‘Good morning room service, this is Jet speaking. How may I help you?’

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

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

‘Tea, please.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. It’s on its way.’

I immediately knew who it was for. It had been buzzing in the hallways that he slept in room 44. And indeed, it was room 44 calling. I could see it on the screen. Knees shaking, I went to the kitchen to order his breakfast.

Okay, now think. How should I knock? What should I say? Should I look at him or not? And why am I wearing this grey and minimally flattering staff outfit? The waistcoat is a bit too tight, trousers rather wide, and my Ecco shoes with a small heel are very comfortable, but they haven’t left the hotel for a very good reason.

I pulled up my limp pony tail and got in the lift with a big tray with toast, jam, a croissant, cheese, ham, fresh orange juice, cornflakes, milk, and eggs sunny side up. You could hear the teaspoon tinkle on the saucer. The lift doors opened and I went over to room 44. I placed the tray on the floor, knocked and cleared my throat: ‘Good morning, room service’.

I felt myself getting red even before he had opened the door. There he was ten seconds later: hair in the just out of bed look, baggy grey sweatpants, white t-shirt with some holes here and there though I spotted immediately that this was done on purpose.

‘Good morning, come in.’

Holy F, come in? Sweat on my back, the hairs on my neck getting moist, I was still very red, and I dared to look at him for exactly a second. Usually, you explain what’s on the tray, but I forgot to do so. I think I forgot everything, actually. I managed to somehow ask him for a signature on the bill, and that was my meeting with mister Mayer. John Mayer. The entire day I floated on a pink cloud, though I think he was less.

Now that I’ve stopped working in the hospitality industry, I like to frequent hotel bars all the more. It’s like you’re abroad for a moment. It always has something holiday-like, something magical, and something chic. I don’t go there weekly, though. It’s often very expensive and I think it should remain something special. The bar in the Dylan Hotel in Amsterdam is my favourite, also, of course, because of my meeting with a just-out-of-bed John Mayer. The Dylan feels a bit like coming home. Drinking winter tea in front of the fireplace or having lunch in the garden during the summer. Or a cocktail at the bar, of course. Joost and Frank are the city’s best shakers. I don’t even have to tell them what I want, they just know. Having drinks at their bar is almost better than a new pair of shoes. Oops, did I really just say that?