On our recent trip to the Bahamas, Bibi, Sri and I were having coffee and talking, as we do for at least ten minutes a day, about how disgusting Larry is. During our chat, I noticed that a man standing a few feet from our table, eating an ice cream cone. He had a look about him I know well: the look of someone who is not from here - or there - or anywhere in particular, but everywhere.* He was working hard at hearing every word we said while attempting to have every appearance of not doing so. After ten minutes of this, I turned and gestured that he might as well go ahead and take the fourth seat at our table.
We told him about Larry. He responded appropriately, was shocked and amazed, etc.
He was from Ecuador, but explained that he was half Austrian, which accounted for the unique accent and startling blue eyes. Rodrigo was his name. He was in the Bahamas for the summer, doing construction work on a hotel renovation -- ours, as it turned out. When we told him we were staying in the recently completed wing, he looked thrilled.
"I worked on that hotel!" he said. "I was in every room. What side are you on?"
"Ocean side," said Sri. Sri was doing what she does when she likes a man, shrugging her shoulders and pressing her hands demurely into her lap. So cute.
"Ah," said Rodrigo. "What room number?"
We all hesitated, even Sri. But finally, Bibi said "553."
"Ah," said Rodrigo. "I see. Well, it was very difficult to renovate. Watch out for the ceiling. It leaks."
We didn't really know what to say at that point. The room was in perfect post-reno condition. We changed the subject... and I took Rodrigo's phone number so that we could all go out for drinks, and uh, whatever else, later.
Fast forward twelve hours.
We tried, about ten times, to call Rodrigo, but he never answered. We went out. We stopped at the casino and spent $20 apiece on the slot machines so we could drink for "free" for an hour. Then we took a cab to "Fish Fry" for dinner (and ate, obviously, fried fish) before walking down to Senor Frogs to find us some trouble and get right in it. Sri was a bit disappointed re: Rodrigo, but we DID meet three Turkish pro-soccer players, measuring VERY appropriately, who bought us drinks all night and threw us around the dance floor until we were all exhausted, sweaty and giddy with tequila goodness.
A successful evening, in other words.
Fast forward to 9am, Sunday morning. In case you missed it, I woke up to this:
Now... here's the thing. OF COURSE the night before involved a lot of tequila. OF COURSE it is possible that I just somehow ended up with a party horn in my bag. But dammit, I don't believe that, and niether should you. The fact is, when we got back to the hotel that night/early morning, I spent ten minutes going through my bag looking for a Tylenol (pre-emptive strike, re: hangover). I can therefore assure you, reader, that the party horn was NOT THERE when I went to bed.
Additional data: Bibi awakened to find that her running shoes, which had been on the floor next to the dresser, were absolutely soaking wet. There was nothing ELSE wet in the entire room. It was literally as if someone had come into the room, filled up a glass of water and dumped it on Bibi's sneakers - and then repeated the process about nine times. Because only the sneakers and a small circumference of the carpet around the sneakers, were wet.
Additional data, part two: Sri awakened to find, beaded up on her comforter like rain on a newly waxed car, three or four drops of what appeared to be milk/half and half/whatever.
Grossed out yet? Disturbed? Weeping silently, perhaps?
Because we were.
There is NO earthly explanation for these events. NONE. I did not wake up in the middle of the night, sleep walk into the bathroom, pour nine glasses of water on Bibi's shoes, hijack and car, go into town, somehow find an all night quickie-mart that just happens to be selling party horns (and pinatas, for all I know) drive back to the hotel, stop in the kitchen for a thimble-full of half and half, come back to the room, tuck the horn in my bag, and dribble the contents of the thimble onto Sri's bed. And, no, my friends didn't pull that caper either.
The only conclusion to be reached is that someone, probably Rodrigo, was in our room while we were asleep. Why he chose to do what he did, instead of, say, murdering us, is God's own private joke with himself. We will NEVER get it.
However, if you are thinking we'd let a little issue like wet sneakers, half and half and a (green, shiny) party horn keep us out of the Bahamas in the future, you're totally wrong. We had a great vacation. So much so that we are planning another one - perhaps not to the Bahamas next time - soon. And of course, it will be recapped here.
* to get this look, be multi-racial, travel a lot, speak several languages, and be unsure yourself where exactly it is you consider "home." (sidebar: I like this look an awful lot.)