My wife and I were vacationing in Córdoba, Spain and checked into a rather upscale hotel. As a frequent traveler, I have a few expectations. One of them is simple: a coffee maker in the room.

When I noticed there wasn’t one, I called the front desk to explain that while this might be hotel policy, I really must insist that a coffee maker be sent to my room.

Unfortunately, my Spanish is not entirely reliable.

Instead of the word cafetera (coffee maker), I used cafetería.

Which means that, in perfectly confident Spanish, I was insisting the hotel provide a cafeteria in my room.

After some time—and, I imagine, some discussion downstairs—the hotel sent up a kitchen manager to sort things out. 

He was a short, stocky fellow with a quiet, serious demeanor. Patiently, and with admirable professionalism, he explained that while I was indeed a valued customer, installing a cafeteria in my room was, regrettably, not something the hotel was able to accommodate.

My wife, who is fluent in Spanish, overheard the exchange and quickly explained my mistake. I apologized, somewhat embarrassed.

For the record, no coffee maker was provided either.

The next morning I needed coffee, as I always do, so I went down to the actual cafeteria to get some.

What I didn’t realize was that the hotel offered a service where staff operated an elaborate coffee machine that produced various drinks using small compressed cakes of coffee. To me they looked suspiciously like Keurig pods, and being familiar with the self-service coffee arrangements in many U.S. hotels, I decided to make my own.

I did notice a few curious onlookers.

And a line forming.

And the velvet theater ropes separating them from me.

After several failed attempts and a few unintelligible comments from the growing crowd, someone from the kitchen came over to investigate.

As luck would have it—despite the hotel’s large kitchen staff—the same gentleman who had previously refused to install a cafeteria in my room appeared again.

Let’s call him Juan.

To his credit, Juan did not criticize me for being behind the ropes where I clearly did not belong. Instead, he attempted to assist me in making my coffee—no doubt reasoning that the sooner I got it, the sooner I would leave.

I explained what I thought the machine did and how I believed it might work.

Juan said nothing.

He simply made the coffee and handed it to me with the patient but strained expression of a man reconsidering his career in hospitality.

At that point Juan and I could have parted company and both been better for it.

But there was more to come.

On our third day the weather in Córdoba was warm, sunny, and quiet. My wife and I were sitting outside on the ground floor in front of a large picture window. On the other side of the glass was the hotel bar.

It was still early—not quite lunchtime—but I suggested we might have an early glass of wine. After all, we were on vacation.

As we approached the window to enter the bar, I spotted a familiar face.

My good friend Juan was behind the bar drying glasses with a dish towel.

We walked in. My wife immediately went to the restroom, leaving me to order two glasses of wine in my developing Spanish.

Juan looked slightly apprehensive as I approached, but I had been managing fairly well with my second language, so I confidently asked:

”¿Me pueden servir dos copas de vino tinto?”

Juan quietly replied: “Estamos cerrados.”

Which means: We are closed.

Unfortunately, he said this in such a hushed, careful tone that what I heard was:

”¿Estáis casados?”

Which means: Are you married?

This struck me as a somewhat unusual question, but I reasoned that perhaps the hotel had policies about serving alcohol to couples engaged in suspicious romantic adventures. Some parts of Spain can be socially conservative.

So I reassured him.

Yes, we were indeed married.

Juan insisted he could not serve us because the bar was closed until the restaurant opened. I continued explaining that it was perfectly fine—he could go ahead and serve us anyway.

Eventually, with visible reluctance, Juan poured two glasses of wine.

I was handing him my credit card when my wife returned. They exchanged a few words and she explained that he couldn’t charge the card because the register wasn’t open yet, but he could charge it to our room.

I said I would just as soon pay cash.

In fact, I was thinking I should give Juan a nice tip for overlooking the hotel’s apparent marriage requirement for wine service.

It took me a bit of time sorting through an assortment of Euro coins and asking my, now frustrated, wife what each one was worth.

Finally Juan just threw down his dish towel and stormed out of the bar.

Given the way my wife was glaring at me, I suspect Juan finally concluded that we were very clearly married — probably within the first thirty seconds — and that the wine was on the house.

I didn’t speak to Juan again during the rest of our stay.

Though I did see him a few times in the cafeteria.

Each time, however, he seemed to remember something extremely urgent he needed to do in the opposite direction.