by Lou-Ellen Barkan

The resort served dinner at eight in the main dining room. On our first night, Michael and I were the first ones seated. We were at a table facing the entrance, watching the other guests arrive.

‘So,” Michael asked, sipping his martini. ‘Which one is he?’

‘No idea. I never saw his face. I guess I might recognize him without his pants?” 

‘So maybe next time you’ll take the first cottage?”

“Definitely,” I lied. ‘From now on, the first room they give us.”

The truth is, I never take the first cottage or hotel room offered. 

When I travel alone on business, I ask a simple question that motivates the desk clerk to offer all the best rooms. 

‘Is this the room…” I always add my sweetest smile. “That you would give your mother? ‘I almost always get a choice of three rooms.

On vacation, I like to know all my options before I commit and Michael’s my set-up man. 

“Let’s have my wife see the room before we bring up the luggage,'” he says, sighing in that way that men do when they’ve learned to pick their battles. 

And that was exactly what Michael said this morning as we traveled in a golf cart to look at the resort’s cottages. I had promised to stop at three. Sadly, the first two were not to my taste. One was green, not good for my complexion. The second faced a brick wall. But the third was promising, with lovely pink shutters facing east to the morning sun. 

“I’ll wait in the cart,” Michael sighed. “Try to make this one work.”

I walked up a narrow path to the front door and put a key in the lock. The room was dark, blackout shades covering all windows. I reached for a light switch on the side of the door and heard a moan.  A bright overhead bulb lit up a cheerful pink room as a very tall, very thin, very naked man jumped out of bed. Based on the squirming shape under the bedcovers, I assumed he was not alone.

“What the…?” He yelled, “Who are you?”

Too embarrassed to look him in the eye, I drew my eyes downward. But on the way down, I couldn’t help noticing an impressive sexual organ that was fading rapidly.  

‘I’m so sorry,” I said, backing out, eyes still down. “Mistake was mine.”  I slammed the door and ran back to the cart. 

‘So?'” Michael asked. ‘”This one okay?”

“Nope.'” I laughed. “Occupied.” 

The resort made up for their error with an upgrade that included a private jacuzzi. I suggested that they do the same for Mr. Cottage, who after all, had been the most inconvenienced. 

At dinner, as Michael and I looked at the menu, sipped our martinis and watched the other guests stroll in, we were playing a game called “Is that the guy?” After a few rounds, the table next to ours had started to frown and point at us. 

Michael and I are very loud laughers.

Given the reaction to my unfortunate room invasion, I spent the week hoping that Mr. Cottage would not recognize me. To increase the odds of remaining anonymous, I retired the pants, shirt and jacket I wore on my cottage tour.  And I avoided all men over six feet. 

And no, I never did figure out who he was.