I Only Have Eyes For Russ 

I like people. Most places I go I talk to strangers, much to the chagrin of my family. I almost always find people that I think are interesting and likable no matter how different they are from me. All that being said I am not drawn to the people here in St. Petersburg and most of them are not from here. I wonder how so many people from around the world who clearly belong here all got here?
This morning Russ and I got up and walked three miles down the beach to Pass-a-Grille to eat breakfast in what was the “nicest place.” On the walk we passed many multimillion dollar homes so it was not that it was a down trodden area. The average car was Mercedes, meaning there were higher ones and lower ones. I was a little worried that I was going to be too sweaty to eat at the nicest spot because it was already eighty degrees first thing in the morning.
We arrived and checked in with the hostess and told it would just be a five minute wait and to sit on the benches outside. We were clearly the youngest people waiting, some looking like they were dressed for church, but we were not too out of place. Quickly our name was called and we were ushered into a knotty pine low ceiling diner that could have been in South Jersey.
The waitress was friendly in that “more coffee, hon?” kind of way. As I looked around I realized we were fish out of water. Russ was the only man with either hair or a hair cut. Most older men had long stringy grey hair, the young ones had no hair at all. The older women had tattoos that had seen better days the young women had tattoos that were not going to age well. One woman across from our pine booth had a smokers cough that sounded like she needed her last rites. This was the nicest place for breakfast?
After breakfast we went out on the now fairly crowded beach to make the three mile walk back. It was more of the same, except the tattoos acted as covering instead of bathing suits. Sometimes it is hard to know where to look. One of the only people I saw without major body art was an old man walking towards us in a black banana hammock bathing suit (smaller than a speedo) with a fanny pack. I was dying to say, “regular men’s bathing suits have pockets!” What I would have given for that guy to have a tattoo to cover up some junk.
I have to say that I did not encounter anyone I wanted to carry on a long conversation with the whole day, except my husband. I know he brought me here for a business trip, but what he secretly did was make me cling on to him tightly as the only person I want to talk to or look at. Brilliant move Russ Lange.