This is an excerpt from the Going East book that I’m working on. The descriptions are not of a specific hotel, but rather a composite of from our experiences staying in several love hotels over a week in May 2009 as we were riding across South Korea.

As I work on the Going East Book, I will share more stories of our travels. Subscribe to have the latest stories delivered directly to your inbox.

Beneath the coloured fluorescent lights, reminiscent of Las Vegas, we pull into the parking lot of a love hotel. The entrance is draped with heavy curtains, shielding our arrival from prying eyes. Around us, cars sit parked in neat rows, their licence plates concealed by wooden signs bearing the hotel’s name—a discreet touch for a place designed for anonymity. Here, guests stay for an hour, two, or the night, but no one ever knows they were here. No names are taken at reception. Payment is in cash.

I step off the bike and head inside to inquire about a room. The reception area is dimly lit, the air thick with secrecy. A glass window separates me from the receptionist, its top half blacked out. Only her lips are visible as she speaks. I pull out my guidebook and recite the phrase asking for the price of a room for the night. She responds with a rate—affordable for a pair of cycle tourists on a tight budget. I ask to see the room.

She steps out through a side door and leads me to an elevator. The hallways are bathed in low, moody lighting, heightening the sense of invisibility. The elevator is small—I already know it will take two trips to get our bikes upstairs.

As the doors slide open on our floor, I spot a vending machine. Alongside the usual drinks and candy bars, there are flavoured condoms, lube, and dildos—an unexpected inventory for a vending machine, but fitting for the setting.

She unlocks the room and switches on the lights. Suddenly, brightness floods the space—the first well-lit place in the entire hotel. The room is clean, with a jacuzzi tub and a large TV. It carries the signature tackiness of love hotels: mirrors on the ceiling, a coffee machine and glasses beside a small microwave, and an ultraviolet disinfecting machine—useful for keeping cups clean, but also, I imagine, for other items. I’ll let you fill in the blanks. Most importantly, the room is spacious enough for our bikes, removing one more worry from our night. “We’ll take it,” I tell her. It’s perfect.

We first learned about love hotels from a fellow cycle tourist. He documented his adventures on CrazyGuyOnABike, a website filled with travelogues from cyclists around the world. The hotels may be kitschy, but they’re clean and affordable—two words that are music to the ears of budget-conscious cyclists.

Love hotels exist in Korea due to the country’s historical “mistress culture,” where extramarital affairs, though discreet, were widely accepted. They also serve another purpose: in a society where young adults often live with their parents until marriage, love hotels provide a space for privacy.

We settle in for the night, each taking a long, hot shower to wash away the day’s sweat and fatigue. The bed is comfortable, the room is quiet, and we sleep peacefully. In the morning, we pack up and hit the road again, recharged and ready for whatever comes next.