Tourists

The tourists in our neighborhood are really easy to pick out.  If we're walking or biking down the pier, someone is bound to ask us for the name of a nice restaurant or to identify a fish they've caught.  Yes, the tourists fish from the pier.  Besides not knowing that they've caught a sheephead (translates to 'garbage fish'), they're dressed in their yuppie-wear with kids in tow and the price tag still visible on their bait bucket.  We're easily identified as locals because we're taking our sojourn on the pier in our yardwork clothes, without make-up and wearing beat-up straw hats.

At the restaurant next door to the inn, the tourists will sit on the river's edge in all their touristy-finery and point out all of the pleasure boats coming down the river; pointedly ignoring the slag heaps or the Giant Tit just on the other shore.  

The group of tourists I enjoy the most are those that come from the beautiful, Victorian bed and breakfast just down the street.  We call this group the B&Bers.  Each day in the summer provides me with a new study in the human condition. 

Identified initially by the fact that they're unfamiliar faces in Mayberry, I was quick to learn that this species also share many similar traits.  Let's discuss the aforementioned yuppie-wear.  The men in Dockers or Dockers shorts with crisply ironed, buttoned down shirts walk hand-in-hand with women in sundresses and oftentimes high heel sandals on their way to the beach.  They stroll down the middle of the street, foregoing the sidewalks as if it were a rural area, pointing out the landscaping of some of the homes with much oohing and aahing.  Families will carry their already inflated rubber water toys, heading to the beach regardless of what the skies look like.  It's not unusual to see them hustling back at breakneck speed when the skies open up over Lake Erie.  They just had to give that beach a shot, though.  After all, they're on vacation.

Romance seems to be the usual order of the day at the B&B, as most of the tourists are of the hand-holding variety.  One couple sticks out in my mind, however.  I saw them for the first time last year; an aging hippie male with a gray ponytail, dressed in the mandatory Dockers and carrying a sketchpad.  She had beautiful red hair and wore the perfunctory sundress.  An hour or so later, they strolled by the house again, in the middle of the street of course.  They not only held hands, they seemed conjoined in their closeness.  Ah, love was definitely in the air.

I saw them again last week; recognizable by the gray ponytail, sketchpad and beautiful red hair only.  This appeared to be an attempt to recapture whatever fueled their harmony last year, but their familiarity with the area and each other shone through above all else.   They were both dressed down to jean shorts and t-shirts.  They used the sidewalk and he walked a good fifteen paces in front of her.  No hand holding, slow strolling or ogling this year.  Twenty minutes later, they made their return trip down the street using the same formation.  I wanted badly to yell out "Hey jackass!  Slow down and take her hand!  No wonder she's sick of you!" but managed to hold my tongue.

It's wet and gray out today, so I'm sure I'll get the treat of at least one soaked-to-the-bones duo, enjoying the act of making memories while walking together in the rain.  After all, nothing can stop you when you're on vacation.