‘Goodmorning roomservice, this is Jet speaking. How may I help you?’

‘Goodmorning. A continental breakfast with two eggs sunny side up, please.’

‘Of course, sir. Would you like to have tea or coffee with it?’

‘Tea please.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. It will come right away.’

I immediately knew who it was. It was already buzzing through the halls that he was sleeping in room 44. And I indeed had room 44 on the phone. I saw that on the screen. With trembling knees, I ordered his breakfast in the kitchen.

Okay, now think carefully. How do I knock? What should I say? Do I look at him or not? Why am I wearing such a - not very flattering - gray staff outfit? The vest is actually a bit too tight, the trousers a bit too loose, and my Ecco shoes with a small heel are comfortable, but they have never been outside this hotel for a reason.

I lifted my floppy horse cake one more time and stepped into the elevator with a large tray full of toast, jam, a croissant, cheese, ham, fresh juice, cornflakes, milk, and the eggs sunny side up. You could hear the teaspoon trembling on the saucer. The elevator doors opened and I walked to room 44. There I set the tray down on the floor, knocked, and cleared my throat: ‘Goodmorning roomservice’. The red rose to my head, even before he opened the door. Ten seconds later he was there: out of bed look hair, baggy, gray sweatpants. White T-shirt with a few holes here and there, but that was how it was supposed to be, I noticed immediately.

‘Goodmorning, come in.’

Holy F, come in? Sweat was on my back, the hair on my neck became damp, I was still bright red and I dared to look at him for exactly one second. It is customary to explain what is on the tray, but I forgot that. I really forgot everything. I barely dared to ask for a scribble on the bill. That was my encounter with mister Mayer. John Mayer. The whole rest of the day I was on a pink cloud. I think he was a little less.

Now that I no longer work in hospitality, I am even more eager to come as a guest in hotel bars. It always feels like you are briefly abroad. It has a vacation-like quality, something magical and something chic. I don't go there weekly, you know, it is usually also terribly expensive and it has to remain special. The bar of The Dylan Hotel in Amsterdam is my favorite, of course also because I saw John Mayer there. just out of bed In The Dylan, it feels a bit like coming home for me. In winter tea by the fireplace and in summer lunch in the courtyard. Or a cocktail at the bar, of course. Joost and Frank are the best shakers in the city. I don't even have to say what I want, they know it. Having a drink with them is almost nicer than getting a new pair of shoes. Oops, did I say that?