Filled with a spontaneous spirit, and in honor of our 24th wedding anniversary, my husband Dale and I packed our bags for a road trip from Tallahassee to South Florida. Yearning to escape the chilly January weather, I craved the warmth of the sun, sand and sea. Though Dale isn’t particularly fond of beach life, he agreed to indulge me but only if we traveled by car. They say compromise is the key to a happy marriage. I say no good deed goes unpunished, so we traveled by car, not plane. I would choose a root canal over a car trip. At least the dentist would give me drugs.

So we buckled up for the journey to three separate five-star hotels—all in different parts of the state—which we booked using our hotel points. Of course, my previous dollars spent are what garnered the points. But when one pays for luxury accommodation with points and not a credit card (cha-ching), the mind conveniently forgets just how those points were accumulated. One of my odd quirks—I’m told I have too many—is the habit of sampling hotels for one or two nights. A three-day stay is enough for me. So I booked one night here, three nights there and one or two yonder to savor a taste of each resort.

Panic surged through us as we frantically searched for shelter, but there was nowhere to hide.

With Dale behind the wheel, we raced down a packed Interstate 75. My anxiousness, coupled with the menacing drivers on the road, was palpable. The air crackled with determination, each driver pushing forward like warriors on a battlefield. Then, as is often the case when driving through Central Florida, clouds quickly rolled in, the sky opened and rain hammered down upon us. Cars slowed and activated their hazard lights as we motored through the sudden torrential storm, thunder and lightning snapping around us. Both our iPhones erupted in a cacophony of screeching alerts and flashing messages: Tornado Warning—Seek Shelter Immediately.

Panic surged through us as we frantically searched for shelter, but there was nowhere to hide. With adrenaline pumping, we pressed on, dodging hailstones as they pelted our car. It felt like an eternity until we finally spotted the exit sign for a refuge: Orlando—our haven amid the storm where our hotel reservation awaited us.

Entering the lobby of The Ritz-Carlton Orlando, Grande Lakes, our nerves were soothed by the soft glow of golden hues, a stark contrast to the pandemonium we had just endured. After freshening up, we headed down to the hotel restaurant, eager to celebrate our survival and our actual anniversary night.

The setting was intimate with candlelit tables and a sense of tranquility. As we indulged in a gastronomic feast—seafood, steak and exquisite wine—we couldn’t help but marvel at the contrast between the chaos outside and the serenity within. Reality intruded on our musings in the form of the bill. It was a staggering sum, a testament to the extravagance of our delicious Titus Vineyards cabernet sauvignon. I sipped the last drop in my glass and signed the receipt, charging it to our room. After all, there are some things that are worth every penny—or should I say every point.

The sun peeked through the curtains as we stirred the next morning, eager for the day ahead. We were taking off for our next stop: a different resort in another town. 

When I descended into the lobby, Dale was waiting in the car out front with our luggage. I stopped by the front desk to express my gratitude to the manager for the exceptional stay and to mention a minor issue with the bathroom sink drain. I assured him I only wanted to pay it forward for the next guest. In return he told me with a warm smile that he would take care of it. Back in the car, I tucked the unopened receipt from our stay into the passenger seat visor as we pulled back onto a now sunny I-75. 

Hours later, we arrived at our next highly anticipated destination for a romantic three-night stay. The moment we crossed the threshold of our beachside suite, an overwhelming odor that defied description—and this is coming from a gal who can describe anything—assaulted us. It was a peculiar concoction of must and decay with the faint echo of a forgotten tuna sandwich. We pressed on and discovered a soaked carpet in the living room and both televisions in the living room and bedroom utterly useless as they had no connection equipment. Later we learned that the equipment was stolen from both televisions. Our bathroom proved to be another realm of horror with a putrid stench emanating from the sinks, while the bathtub was clogged with one could only wonder what.

Summoning what remained of my patience, we made our way to the front desk to voice our displeasure. However, our complaints seemed to fall on deaf ears until they asked for my room number. This prompted a hushed exchange among the staff, who cast secretive glances in our direction while murmuring about the departure of a certain earlier guest and our inexplicable occupancy of his former room. “Room 314, you say?” the receptionist asked with wide eyes. 

Frustrated, I asked for a new room. “The hotel is sold out,” she said unapologetically. “Then we are checking out,” I quipped. But before we could turn around, she offered a pristine suite that happened to materialize. 

Sold out my wet foot! We returned to the foul, wet-carpeted suite to transfer our belongings and were met with a scene straight out of a crime thriller. Four burly men, their expressions grim and determined, were on their knees, tearing up the living room rug with a sense of urgency, muttering about the room being “uninhabitable.”

Aware that something sinister was lurking within those walls, I won’t divulge the name of that resort. I will say it is located in Hollywood Beach. I suppose it would be best to withhold the name of the earlier occupant, which I heard whispered by the staff. Further, I solemnly swear I did not see any evidence of whatever stealthy activity happened inside those walls, and I would never tell anyone, Mr. Cartel.

The strength of a couple lies not in how many smooth roads you’ve traveled together, but how you handle the treacherous ones, too.

As I watched that troubled resort disappear in the rearview, it would seem that Murphy’s law had a hold on us. A few hours passed without incident as we drove north on the evil cousin of I-75—I-95. But as we neared Jacksonville, bedlam ensued, vehicles danced chaotically around us and I found myself murmuring a prayer for safety, trusting in divine protection. Rain poured down, and again, our phones shrieked with tornado warnings! Seeking refuge, we headed toward Amelia Island, scanning the dark horizon for signs of danger amid the marshes. Panic set in. The whole island looked deserted as we approached the bridge. With adrenaline coursing through us, Dale drove toward a fire station, but we found it empty, the firefighters called away to confront the tornado. We parked as close as possible to the wide-open doors and sought shelter there, my heart racing with fear and his with exhilaration. 

In the end, our improvised shelter proved effective, and we breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to have survived another misadventure. With the storm passed, we made our way to the resort for our last night, determined to salvage the rest of our trip.

That night we toasted to our resilience with belly laughs, sharing a large pizza and more than one bottle of wine. We bemoaned our quest for sun, sand and surf in the Sunshine State only to find no sun, closed beaches and dangerous waters, all thanks to the unexpected weather. 

When we finally headed home from our anniversary trip the next day, I pulled down the passenger seat visor, and the receipt from the first hotel stay fell into my lap. A smile spread across my face when I saw that the manager had deducted the cost of our entire indulgent dinner from the final bill. Reflecting on our trip, I couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of optimism—even after two tornado scares and a brush with the cartel. I looked over at Dale and thought about the journey in parallel to marriage. Like navigating storms, marriage can be unpredictable and wild. The strength of a couple lies not in how many smooth roads you’ve traveled together, but how you handle the treacherous ones, too. Dale and I will continue our traditional anniversary trip, celebrating each mile of the year before. And whatever our mode of transportation turns out to be, it will be fueled with laughter, and we will be prepared for whatever calamity hitchhikes along with us.

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