Maybe In My Younger Days...

It’s about 6 p.m. and we’ve just unpacked. The sun is heading for the horizon when Ann and I arrive poolside for a cocktail at the swim-up bar of the Premiere Hotel and Spa in Puerto Vallarta.

Lesson number one: at this time of day, leftover stragglers tend to be obnoxiously drunk married American men. (I’d be more explicit about the conversation we had with these guys, but Ann’s husband may read this and never let her travel with me again).

Luckily, a hotel manager type drifts over and makes these losers see the wisdom in calling it a day.

The next morning, we spot said hotel manager type having breakfast with an older woman who works in the boutique. (Pay attention, this info will come in handy).

Later, Ann and I visit the swim-up bar again (I think they’ve officially christened it Ann and Randy’s Bar) when hotel manager type wanders over and relieves our bartender of his duties and begins serving us himself. Milan, his name is, and he’s a 34-year-old Goran Ivanisovich lookalike from Serbia. (Okay, I think Goran is Croatian, but let’s not quibble). Anyway, Milan is oh-so-charming as he gets our drinks, responds to our questions about what has brought him to PV and says, that yes, the woman we saw him with is his wife.

Finally, we drag ourselves to our room to change for dinner but minutes later there’s a knock at the door. I open it to reveal a waiter carrying a tray with an ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne plus two glasses. “Compliments of Milan,” he tells us.

Delighted, we pop the cork, pour out the bubbly and continue primping.

Rrrrring. I pick up the phone. “How are you enjoying the champagne?” Milan asks. I offer my appreciation, and he asks if he can join us for a glass.

Ding, ding, ding. Warning bells go off in my mind, but ever-the-gracious accepter of free booze, I say, “Of course. Come on up.”

Milan arrives (we are dressed!) and within minutes, he is asking us to dance. Um, what? Dance? In our room? He asks about our plans for the evening, and I tell him we’re having dinner at the Jazz Bistro. He suggests we order another bottle of champagne and hang out in the room instead.

DING, DING, DING. WHAT?!? Do we look that desperate?

Ann asks if this is a part of his job and he responds, simply, “Yes.”

I politely insist we’re not interested in hanging out in the room (I avoid mentioning we’re also not interested in having sex with him), and he goes on his way (although Ann and I notice he heads not for the elevator, but toward another room—maybe in search of another “desperate housewife”???)

Guess I’m not as worldly as I think, ‘cuz I must confess I’m still confused about this little episode. Which of us did he think would be more likely to accept his “offer”—Ann, who wears a very noticeable wedding ring? Or, me—the single gal? Or, (gulp) both of us? And, if this “service” is indeed a part of his job, does that mean it was included in the price of the room? Or, would there have been an extra “service charge” added to our tab?