Drunken Tourist

4:05 am and I was awakened by some drunken tourist being escorted back to his room by security. My annoyance at being awake at this hour soon turned to hilarious amusement as I listened and watched through the peephole.

“I don’t understand. What’s going on? I have a girlfriend and a life.” Like one who has a life, and a girlfriend, can’t be a drunken arse who needs to be escorted to his room.

“I don’t understand?” He said again. “I just want to go to my room. Where are we going?”

“To your room.”

“To my room?” He sounded like an insolent 13 year old girl, whining about being sent to her room by her parents.

“Yes, si, to your room.” A guard waved towards the hallway to the right of my room.

“Why? Whyyyy?” I had forgotten how whiny men get when they are completely wasted, and it seemed he had already forgotten wanting to go to his room just a minute earlier. He sat there for a bit in silence looking completely dumbfounded. I could tell the one word question was playing on repeat in his head.

I recognized him from around the resort. He had been out at the pool most of the day, lounging and drinking with his buddies and flirting with a group of 18 year olds who were there celebrating the end of their high school days and having one great last hurrah. They weren’t old enough to drink back home yet but here they could enjoy all the free drinks they could handle. Funnily enough, they handled their alcohol better than this pathetic young man trying to make his way back to his room.

“We going to party? Do some blow?” There was a little excitement in his voice now. “Let’s say I have some coke. Let’s say. A big ol’ bunch of coke. We can line it all up and party, man.”


“Let’s go!” One of the security guards grabbed his arm and tried to move him along.

“Where? Ouch, that hurts. Why’d you do that?” Whiny McWhinersten was back.

“To your room, senor,” said another guard. I could hear the annoyance in his voice.

“Ok, let’s go.” He got up from the bench and walked briskly, albeit quite unsteadily, towards his room.

There were three security guards with him. One was beside him, still holding his arm, trying to keep him steady while the other two followed closely behind. I could hear him urge a few times. Wouldn’t that be great, throwing up on one of the security guards.

“Is ok, senor. We are almost there.”

“I am Ryan Allan Gibson, like the whiskey. Do you like whiskey?”

“Si, senor.”

He tells them his full name again, Ryan Allan Gibson, like It means something.

They make it to his room without anyone’s stomach contents making an appearance and bang on the door. The guy starts pleading with his girlfriend to open the door and let him in. “Come on baby, open the door.” Nothing. “Come on, open the door.” Nothing. “Why aren’t you opening the door? Whyyy?” Mr Whiny McWhinersten Whiskey is back. “I love you baby, why won’t you let me in?”

His girlfriend finally opens their room door. Poor thing was sleeping. She’s good though. She soothes him and gets him into the room without further incident. Then she thanks security for bringing him and apologizes for any problems he caused.

Security leaves, talking about the “idiota” in Spanish all the way. Once the elevator doors close I go back to my bed, turn the light on and start writing the whole thing down. I’m not going to want to forget this one.



** This actually happened on my vacation last year. I didn’t use his real name, but it was a whiskey name.

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