So there we were, stuck in the aftermath of a Yankee game that had all the excitement of watching paint dry in a snowstorm. Truist Park had been the scene of a merciless Braves spanking – a 2-0 sweep that left the Yankees wishing they had signed up for a tour of the Governor's Mansion instead of a ball game. As I navigated the road back home, I found myself faced with a decision: do I stick to my hard-and-fast roadtrip rule of avoiding any towns with those UPS Brown tinted "Historic Mayberry" signs, or do we throw caution to the wind like a crazed squirrel darting across the highway for a nut and visit. In a moment of sheer irrationality, I succumbed to the pull of the "Historic Buckhead" sign in Morgan County, Georgia. Seriously, who knew that this tiny hamlet was a historical heavyweight? It proudly proclaimed its establishment way back in 1908, which I guess is like ancient history if you're an amoeba. But let's be real – unless George Washington himself once had a nap here, the "historic" tag feels about as genuine as a used car salesman's smile (Just visit Historic Denton in MD for example). Driving through, we couldn't help but notice the sorry state of the turn-of-the-century brick buildings lining the streets like a row of forgotten relics. These were the kind of structures that had thrived before the Interstate Highway System arrived, and then promptly got kicked to the curb like an empty Chic-Fil-A bag. My sense of impending adventure led me, against my better judgment, to a parking lot in front of a closed-down convenience store. The scene felt like something out of a Jack Reacher crime thriller, complete with two pickup trucks loitering like they were waiting for a signal to initiate some sort of illicit transaction – or maybe they were just Ford F-150 EV truck owners in need of a charge. With an air of desperation, I whipped out my late model Android and embarked on a Google search for "ANYTHING NEAR ME." Meanwhile, my wife kept one suspicious eye on the trucks, half-expecting their drivers to morph into undercover Georgia Wildlife Agents looking for poachers. Lo and behold, the universe graced us with the Ritz Carlton at Reynolds Plantation. It sounded grand enough for our thirst-quenching needs, so we hailed the GPS gods and followed their divine guidance. Twisting and turning through miles of country road, we eventually stumbled upon signs of civilization – a Publix Supermarket and a Circle K, two beacons of suburban existence. As we veered onto the road leading to the Reynolds Plantation – owned by the family behind the aluminum, not the tobacco. Passing by sprawling golf courses that could double for PGA Tournament venues, we arrived at the valet station, where the staff greeted us like long-lost relatives without the awkward hugs. Inside, the concierge desk ladies treated us to a rundown of the hotel's offerings, laying out a feast of possibilities for lunch and libations. With directions in hand, we gravitated towards "Gaby's by the Lake" restaurant, where a friendly staffer practically escorted us there like we were precious cargo – either that or we looked pretty shifty in our long road-trip clothes (more suitable for a visit to Buccee's). Taking in the view of Lake Oconee – courtesy of a nice hostess gal who seemed genuinely excited about her job – we settled in for lunch. And then, like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day, Franny appeared. This effervescent ball of energy could make even a dour insurance underwriter crack a smile wider than Julia Roberts. We were so taken by her charm that we were ready to adopt her on the spot, or at the very least, a conservatorship like Michael Oher or Brittany's. As we munched on our food and sipped our Martinis, we found ourselves engaged in conversation with other patrons. And these folks were as relaxed and amiable as cows in a grassy field. I half-expected them to slip us brochures about time shares in between bites of their Cobb salads. But as the laughter flowed, it became evident that this wasn't some elaborate scheme – it was just good ol' Southern hospitality. Sadly, our journey had to continue back to the Low Country, but not before retrieving our trusty Buick Roadmaster from the valet squad that seemed more eager to assist than a puppy chasing its tail (honestly, these guys probably would've rotated our tires if we'd asked). It's reassuring to know that even in the post-Covid era, there are establishments that treat guests like they're relics from a pre-Covid utopia. So, with a promise to return and the spirit of Franny's infectious enthusiasm still swirling around us like a feel-good aura, we left this playground of affluent Georgians, Ohioans and loser Yankee fans.…