When traveling in Spain, it’s not unusual to see crumbling homes. They dot the countryside and leave you wondering who they belong to and how they ended up in such ruins. But don’t assume that they’re abandoned and be weary if you dare to venture into one. We made that very mistake and were startled by what we found.

Riding home from Murcia, a beautiful city an hour south of Torrevieja, we spotted such a house. They’re often way off in the distance, surrounded by empty fields—this one was right by the side of the road, close enough to see a For Sale sign and a number graffitied on the home wall. Since our latest business idea involves a rural house, we decided to stop and take a look.

We drove the scooter down a small side street, parked on the side of the house, and walked around to the back where we were surprised to see a car in much better condition than that of the house. Thinking that it might actually be inhabited and no longer too confident in the age-old sign, we hesitated in going further. But when a well-dressed man exited the building and didn’t run us off his property, we decided to inquire whether it was, indeed, for sale.

The man declared that it was not and wondered how we got that idea. When David told him about the graffiti on the wall, he went to see for himself. That seemed to jog his memory and, suddenly he started to tell his story.

He recalled how the owner of the property had wanted to sell it two years ago before the real estate crash for 240,000 euros. The house was still for sale, and he was just the tenant –well, the squatter, really. Because, although he had paid 750 euros a month for four years, he had stopped paying altogether in the fifth. Furthermore, he blatantly and shamelessly confessed that he didn’t have any plans to pay further.

What? Stopped paying altogether? No plans to pay further? He proceeded to make a quick calculation and declared that since he had paid rent for four years he would require 40,000 euros to vacate the premises. What in the world?! I had never heard of such a thing! And then came his sales pitch: This small fee would be in addition to the home sale price, but he assured us that the house would now cost less than 240,000 considering the bad economy and the fact that the owner was most likely in a desperate state since she lost her husband seven months ago. The story was only getting worse!

He seemed pleased with us—potential buyers who practically dropped out of the sky to land at his doorstep—and seemed eager to not miss out on this golden opportunity to make mucho deniro off of his rented property. He gave us an extensive tour of the outside and we marveled at the amount of land that went along with the house. It needed major landscaping and the additional buildings that came with the house were also in need of work, but David put his imagination into overdrive and somehow liked what he saw. But what we hadn’t yet seen was the inside of the house, and I wondered if the tenant/squatter intended to show us that. It seemed kind of weird that he would only show us the outside when usually the logical place to start would be the inside, but it also seemed weird that such a well-dressed man driving a nice car would be living in such ruins, and I decided it was better to not invade his privacy.

After touring the grounds, it seemed as though we were wrapping up the conversation when suddenly he asked if we wanted to see the inside. Well, okay, we might as well. We were here already, and I was curious what these "abandoned" buildings look like on the inside. He opened the door, pushed open a curtain and we were instantly submerged in darkness. Day had become night and suddenly I realized that this house was not a house at all. It might be falling down, but it was by no means abandoned. It was this guy’s lair, and, as the curtain closed behind us, I quickly felt unsettled. I rapidly sized up my surroundings: A bar ran along the entire length of each side. The room was empty except for one girl sitting on a bar stool. I was curious to see more but resisted the urge to gawk.

The tour continued. Straight ahead past the bar we soon reached the rooms. There was nothing in them, no decoration, no paint—only beds. The setting was depressing, there wasn’t much to see, but I realize now that I should have just been grateful that I didn’t see more.

In fact, our innocent stop at the abandoned house on the side of the road had led us straight to a nightclub. I’d heard about the nightclubs here. In fact, I’d seen the outside of one the day that I arrived and we were driving back from the airport. They’re ostentatious and loud and can’t be missed. Fortunately, David was there to explain to my sister and me that nightclubs are not the nightclubs that we know. They’re not places where you drink and dance and spend a fun evening among friends. Instead, they’re places where guys go with a wad of cash to spend an evening with women.

These prostitution houses are completely legal and there’s no shortage of them in the area. There’s also no shortage of woman standing or sitting along desolate stretches of highway. At first, I wondered why these women choose these spots to lay out, but then I found out that these women are not working on their tans but simply just working. These types of prostitutes are illegal and often come from Eastern Europe. Needless to say, from the moment I found out what a nightclub translated into in Spanish, I had assumed that I would never enter into one. Now, I see exactly how wrong I was in my assumption.

Not only have I visited one, but I’ve been given a personal tour by the pimp, himself, the ruler of this nightclub. And now I understand that nightclubs come in all shapes, sizes and conditions. The pimp had rented the location five years ago, after a small white lie to the owner that he intended to open a restaurant, and instead opened a profitable nightclub. Worst of all, Spanish laws protect the tenant after a year of habitation and, unless she wanted to fork out major dough, the poor widow was essentially powerless to get this non-paying tenant off her property. (David could only sign an 11-month lease for our apartment, and I’ve heard that many landlords find it easier to find new tenants every 11 months than sacrifice their property to the whims of irresponsible tenants.)

Later, when sharing the story with David’s family, we got surprising reactions. David’s dad was so convinced that we had inadvertently met one of his cousins that he asked us for a description of the guy and the location—and even had David call the guy back. As a gypsy, David’s dad has family everywhere. But because gypsies are such nomads, he has lost track of many of them. The answer was no, and I let out a huge sigh of relief.

Meanwhile, David’s uncle immediately knew of the dilapidated house on the side of the non-descript road and proceeded to tell us that that particular portion of that highway is known in the region for its activities involving prostitution. Wow, who knew?! When opening a business, I have always heard that location is important, but this experience emphasized just how important location really is—and just how incapable we still are of picking the right one. Since David and I are complete newcomers to the area, we are vulnerable to such mishaps. Fortunately, we have family to help guide the way and set us back on course whenever necessary. And while the location slid down the list in regards to having the most potential, it definitely topped the list as being the most interesting one seen thus far.

Sara Wilson is currently working as a freelance writer and lives in Torrevieja, Spain with her husband. She has kept a record of her adventures living abroad which you can find here or on her blog: http://sarawilson.wordpress.com. Contact her directly at wilson.sara@gmail.com.