Not a travel writer, nor particularly resourceful

Through a series of events I could not entirely control, my husband and I find ourselves vacationing on Amelia Island last weekend – near Jacksonville, Florida. 
 
Confined in a neck brace, he is still in the throes of post-surgery recovery. Because the proprietress of the bed and breakfast where we had reservations was adamant about us not re-scheduling a second time, we drive to our beachy destination on Saturday, watching the outside temperature drop from 70 degrees, to 60, to 50 to 45 as we barrel further north. Amelia Island is shrouded in darkness and cold slivers of rain, coupled with shearing wind, pounding our windshield as we pull up to Williams House.
 

 
“What a delightful beginning to our two-day get away,” I glumly mutter out loud. 
 
As we lug our suitcases up the brick path, a lovely woman greets us at the door, announcing Happy Hour in the formal living room in 15 minutes. My husband falls asleep as I hastily unpack. I slash on some bright red lipstick and black mascara and slip into a flowing flowered caftan. I descend the huge majestic mahogany staircase eager to socialize – knowing I look rather stunning and dramatic – if I don’t say so myself.  
 
The fireplace is lit. The wine is laid out. Classical music plays softly in the back ground. I seem to be the first guest to arrive. I drink two generously sized glasses of wine, fall fast asleep on the settee. and awake an hour later.
 
The lovely woman is back. 
 
“Oh no! Did I miss all the guests?” I ask petulantly. 
 
“No, Ma’am,” she replies politely. “You and your husband are the only ones staying here this weekend.”
 
I don’t know whether to rejoice or cry. 
 
I re-climb the stairs, wake my husband, we order a pizza, eat too much of it and then sleep soundly til morning. When the tantalizing aroma of maple syrup and strongly brewed coffee drifts up past the majestic stain glass windows lining the staircase and eases into our room, we rouse and gaze out the window. 

                          
 
And then we head downstairs. We feast on buttery croissants, fresh fruit, an eggy soufflé and linger over the coffee, while we learn about the urban legend in regard to the Williams House. 
 
Built in 1856, the original owner sold the house to Marcellus Williams, a Northerner, who proceeded to free his slaves. Local lore boasts that this majestic Greek Revival mansion then became part of the Underground Railroad. The present owner, an architect from New York, refutes that claim. 
 
“I have searched for secret doors to the crawl space. There are none. And I literally crawled on my belly beneath the house in search of a hidden space large enough to hide a runaway slave. Sadly, none exists.” 
 
Though it remains unseasonably cold, the sun is peeking through the clouds. What should we do? Even in our best of times, we don’t golf. And we don’t play tennis. Biking and hiking together is out of the question due to my husband’s post-op limitations. Ditto for touring the Kingsley Plantation or walking on the hard-packed sand of The American Beach. And exploring the famous dunes named “Nana” in search of gopher turtles – not happening either. 
 
My hubby heads back to our room to relax.
So I default to what I always do when visiting a new locale. I seek out:
     Independent bookstores, 
     Art galleries featuring local artists
     Boutiques 
 
In other words, he naps and I shop. 
 
And my best find – that takes the sting out of the limitations of our getaway weekend? A wooden, shabby chic, oversized plaque that fits perfectly on my front porch:
 
         
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

P.S. This nifty little periodical features Bed and Breakfasts across the country that have passed comprehensive quality inspections in the industry. For additional info, go to 
www.selectregistry.com