The accidental tourist

I suppose there are a number of ways to tell that your husband loves you. For some, love may take the form of unexpected flowers, or breakfast in bed. For others, its a romantic dinner out, or a vacation getaway, or just a great foot massage after a long day.
Love from my husband takes on forms of its own: sometimes, it's expressed more clearly than others.
For example, this spring, I was eager to plan summer family vacations. M wanted very little to do with the planning of those trips--you may think this unsupportive. But, I could plan nearly any trip I wanted--anywhere, anytime.
I put together a very cool itinerary that included a road trip to Savannah and Jekyll Island, Georgia. I researched hotels and activities and he helped me process and purchase and the trip was done!
And M loves me.
Months pass, and the eve of our vacation arrives. I pack for everyone. I plan the driving route. I download and peruse restaurant reviews. I make reservations for Clooney at Chez Chiennes. We are ready.
As a sign of solidarity, M doesn't freak when everyone is an hour later than the planned departure. I mean what are the odds that the kids would sleep in on the one day I was counting on them to be my alarm clock? We are in the car without incident. The dog is delivered. We hit the highway. Nothin' but a curling ribbon of road ahead.
And M loves me.
We only had to threaten to kill the kids twice on the trip. We had a peaceful lunch and stopped at a roadside peach stand. Everything's coming along.
And M loves me.
We get to Savannah. It's coming up on bedtime, and we are hoping to check in, drop off the junk, grab dinner and go to bed. (One of the great bonuses of sharing a room with kids on vacation, is that I get to go to bed at 8:30, whether I want to or not.)
M enters the lobby to check in. The kids and I begin to unload the car. A moment later, M comes out with a grim face: "You're going to have to put all that stuff back in the car." What the what?
"Our reservations start tomorrow. They have no rooms tonight."
I guess maybe I was a little too eager for the trip?
And M loves me?
M disappears into the lobby again. The kids start their ever-so-helpful snivelling over things they do not comprehend. "We're going to have to drive all the way back to Alabama?"
I'm sitting in the driver's seat--literally and figuratively. I brought this fate upon us, and drove us to our fate at 85 miles an hour for 8 hours on the wrong day.
Nerts!
M comes out with directions to a new hotel. He seems okay. We drive a short distance and pull up in front of the Westin Spa and Golf Club. I remember this resort from my searchings. One of the top 60 golf courses in the country.
We walk in to the fine lobby, we check in, we go up to the 10th floor, (do they put Febreeze in the air up here?) which has a lovely view of the golf course, and South Carolina beyond. Apparently, I have a voucher for the spa tomorrow. And the kids can use the pool.
Not a word. He's in good spirits. "This is just going to give us an extra day of fun!"
Nothing. No comment.
So, in short, I know my husband loves me when he has trekked through every two lane, back-ass town in Georgia for 8 hours, listened to the kids argue about which clone trooper is cooler (clones, people, consider the definition) bought an unexpected stay at a fancy resort, and STILL had enthusiasm for a cheeseburger and beer dinner.
This morning, the kids sorta slept in. They're downstairs getting breakfast.
I'm on my way to the spa. Best. Mistake. Ever.