Pensacola Beach to Point Clear, Alabama
The Grand Hotel has been a stalwart of Mobile Bay since 1847. When I open what look to be the same stained-glass double doors to reception, I'm instantly transported back to my childhood by the smell of the lobby—an odd mix of pine floors and fried crab claws. But one thing is missing—Bucky. A legend in the hospitality industry, Bucky Miller worked at the resort for more than 60 years, recognizing returning guests by name. He was the first person to call me Mr. Buchmeyer, at the age of six, which I adored. After he died, a statue of him was placed in the gardens, and the lounge was renamed in his honor. Press clippings about him dot the bar; no one but me pays much attention.

Despite modernization—our old family cabin replaced by a kid-friendly swimming complex, a sparkling spa building—the endemic Southern charm and service are as evident as they were when my father and I used to ride a bicycle built for two down the boardwalk. Soon after our family's last stay here 25 years ago, my father told me Marriott was taking it over "and that will be the end of an era." Indeed, I felt those days were the end of an era—not because of anything I thought Marriott was going to do but because of my parents' divorce.

One thing that hasn't changed is the twisted and knotted trees—they've made it through all the progress and multiple storms. Every year, upon our departure, my father pulled out a blue ribbon and announced the winner of the gnarliest tree competition. I make Chef repeat this ritual, whipping out a makeshift ribbon. As I tack it onto what must be the same live oak that won decades ago, a father and son whiz by on a bicycle built for two, breezing past Bucky's statue.