We knew someone important was staying at our hotel because security got crazier than normal. The security guards multiplied and the not so secret police (the ones dressed in black, sporting sunglasses in the middle of the night) got meaner and ubiquitous. No one was allowed to use the parking lot (guests and personnel coming to our hotel had to be dropped off--preferably while the vehicle was still in motion--along the already blocked highway); cars were forced into impossible detours; pedestrians were sent back and forth depending on the mood of each guard they found on the way (one might say yes you can walk down the road; the next one might say, no you can't and send you back). It was 110F outside. Our grocery bags had to be checked at the lobby and we had to carry our passports wherever we went.
So whoever was coming, was big. We endured the preparations patiently. Our internet connection became painfully sluggish and unreliable (it always is); emailing or receiving a picture took the system several hours of trying, crashing, trying again.
A few days later it was all over.
That's when I decided to visit the hotel spa to have a much needed pedicure, which much to my delight is given to you as you lay horizontal on a stretcher, as if you were having a medical examination.
I don't know this man. I have never seen pictures of him. I don't know what he looks like. All I know is that he is a president, that based on the amount of bodyguards, he must be afraid for his life and therefore must have enemies, and that must be why he needs tenderness. A whole four-hour block of it.