Pomona Lodge (The Atrocities of the)

Good day kind readers. So last month I [actually Janelle] finagled my [our] way into staying at one of the nicest hotels I have ever enjoyed. In fact I have spent several nights at extremely comfortable lodgings since getting married. Quite nice and quite fun. All this to give some contrast to the Pomona Lodge.

Two weeks ago I was visiting Pomona to consider a campus there and meet with some administrators, blah blah blah. Janelle booked my stay and asked me if I wanted to stay somewhere cheaper or nicer. Already feeling guilty about traveling around the country without her, I opted for cheaper.

My flight arrived late and by the time my cab pulled up to The Lodge I was already ready for bed. After paying Amani, my cab driver, I waved goodbye and went to check in at the main office. This is when I realized I would have been better off having Amani take me somewhere else. Oops. The office was about 6'X7' and small enough that, with my luggage in tow, I couldn't close the door behind me. There was only two features: a bulletproof teller-style check-in and 1000 tourist pamplets.

I knew that the evening was too far gone to make other arrangements, so I decided to grit my teeth and just make it work (in the interest of getting lots of sleep and ensuring that the next day would go smoothly). As I walked up to the glass, I saw a sign taped on the inside: "No Drug Deals, No Prostitution." For some reason neither rule made me feel any better.

"I have a reservation," I stammered, knowing this could be a big mistake. "Under 'Andrew Olsen'."
"113," the old Indian man said, returning my credit card and room key.
"Thank you," I replied dishonestly.

As I approached the motel door, a shiny old black sedan (read "pimpmobile") pulled up behind me, headlights on my back.
"Hey!"
Still fumbling with my keys I realized that I couldn't get into my room fast enough to prevent him from shooting me if that was what was his plan.
"Yeah?"
"How much are the rooms here?"
"Fifty-five a night," I replied, wondering if he was hoping for something hourly.
"Are they clean?"
"I'm not sure. I've never stayed here before."
I already felt like I needed a long, hot shower.

That seemed enough to satisfy him and, as he left, I concentrated on getting into the room before being approached again. Key at the ready, my eyes turned to the handle where an ambiguous brown crust was caked onto the handle I needed to pass through. Fortunately I managed to open the door without touching anything but the key. The room, however, wasn't much better.

The immediate insult against my senses was olfactory. Smoke and mold, yes mostly those... but with an unmistakable aroma of old urine. I considered leaving, but was very tired, and knew it would be nearly impossible to find a cab in a bad neighborhood before getting mugged. Besides, I probably wouldn't get shot as long as my door was locked.

As a microbiology lab employee I was keenly aware of potential infections all around me, so the remainder of my stay was paranoia and trying to breathe and touch as little as possible. As I prepared for bed I tried to eliminate the chance of letting my skin touch the sheets. Already well covered, I was thankful to have a pillow from home which adequately protected my face from the toxins and infectious agents that were eagerly waiting to burrow into my skin and give me a weird rash or cause uncomfortable lesions. The night passed slowly, but passed nonetheless.

The only real upside of the entire experience was that, as I checked out the following day, I once more met the old Indian man who checked me in. Learning that I was preparing to go back to school, he gave me an Indian blessing that I would be able to go to school where I wanted to go. It was fun and kind of cool, but I'm not sure if it made up for a night of worrying that, through no fault of my own, I would wake up a host to some new parasite.