Ensenada, Baja California is about 40 miles south of the Mexican border.  Visits there date my first fascination with the giant peninsula to the south.

I was recruited by a couple of buddies because I had an automobile, a 1939 business coupe, which frequently caught fire under the instrument panel.  Being appalled by the hideous crib conditions in Tijuana, they wanted to try the more humane brothel in Ensenada.  That house was large, clean, private, and cheap.  Its troupe of women were healthier and apparently more happy.  Traffic was far reduced at the secluded location — even on weekends there were only a few cars around the place.

The pavement terminated abruptly at Tijuana's city limit.  The road was seldom-graded gravel that ran along cliffs and beaches of the Pacific Ocean.  A couple of places required care to avoid plummeting to your death.  Ensenada had only a few buildings, homes and small shops, and these were dark at night.  The brothel was the only place open.  It sprawled like a rambling motel in the Southwest, as constructions in desolate places do.  Federal control was not exercised over land use or occupancy here, and the location was probably by accident of a long-gone squatter.  Maybe water; fresh water is frequently an influence on site selection.

A three-foot adobe wall protected a large yard, the size of a football field, from vehicle traffic, suggesting that we should park alongside the dirt road.  A single electric bulb, hanging from a tall pole, lit the compound.  There were no features other than a park bench just inside a foot gate, leaving the lonesome lamp to dimly illuminate a stark hard-packed plain.  Only a few windows showed a glow of occupancy.  The ladies generally waited at the bench, chewing gum or smoking and talking among themselves.  Prospective customers were allowed to enter and deal with the women directly.  After arrangements were made, the selected couple sauntered the long way to her room and disappeared through a shadowy doorway.

Contrasting the bordello in Ensenada with Tijuana, the women appeared to control their own destiny.  I saw no sign of a madam or housemaster, although they could exist with a low profile.  I was led to believe that some sort of house police or bouncers existed.

The woman would examine her partner carefully for signs of infection and then bath him with soap and warm water, enough to make short work of a young man.  Should a suspicion of VD be detected, the lady would insist on, and provide, a condom.  Apparently, no customer was turned away on that account.  The linen was always fresh.  Afterward, the male was again hand washed if he wished, a nice touch not normally expected but a policy at this place.  The standard price was three dollars or ten for all night, not negotiable.

My first time there, from ignorance, I entered with my friends, stood around while they dickered, and was approached by a couple of women.  The truth is that I had recently (for the umpteenth time) struggled with my conservative moral standard, concerning just such matters, and declined their services.  I figure that sex is expensive but a friend is free.  For a woman, the opposite might be true, sex is free and a friend expensive.  Or perhaps everyone is different in that judgment.  I realize that I have broken a promise, made earlier, that I would avoid philosophical discussion.

Anyway, Rosette (it had a French, rather than Spanish, flavor) invited me to sit with her on the wall because only customers were allowed within.  She wished to practice English and I picked up a little Spanish.  To begin, I told her of an acquaintance, Rosetta Topper.  I made out that Rosie was a dear friend to justify the otherwise pointless association.  Soon, we were swapping political and geographic notes.  I told her what I knew of California.

When I wondered what lay to the south, she explained, "Del todo nada . . . Misión de Santo Tomás está all."

(Todo nada . . . entirely nothing)  "This road?" I guessed.

"No, el término . . . end?  Road end aqui."

"How far is Aqui?" I wondered, having mistaken aqui for a place name.  I was already planning a weekend walkabout.

"Aqui mean now?"  Frustrated, she jumped to the roadside, stamped her foot, and pointed down, "Road, camino, end Ciudad Ensenada."

"Ah, aqui means here."  We both picked up a new word.  I went on, "No camino to el misión?"  I wanted her to show me the path but she declined to leave her station.  She, however, pointed to the shop where the road abruptly stopped and indicated that the trail was behind and beyond.

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