After afternoon tea in Gaiman, we headed west on highway 25 until we had to stop because it was dark and our headlights suck. We pulled in at Las Plumas, a little town that seemed only to have one hotel.
It was called The Old Hotel but we weren’t ready for just how old it was. We are still not sure if it used to be a prison, but our cell/room was fairly sparse and was locked with a padlock.
It was like a comedy, trying to get a room. The woman who ran it was talking in a high pitched, high speed machine gun Spanish as she tried to light the fire. While this was happening, her small son was loving new people being around and was running around the room, jumping on the bed and throwing the cushions. Then Rocky, the dog joined in and jumped on the bed and started barking. She kept chasing them out and they’d just come back again.
Eventually she got the fire going and the circus left the room. We filled our shower bucket up and plugged it in and waited for some warm water to have a shower. There was no television and Frank and I were forced to make conversation.
The next morning we had a bit of a laugh at the banner that suggested the accommodation was a bit nicer than in reality.