Room for Love

So in my former life, as I have mentioned, I traveled A LOT. Once I stopped being the newbie I got some primo clients in even better locales: Paris, Italy, Stockholm and the like. One night I am on a flight to Bologna and I am checking in ridiculously late to a boutique hotel where I have never stayed before.

For those of you who don't know me (and I am SO, SO thrilled that people who don't know me are actually reading this. Seriously, huge compliment. Yeah you! Thank you!), my name is Joy Love. Seriously. It is not a pseudonym, it is my birth name. I know, 9 months and my parents came up with Joy Love. No, they were not hippies (my mom's ode to the Summer of Love, I kid you not, was hoop earrings). And, for the record, my middle name is not Peace. I have heard that weekly since I was about 4 years old. It is no longer even worth a polite smile.

But back to the subject, I check into this very upscale, small hotel (it is important to the story, I am not simply bragging) saying "I have a room for Love." The elegant manager says discretely "Yes, ma'am, Room 217." "Uh, do I need a key or anything?" "No, ma'am, the door is unlocked."

Off I toodle in my heels, dragging my suitcase and laptop to Room 217. I find it odd but I assume that because it is a boutique hotel, perhaps they simply leave the keys in the door for late check-ins. I get to the door, which is ajar. I shove it open and there is a man in his underwear awaiting me (he is bikini underwear and a wife beater for the record. Ewwww!) He does not seem shocked but I am horrified. A million apologies, ohgawd, ohgawd, ohgawd.

Now I am no longer toodling down the hall, I am zooming. Back to the front desk with elegant manager man. "Uhhh, you did say Room 217, right?" {Why do women always assume it is their mistake, by the way?} "Yes, ma'am, 217." "There is already someone in that room. Can you check your book again?"

Now I have flustered Mr Elegance but I don't know why. He is as gracious as possible saying "Well, yes, of course, he is in the room waiting for you. That is how this kind of thing works." At this point my little dim light bulb goes off.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You think I am a hooker?"

Mr. Elegance has no idea how to respond (which, when I think about it, I did not leave him a graceful entrance. Sorry about that). I decide to be merciful and explain "My last name is Love. I have reservations."

I am now feeling so sorry for the manager that I am debating having a quickie with 217 to make everyone feel less awkward. Manager is completely flustered and beside himself. Dozens of apologies, his face is so red that I fear he might stroke out and he, clearly, can not regain his composure. I get from his random stammerings that a half hour before he had called the local call girl service (at least he did not think I was a run-of-the-mill street whore, I was upscale! BoNANza!), and requested a blond America for Mr 217.

Half an hour later, I waltz in as a blond American saying "I have a room for Love." I totally see the misunderstanding and am pretty amused by it. He can't get beyond the faux pas.

At this point, enter the hooker. I look at her and say "Room 217, he is waiting." She thanks me and moves on her merry way.

I get my room key, more apologies and all is well. The next day I got a beautiful bouquet of flowers with the best note ever. It read "Sorry I thought you were a whore, Madam Love."