Chris Walker Vs. Airport Security… Yet Again

I made the mistake of exiting the “secure area” at the Orlando airport, after a flight from Miami, and had to go through security again. (Even though the nice lady at the Continental podium explicitly told me not to do this. What can I say, it was early.) I walk up to the security personnel, present my ID and plane ticket…

Security Woman: “Oh. You should really use your full name when booking your tickets. See, your ticket says Chris and your ID says Christopher–”
Me: “I didn’t even book my flight through Continental; I booked it through United.”
Security Woman [not listening]: “Yeah, but you see–”
Me: “United made me check in with Continental. I literally have no control over that.”
Security Woman: “Okay; just for next time…”

I should write a book about how pointless airport security is. Believe me, I’m all for making air travel safe but, really, all we’re making it is dumber. Knock it off and let me on my plane.

Chris Walker Vs. Purell Hand Sanitizer

My favorite conversation from last night.

Girl [offering me bottle of Purell]: Want some?
Me: No thanks. I don’t use that stuff. I have an immune system to fight germs.
Girl: I have a weak immune system.
Me: Maybe that’s because you use Purell.

My immune system. The same reason I don’t get flu shots, swine flu shots, and choose to fight colds (whenever I rarely get them) the old fashioned way: sans doctor’s drug prescriptions. Try it sometime.

Chris Walker Vs. Comfort (Is King)

NOTICE: While the new, improved Chris Walker Versus is still under construction, being built by the ever brilliant and completely hirable Brian Johnson, I’ll be posting new content. If I was ever not traveling it might be finished. Bare with us.

I was wrong. Oh lord, was I wrong. I was like Plato sitting up in his tower, spewing inapplicable rhetoric. I apologize, and I take it all back.

Over a year ago, I wrote this. At the time, my world revolved around export sales. Mexico. Australia. China. Those were the places I traveled for work. My Mexican Distributor, a great friend, would pick me up from the airport and we’d go get the best tacos de lengua in town. My Chinese Distributor would take me to spots where you point at a live fish and minutes later it’s on your table, steamed, and ready to eat. I was spoiled.

Recently, I’ve been tackling domestic sales, traveling the West Coast. While my excursions include the gorgeously lush Seattle, and the city where my I left my heart, they also include countless badland towns like… wherever I am now. My dear Guadalajarian friend is not here to greet me when I roll into Bumblefuck, Idaho. There are no street corner taco joints to lovingly adore here. There are no transplant Argentineans doing this. There is no melt-on-your-tongue prosciutto with sardines like there is here. There’s no trotter ravioli served with foie gras and cresta di gallo in any nearby, neighborhood champion. No; there isn’t. In fact, there is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

So, I’ve learned a valuable lesson: Comfort is king. Because, guess what? After driving over seven-hundred miles and arriving in a small town at 8:00 p.m. I’m not thinking, oh, I wonder if there’s any mom-and-pop spots where they’ve perfected a local delicacy! I’m thinking, where’s the nearest Chilis? Because that’s where I’m going.

I can depend on Chili’s. It may not be great but I know what to expect. I want a big, tall, frosty Budweiser, and an Oldtimer. I don’t care who made it; I don’t care about craft or skill; I want to watch some ESPN, drink a beer, eat a decent burger, and get to bed at a reasonable time so I can get up tomorrow and do it all over again. These shitty chain restaurants provide one valuable thing: Consistency. And that’s all I want after a day of bullshit and uncertainty.

All this being said, I ate at an Applebee’s last night, because it was the only place I thought I could get something resembling food near Pullman, Washington at 8:30 at night. I ate a salad. BBQ Chicken or something like that. I felt like throwing up afterward. It was miserable. Of all the chain restaurants I’m so happy to see during my travels, because I know they have 22 oz. frosty mugs and Budweiser on tap, Applebee’s is the absolute worst. I was almost excited to eat there once I remembered Tyler Florence had developed a menu for them. Where did that go? It’s not there now.

I hate Applebee’s.