Brad and I wanted a romantic getaway. First, we thought of Fire Island, but I didn’t see the point of leaving one gay island—Manhattan—for an even smaller one. We decided on the Catskill Mountains, which, from the 1940s through the ’70s, was a common vacation spot for Jewish New Yorkers who were forbidden from staying elsewhere. When I found out it was also the inspiration for the film Dirty Dancing, the question was no longer “Where are we going to stay?” but “Which one of us is Baby?”

We found a resort online that boasted a recent multi-million dollar renovation and a luxurious, elegant, decadent vacation experience. But when I saw it in person, the grounds looked like a military sleep-away camp for children who don’t behave well.

Inside, an odor swept over us that reminded me I needed to call my grandmother in the nursing home. The hotel guests could be divided into two groups: elderly Jews and country line dancers from Texas. Brad and I stood in the middle like a pair of confused homosexuals at a rodeo-themed Bar Mitzvah.

Inside our room (which had a mezuzah on the doorframe), I asked Brad if he wanted to go home. “If we can have a good time here,” he said, “You and I can have a good time together anywhere.” We assumed the safest thing to do was spend the afternoon at the pool. In fact, the Olympic-sized swimming pool, surrounded by gorgeous mountains, was quite lovely. But as the poolside guests turned their lounge chairs into the sun, one elderly man turned his so he could stare at the flaming gays.  So, on our supposedly relaxing afternoon, I looked at my watch, Brad looked at his tan lines and an elderly man looked at us.

At dinner, our waitresses, Sue and Alice, explained that they would be our servers at every meal for the duration of our stay—neither of them had front teeth. Clearly, heavy drinking was required. Brad felt we weren’t getting our money’s worth, so we both ordered our own bottle of wine and told them, “Please charge those to our room, 4311.” Our room was actually 4307, but we figured the two numbers sounded similar enough that, if we were discovered, Sue or Alice would think they misheard. When we realized our little scheme worked, we ordered a third bottle.

Sufficiently buzzed, we wandered into the hotel lounge where a comedian advertised as “seen on MTV” was scheduled to perform. We were rather surprised when a 100-year-old man sauntered onstage. Needless to say, he didn’t elicit many laughs from the audience. But to be fair, most of the audience looked older than him.

The next morning, Brad went to the spa and I stayed in bed nursing a hangover. When the fire alarm went off, I jumped out of bed and into the hall, where our neighbor stood frozen in his doorway. Inside his room were at least 20 African-American men. One of them said to me, “Do you think we should evacuate?” Another one said, “If the police come this way, I’m running in the opposite direction.” I politely smiled and wondered what illicit activity they could be doing. About five minutes later, the alarm stopped and I crawled back into bed. I never found out what caused the fire alarm, nor did I see the 20 African-American men again.

At dinner that night, Brad said, “He’s staring at us.” The man who spent the previous afternoon watching us at the pool was back and walking toward us. “Hi, I’m David,” he said. Brad and I timidly introduced ourselves and offered him a seat. David explained that he was at the resort for his niece’s Bat Mitzvah and then said, “You may not have noticed, but I’ve been watching you this weekend.”

Brad and I looked at each other and said, “You have?”

“I’m 86 years old,” David continued. “My wife died four years ago. We were married 40 years, but I’m gay. About a year after she died, I started seeing my partner. We live together now on the Upper East Side. He isn’t with me this weekend because my kids don’t know I’m gay.” He seemed remarkably thankful to talk about his life with two people who understood.

“The two of you have something very special. It’s obvious to anyone who sees you together. You’re very lucky,” he said, standing to leave.

“Feel free to come hang with the other gays in the Catskills whenever you want,” Brad said.

The next morning, we told the front desk attendant that we charged alcohol to the wrong room, and we wanted to make sure to pay the correct amount. We looked for David before we left, but to no avail. I would have liked to thank him for reminding me of my place in history. I had forgotten how fortunate I am to be a man in a relationship with another man. Maybe Brad and I will even return to the Catskills when we’re in our eighties. But I’m confident it won’t be a day earlier.