You're probably seeking a good deal, a place solely for a night's rest. The price is enticingly low, almost the cost of two rooms at another motel. The online images seemed satisfactory, and the businesslike man on the phone secured your reservation. With a contented sigh, you relish the savings and anticipate the charm of the retro neon SANDS sign. As you head to bed, thoughts of the quaint motel and your thrifty decision lull you to sleep with a faint smile. However, upon arrival, the alluring glow of the SANDS sign fades. The front office, more of a storage closet, hints that your economical choice from last month might have been a misstep. Remembering the other appealing motels you passed, you question the extent of this mistake. It turns out to be worse than anticipated. The air smells of antiquity, and the distant tunes from a scratchy radio echo through the corridors, whisking you back to a bygone era. This place seems like a business where profits aren’t reinvested. The image that comes to mind is someone squeezing an orange for its juice, then relentlessly crushing it to extract every last drop, leaving the rind a messy pulp. That’s precisely what this motel feels like. To add to the dismay, the continental breakfast turns out to be waffles and juice next door at the Coronado. The torn and stained beds, absence of microwaves except in the front office, paper-thin blankets necessitating a perpetually low, noisy AC, and the overall dirt and dilapidation all remind you that this is indeed the town’s cheapest stay.