On a recent Wednesday morning, a dapper fellow in a fedora and black overcoat pilots a wooden skiff towards the wharf at South Ann Street. He silences the puttering outboard and drifts toward a cleat in the walk across from Bonaparte Breads. After tying up the boat and ascending a ladder to the cobblestone street, he points out a "No Docking" sign. "I hope I don't get a ticket," he says, in a distinctly English accent that suggests he pronounces Thames Street differently than the locals. At the Daily Grind, he orders an espresso and an Odwalla strawberry drink and turns a few heads on his way to a table in the back. As he passes, a woman in hospital scrubs mouths to her tablemate, "Who is that?" The tablemate shrugs.  Read on.