I want to see what the mood is like in the motel bedrooms.
I pick the one with the most people gathered outside the entrance.

Good afternoon, sir. Sir? Hey—hi, sorry if I’m bothering you. Are you the owner?
Look, could I shoot a portrait of you, and afterwards you tell me something about yourself and your products?

He nods. Great. Then I’ll wait for you inside your room. In the meantime, I think I can change the roll of film I just finished.

Suddenly, a woman appears from behind a curtain. She’s cooking huge sausages in a tiny frying pan on a mini camping stove—inside what looks like the bedroom closet. Oh God.

I immediately think how unlucky I am to be stuck in the middle of changing this stupid roll. It would have been a smashing photo—her and those sausages among the crystals. God, I miss digital.

Are you the owner’s wife? I ask. Where do you guys come from?
She doesn’t understand—or speak—a word of English.

In a flash, the husband comes in. We clearly have to hurry.
What? Which stone? There’s no time! Is this a good spot for your photo? Come on!

Listen, can you at least give me a business card? I’ll send you the picture.
Nope. There’s no time. Click—he’s gone.

Senhorita, você gostaria de um pouco de linguiça?
Do you want some sausage? asks his wife, in Portuguese.