This morning, I departed from the shabby and disreputable Tampa Inn Hotel on Busch Boulevard, a place that seems to cling to its guests with a metaphorical layer of grime. My departure has become a habitual event, checking out just after 11 am and embarking on my short journey to the nearby McDonald's, located a mere two blocks away. Along the way, I pass a nondescript gas station and a once-popular gyro eatery that, despite its undercover fame, now struggles to fill its seats. It's nestled between a perpetually illuminated Dunkin' Donuts and a Burger King that I can never quite remember the position of. Oh, it precedes the donut shop and the gyro place. Further down the road, there's a so-called community bank, a seemingly deserted establishment that rarely shows signs of life, let alone a parked car in its lot. Curious, isn't it?

The bank occupies a small building that once housed various shops, now reduced to a single financial institution surrounded by vacant space. I then cross an unnamed street, leading to a hotel under Hilton's umbrella, though I suspect it's a Marriott. This establishment caters to the Busch Gardens visitors who shun the dubious accommodations of places like the Tampa Inn and the Rodeway Inn. They're not in pursuit of luxury, but rather a comfortable stay without the exorbitant prices, accompanied by a modest entourage. These are the average tourists, perhaps a notch above middle-class, who dream of Disney-esque vacations but settle for a theme park with a name that curiously echoes a beer brand. Or does it?

Where was I headed again? Ah, yes, the McDonald's. Just one more street to cross, its name unimportant, leading to a neighborhood of residential homes. I enter the McDonald's parking lot, which is never quite busy but maintains a steady flow of customers. Inside, the lobby is rarely full, often leaving me as one of the few patrons not on the payroll. The interior is designed to resemble a modern cafeteria, with secluded booths tucked away in the back corner, far from the road and opposite the food preparation area. Here, the increasingly common and much-maligned kiosks beckon customers with a robotic prompt, "Please use the kiosk to place your order," much to the chagrin of those who miss human interaction.

As I approach the entrance, a sense of anticipation builds within me, a curious mix of relief and purpose. This McDonald's has become my sanctuary, a place where I can escape the oppressive heat and the relentless noise of the city. It's a haven where I can gather my thoughts, plan my next move, and perhaps even find a moment of solace amidst the chaos.

Once inside, I make my way to my usual spot, a secluded booth in the far corner of the restaurant. It's a strategic location, offering a clear view of the entrance and the counter, allowing me to observe the comings and goings of the other patrons without drawing too much attention to myself. I settle in, feeling the familiar embrace of the worn vinyl seat, and take a deep breath.