An expat's firsthand account of one of San Jose's most legendary establishments, and what happened after its closure reshaped the city's nightlife.
The Del Ray's closure didn't end Costa Rica's sex tourism economy — it dispersed it, and any honest account of San Jose has to reckon with what that means for travelers.
Updated in March of 2026
Prostitution is legal in Costa Rica, and for decades the nation became known as a destination for sex tourism. One establishment in San Jose's downtown stood at the center of this phenomenon: the Hotel Del Ray. Once located at the corner of 1st Avenue and 9th Street, it operated as a hotel, casino, and gathering place for nearly four decades.
Michael Paladin, an expat living in Central America, documented his experiences at the Del Ray during its operating years. His account offers a candid window into how the establishment functioned and what drew visitors from around the world.
What follows is his account of a night at the Del Ray, followed by context about what happened to the property and how San Jose's nightlife has evolved since.
Gabriella sat across from me at the casino, her presence difficult to ignore. Long black hair, blue eyes, a petite frame accented by an outfit that left little room for subtlety. We'd been exchanging glances for about an hour, me at the roulette table, she at blackjack. After a few Flor de Canas rums, I folded a blue 10,000 colon note into a paper airplane shape and sent it her direction. She looked down, smiled, cashed in her chips, and within moments was beside me at the table.
"Do I bring you luck?" she asked, moving closer. The roulette wheel spun. Drinks arrived. Conversations flowed in Spanish and English, punctuated by the sounds of chips changing hands and cards being dealt. She leaned in, whispered suggestions about what the evening might hold. Her approach was professional, her manner warm.
"What would you like to do tonight?" she asked in slightly accented English. I had come to the Del Ray as a researcher, an observer, someone interested in documenting how this place functioned. But I was also a man, and she was, by any standard, exceptionally attractive. I finished my drink.
The Del Ray During Its Peak Years
The Hotel Del Ray was a seven-story building painted in bright pink, topped with signage visible from blocks away. Its architecture was unremarkable, but its reputation preceded it. Twenty-four hours a day, the lobby and casino areas hosted a steady stream of visitors and workers. At any hour, you'd find women in the casino, the bars, and the waiting areas scattered throughout the property—professionals working shifts, part-timers looking to supplement income, and those simply present for the social aspect and access to money-spending clients.
Located at 1st Avenue and 9th Street in downtown San Jose, the Del Ray operated as both a legitimate hotel and casino with rooms, restaurants, bars, and gaming tables. The property boasted 108 rooms, each with a hand-carved mahogany door, bathroom, and furnishings that ranged from basic to comfortable. Across from the main entrance stood the Del Mar restaurant, serving both guests and walk-in diners. The Key Largo bar, more intimate in scale, operated on the same floor with its own clientele and live music.
The casino itself operated with roulette tables, blackjack, and card games throughout the day and night. Free drinks were served to players at the roulette wheel—a strategy to keep people seated and engaged. The ratio of women to men visitors was heavily skewed, often exceeding 10 to 1. Most of the women present were sex workers, legally operating under Costa Rica's laws permitting prostitution. In order to work at the property, they were required to carry medical identification and health certificates.
The women working at the Del Ray came from various backgrounds and regions. Many were Ticas—Costa Rican nationals. Others were from Colombia, known for their beauty and distinctive styling. The variety in appearance was deliberate: different body types, different looks, different styles of dress. Tight pants and low-cut blouses were the uniform of the day. Prices for services typically ranged from $75 to $100 per hour, with overnight rates commanding a premium since they removed workers from the floor. These rates were negotiable depending on time of day, demand, and the worker's individual pricing strategy.
The layout of the property encouraged circulation and interaction. The main entrance on 9th Street opened into a lobby area with chairs, tables, and bar seating—described informally as "the outfield." Deeper into the property sat the card tables and roulette wheel near the cashier and hotel desk. The Blue Marlin Bar, positioned above and behind the roulette area, served as the most active gathering point, packed with women and clients at nearly all hours. A live video feed from the bar was broadcast on the hotel's website, allowing potential visitors to view the action in real time.
The logistics were straightforward. Workers and visitors circulated through multiple "waiting areas" around the property—stationed strategically so potential clients could observe and be approached. When a transaction was agreed upon, couples would take a special elevator to the upper floors. The hotel charged $5 for the elevator ride itself. Rooms on the interior side and above the third floor were recommended to minimize street noise from San Jose's downtown, which could be considerable depending on the hour. ATM machines dispensing both dollars and colones were positioned on the ground floor.
Room rates during those operating years ranged from $80 to $120 USD per night, plus tax. The hotel accepted reservations online and maintained front desk staff during all hours. The Del Mar restaurant's kitchen also served room service, making it possible to order food at any hour—cheeseburgers and beer at midnight were a common pairing. The mini-bar stocked both beverages and items like condoms and lubricant, available for purchase. As one might expect in such an establishment, transaction-focused services were everywhere.
The Closure and What Followed
The Hotel Del Rey's final days arrived in 2023. Costa Rican tax authorities closed the property due to unpaid tax obligations. The closure marked the end of an era for San Jose's downtown nightlife. For nearly four decades, the Del Ray had operated with a distinctive openness about its purpose—no euphemisms, no pretense. Unlike many establishments that operate in legal gray areas, the Del Ray made no secret of what it was and what happened there.
John Clark Emerson, the co-founder and longtime owner known locally as "Big John," passed away in July 2023. His death marked a symbolic endpoint for an institution he had built and maintained for decades. Emerson's role in the property's operation cannot be overstated—his personality and business practices had shaped the Del Ray's unique culture. Without him, the property's future became uncertain even before the tax authorities took action.
San Jose's nightlife landscape has evolved since the Del Ray's closure. The city's downtown strip continues to function as an adult entertainment district, but the industry has become more fragmented. Workers and clients who patronized the Del Ray dispersed to other establishments scattered across the city. Some bars and hotels in the downtown area have attempted to fill the void, though none have achieved the Del Ray's particular blend of openness, organization, and reputation for safety.
What made the Del Ray distinctive was not just its scale or visibility, but its structure. Most sex work in most places operates in a distributed, dispersed manner—workers advertising online, meeting clients through apps, or working from independent locations. The Del Ray consolidated workers and clients into one location with explicit operational systems: the elevator charges, the medical card requirements, the floor layouts designed to facilitate interaction and transactions. This centralization created clarity—both for workers about rules and safety, and for clients about what to expect.
In the years since the closure, Costa Rica's approach to sex work regulation has continued to evolve. The Tico government has grappled with questions about how to handle the industry—how to protect workers, prevent trafficking, and manage tourism that arrives specifically for adult services. The model represented by the Del Ray, with its all-in-one infrastructure and consistent operations, is unlikely to return. Legal and social pressures favor a more distributed, less visible approach.
For travelers interested in understanding San Jose's social history and nightlife culture, the closure of the Del Ray represents a turning point. The property stood as perhaps the most transparent, institutionalized version of sex tourism infrastructure ever built. What made it effective—its scale, its central location, its explicit organization—also made it controversial. It operated at the intersection of Costa Rican law (which permitted prostitution), American tourism culture, and local San Jose business interests.
Michael Paladin's account of his night at the Del Ray—the encounter with Gabriella, the roulette table, the drinks, the casual conversation and eventual transaction—captures something real about how the place functioned for certain visitors. It was not seedy or dangerous in the conventional sense. Workers were present by choice, operating under a legal framework, with access to health screening and property management. Clients navigated a system with clear prices, clear expectations, and clear boundaries. Transactions occurred in rooms with locks on doors, with front desk staff aware of who was where.
That does not mean the Del Ray was uncomplicated or that everyone's experience matched the narrative Paladin describes. Workers depended on steady client flow for income, which created power imbalances. Substance use affected judgment on multiple sides of transactions. The legal framework, while permissive by international standards, still left workers vulnerable in certain ways. The property attracted clients from across the spectrum of motivations and intentions.
What is clear, as of 2026, is that the Del Ray belongs to history. The building stands empty in downtown San Jose, a relic of a particular era in both the city's development and in how sex tourism operated in Central America. Emerson's death and the tax closure combined to end an institution that had outlasted most observers' expectations. The women who worked there have found other venues or other work. The clients seeking those services have found other establishments or other methods. San Jose's nightlife continues, but without the focal point that the Del Ray provided.
For those interested in the social and cultural history of Costa Rica, the story of the Del Ray merits reflection. It serves as a case study in how legal frameworks, business operations, tourism culture, and social change intersect. It illustrates both the possibilities and the limitations of regulated vice. It demonstrates how a single institution, operated by a distinctive personality, can shape a city's reputation and economy.
Michael Paladin's account captures a moment in time—his moment, at a roulette table, in a pink hotel in downtown San Jose, with a woman and a rum drink and the possibility of an evening that would lead somewhere. It is that encounter, and thousands like it, that made the Del Ray what it was. And it is the absence of those encounters, the silencing of the Blue Marlin Bar, the closure of the special elevator, that defines what San Jose has become in the years since.