(FORTUNE Magazine) – It's an offer worthy of Mr. Roarke: Wyndham El San Juan Hotel & Casino, in Puerto Rico, has developed a three-night package in which you check in as a celebrity.

The hotel puts no constraints on which name you choose, though President Clinton, Dracula, and Boy George have all been rejected. (Two men were permitted to come as Rodgers and Hart, so I'm not sure what the problem with George was.) I almost picked someone I admired, until I realized that a weekend as Wallace Shawn might not be a Dionysian romp.

Instead I chose Ricky Martin, because he's big in Puerto Rico, and my girlfriend chose Jennifer Lopez, because I told her to. (It seemed more legitimate than when I make her pretend to be Jennifer Lopez at home.) I didn't know much about Martin, so on the flight down I read Entertainment Weekly. I wasn't happy about what I found out, and I don't mean the meditation stuff.

Upon landing we were greeted by a hotel publicist and a driver, each holding a piece of paper that read MR. RICKY MARTIN and MS. JENNIFER LOPEZ. The pomp was so unimpressive that no one at the airport expected Ricky and J. Lo. The lack of a crowd was a lucky break, since the hotel had also sent a photographer who kept asking us to hold our placards and smile. Never have the words "Ricky Martin" and "giant loser" seemed so interchangeable. On the five-minute drive to the hotel, the driver told us to sit back, relax, and reach into the white limo's fridge for a cold can of Medalla Light. Celebrities really do live better.

At the hotel the publicist whisked us to the Texas-themed restaurant, the Ranch, built with real Connecticut barn wood. Nothing submerges you into the relaxing Caribbean lifestyle as much as Texan attitude and Northeastern barn wood. The manager gave us a complimentary platter of rattlesnake sausage and jalapeno poppers, which, I believe, are known as the food of celebrities. He blasted Martin's song "She Bangs" and made five waiters run over and ask me to dance, an unpleasant thing to demand of a celebrity, much less of someone pretending to be one. Then they led me to the mechanical bull, which I rode until I fell off.

Before allowing us to go to our rooms, the publicist dragged us to the Cigar Bar in the marble-and-mahogany lobby, where we were introduced to Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, and Dean Martin, who were enjoying their Rat Pack-hood for their second year. Frank's real name, or as close as I got to it, was Duke Sinatra; he's a talk-radio host (and big Sinatra fan, evidently). Ava, his fiancee, didn't seem too happy about the role playing. Dean Martin, however, was in the swing of things--shirt buttons undone under his dinner jacket, swirling a mixed drink.

When we weren't with the publicist, we had to explain the package to the staff, who thought we were crazy. The worst experience took place at the towel station by the pool, where I had to give my name and room number. A teenager working in back came running out, screaming and shaking, then crestfallen, then slightly ashamed that she mistook my Jewish New York accent for that of a Latino pop star. I did not feel very important right then.

On our third day we got champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, as well as Wyndham gold nametags that said Ricky Martin and Jennifer Lopez. We assumed we were to wear them around so that the staff knew to treat us like celebrities, but we decided against it. Instead we escaped to the beach. We got there at 4:45 and were told we couldn't have lounge chairs, because they stop giving them out at 5:00. We were told that our nametags would not help. We did notice that New York Yankee Derek Jeter (the real one), also a hotel guest, had a chaise. Pestered by fans wanting his picture, Jeter took off, leaving a chair for a very scrappy Ms. Lopez to grab.

When we scheduled the massages that come with the package, the fitness center surprisingly suggested a female masseuse. But she was terrific: Her hands were strong and sure, her lips devil-red, her skin the color mocha. Heading back to our rooms to change for dinner, we ducked a shirtless, drink-wielding Dean Martin (he was reading Tina Sinatra's new book). There we found a bottle of wine and gift bathrobes with "Jennifer" and "Ricky" embroidered on them. Taking them seemed more like stealing than normal.

After a dinner in the overpriced Italian restaurant, we had port at the Cigar Bar, where Jeter was getting approached by tons of women, several of whom he and his buddies seemed happy to be talking to. But none were as attractive as the real Jennifer Lopez or my delusional one (who used the weekend as an opportunity to be vocally proud of her sizable posterior).

We checked out the next day, sneaking ahead of Jeter in line because he had to pose with child after child. That was when I finally realized that being a celebrity isn't that great. Sure, you get free champagne and robes, but unless you crave constant attention from strangers who aren't that good-looking, it's far better to pony up for your own chocolate-covered strawberries and be left alone. Especially if your girlfriend is going to use the Ricky Martin thing as an excuse to constantly question your masculinity.

Wyndham El San Juan Hotel & Casino, Celebrity Fantasy Package, starting at $1,392 per couple; 787-791-1000