When you arrive at Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport, there will be a man with a sign waiting. He will take your bags and usher you into the limousine and whisk you away to your destination on the Las Vegas Strip. When you arrive, you won’t have to tip him or pay for the ride. That’s all included in the $19 you are paying for your room.
Nineteen dollars.
The Tod Motor Motel is a youth hostel whose only advertising so far is word of mouth. The online buzz it gets from adventurous backpackers from across the globe is priceless PR. “Clean, friendly and helpful”; “The best hostel”; and “I give them 100 marks. Perfect!” are some of the variations you can easily find by punching its name into Google.
And judging by the easy, relaxed faces smiling around the sparkling blue pool, you’d never guess that this location, with its cheerful five-dollar movie and barbecue nights, was once one of the most sordid and notorious places in town.
“Worst ever,” reads an old review from one hapless traveler. “If you are looking for crack and other assorted drugs this is the place for you. Dangerous for children.”
This person disputed the charge on their credit card statement.
Not only was Tod dangerous, it was also forgotten by law enforcement. Police officers, aware that the former owners had long since gone down a road of compliance with drug trafficking and prostitution, had given up responding to calls in the area. There was nothing left for them to do but make a perfunctory show of faith by cruising the area once or twice a night.
So when Ran Tadmor, a local real estate agent with a penchant for taking risks, saw that the landmark property was up for sale in 2005—with its gloriously kitschy 1962 neon sign still intact—he ignored the tales of urban warfare and asked his wife if she’d be interested in purchasing the property as an investment.
“I’ve worked at a lot of different construction properties, and I thought I was pretty crusty. But not like this!” Carol Tadmor says, flipping back a wisp of blond hair. “I said to myself, no one’s even going to get out of the car. Especially a woman.”
But now it’s a family affair.
Ran and Carol’s daughter, Sarah, works the front desk. The 20-year-old warmly greets the international soup of backpackers that pours in, sometimes by the dozen, looking for the refuge that they booked online probably only 24 or 48 hours in advance.
Her ex-boyfriend is the maintenance man. His friend is the chauffeur.
And Bingwa is an international traveler and actor who has reportedly starred in Budweiser commercials. When he arrived at Tod 9 years ago, it was on a trip through town. “It was the worst crack motel on the Strip,” he says. “I don’t know why I came back, but when I did Ran was here. I liked him, so we talked, and I gave him the idea of putting together a youth hostel.”
Bingwa knew how travelers want to be treated. He cuts coupons for food and show-ticket deals and gives them to backpackers. He arranges tours for them to the Grand Canyon, which is where they are usually en route to. “Grand Canyon, Yosemite, San Diego. That’s what they really want to see,” he says.
He thought up the idea of movie and barbecue nights, and as a former bartender, added cocktails. “You have your choice of chicken, beef or sausage with the barbecue. And you get a margarita, martini or champagne depending on the night. We do it three times a week.”
Tadmor was initially worried about the weekly tenants that they had evicted returning for retribution on movie nights. He thought he might have to use the 9mm he wears in his waistband for protection. “My job is to keep the peace,” he says. “But amazingly, they came in clean shirts; some women even put on lipstick. And they helped close down everything at the end of the evening.”
Mark, a well-dressed man who showed up, and calls Tadmor his “angel,” was once a weekly tenant. “I call him an angel. He lifted up the people that wanted to be lifted up, and graciously helped out people that needed to move on. He’s one of my best friends. An extraordinary individual right there.”
Tadmor, originally from Israel, says the young travelers need a “mom and pop” while they’re staying in the city of sin.
The rooms, which were once rented hourly, have been completely refurnished with furniture from the Stardust. The cracks in the pool have been mended. The iron grate across the face of the building has been removed in order to tone down its “hostile appearance.”
The vibe has changed. “There used to be drive-ups. The drug dealers would stand in the bathtubs and sell drugs out of the bathroom window. The bottom floors were the most requested rooms,” Tadmor says.
With help from the mayor and the city council, Tadmor closed off the alleys leading into the motel. The back of the property is exclusively a youth hostel, and the front is for less budget-conscious travelers who look for individual suites.
“You don’t have to lock your room. If you don’t lock your car nothing’s going to end up missing. And now the businesses around are benefitting from it. The lady next door at Dino’s can use her trash cans again. They used to be assigned, each of them, to a bum.”
Carol Tadmor believes that it’s her husband’s attitude—not his gun—that has helped transform the area.
“One of his favorite movies is Road House. And when we first started out, he brought all our kids into a room and said, ‘We’re going to treat everyone with dignity.’ He has a personality, this real heart for the homeless and people who are down on their luck. And sometimes he goes a little beyond what normal people would do—what I would do in most cases—but he wanted to give everyone respect, and I think you’ll find that we do that.”
“Opportunity came, and I took it,” Tadmor says. “We’re building something. People do talk about the money, but the money to me is really unimportant. It’s important to pay the bills, but I believe we’re doing something for the community and for the Vegas name. It was rough in this area. You couldn’t walk at night; now there’s foot traffic. People from all over the world, leaving positive reviews.”
A limo pulls up, and a gaggle of Uruguayan girls pops out. They don’t speak English, but the staff at Tod communicates with them and directs them to their room.
“We bring them to all the clubs. We even sometimes get them a bottle of wine for their table,” Carol says.
“Hostels don’t address the needs of kids, because of the low amount they pay for rooms,” Tadmor says. “They just brush them off. We’re picking them up, dropping them off and making sure they are safe and having a good time.”
From a business point of view, he adds, it also makes sense. “It’s an affordable strategy and much more profitable. This business is all about referrals,” he says. “But this area wasn’t intended for the bad crowd to take over.”
Sabrina Golmassian is a local freelance writer.