick. So far we’ve been lucky and our down-time has allowed us to meet some great people. Lets hope that holds true for Cali.


The girls, in Copas warehouse and ready to fly


Panamas busses are cool, but not as cool as Guatemalas


Shannon, John and Jamie enjoy breakfast before we get on the plane to Columbia


The door to our seedy hotel, locked by a pipe through the handels


The bathroom door in our seedy hotel


The door to the john in Johns room


The weird box as seen from the hall. Shannon’s in the room. Anyone know why they’d have this in all the rooms?


Elvis tiles on the wall

Lenny has moobs

Lenny is a white guy and has moobs.