“Howdy bud. Welcome to the Comerite Inn. Where ya from?”
“Northern California,” I say, dropping my bags on the lobby floor.
“California, huh? I’ve never been there. Anyway, consider this your home for a few days.”
“Thanks. I’m just glad to be on solid ground.”
While I fill out the registration form, he references the hotel’s amenities, “Breakfast is served from six to nine. Ice is next to the elevator. And every room comes with free wi-fi.”
“Before I go to my room, could you point me to a restaurant within walking distance? I’d like to get something light before it gets too late.”
“Save your feet; the hotel shuttle can take you; no charge.”
“No thanks, after sitting all day, I could use the walk.”
Confused, but caring and concerned, he replies, “Really? Walk? It’s at least a quarter mile to the closest restaurant.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that.”
“Yep, that’s why I suggested the van.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I clarify “I’d prefer a longer walk. Anything about a mile down the road?”
Inspecting me as if I just said, “I like stabbing sharp objects in my eyes,” he continues, “A mile? You sure you don’t want me to call the driver?”
“No, just the directions.”
“Partner, nobody walks around these parts. It’s just not done.”
“So if you’re dieting, or just want to get exercise, what do you do?”
He references his large belly, overhanging his belt and pants by several inches, “Do I look like someone dieting who ‘gets exercise?’”
“Oops, sorry. However, I’d still like to walk.”
“To be honest, I don’t know how to walk there because it’s all highway. If you had a car, I’d say take I-35 about a mile. Turn right. You’ll see Rosita’s.”
“So, why can’t I just walk?”
“I wouldn’t recommend anyone walk the interstate, too dangerous.”
“What about the frontage road? I don’t need to go on the freeway.”
“No sidewalks.” He points to the street.
“I see. So what do you do if you just need to go a couple of blocks?”
“I told you; hop in the SUV. This city’s built for tires, not feet. Let me see if Shelly knows a way to walk there.”
Calling out to the stockroom behind the registration desk, he bellows, “Hey, Shel; a guest wants to walk to Rosita’s. How would he do that?”
From behind the wall, a woman’s voice responds, “Walk? Huh? Doesn’t he know there’s a shuttle?”
“Yep, still wants to walk.”
“Did you tell him it’s free?”
“Sure did, I think it’s a ‘California thing’.” He smiles at me. I nod knowingly.
“Can’t do it, he’d be road kill,” she calls, “shuttle’s his only option — unless he wants to eat upstairs.”
He looks back at me, shrugging his shoulders. “Might as well just use our restaurant. Save yourself the hassle. Safer too.”
Accepting the inevitable, I nod, “Where’s your restaurant?”
“Second floor. Take the elevator on the right.”
“Can you point me to the stairs?”
“Stairs, are you kidding?”
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