Second and Below

Wanna read the funny papers with your creepy Uncle Ben? There will be no cheesesteaks in this post. There will be no Liberty Bell, no Independence Hall. I am not against any of those things but time is a real thing of which I did not have much. I was presenting at U Penn for the weekend. The journey began on a Friday as we landed late into Philadelphia International Airport. My lady had booked us an Air BNB in the Dunlap neighborhood, walking distance to U Penn. This marked my second flight in a row where my Lyft driver was a pilot. This leads me to believe that pilots are either A) not getting paid nearly enough or B) they are thirsty to transport people. Minutes after getting dropped off we finagled the lock open and entered our studio. Entering an Air BNB is always the most stressful part for me. I always assume the lock won’t work and if it does, some dude will be chilling on the couch eating chips and watching porn like, “Woah, didn’t think you’d be here yet.” We had ...

I know the traveler I want to be. I want to be the guy in a sensible sports coat, carrying a brief case that can fit easily under the chair or in the overhead compartment yet is still capable of containing a lap top, a tablet, a bottle of whiskey, a vase, and a full length mirror.   All of his devices are fully charged, his gin and tonic is always half full, and he falls asleep immediately after closing his out of print hardcover biography about the father of Romanian botany. After a trans-Atlantic flight his clothes show no sign of wrinkles, his hair not even slightly tousled. There is no panic upon his exit. He does not frantically pat himself down for his wallet or passport. He is refreshed, focused, and struts off the plane confident in his purpose. He is indeed the traveler I want to be. This, however, is who I am: I’m the guy smacking everyone sitting on the aisle in the head with my backpack and carry-on duffle bag, both filled past the point of decency be...

I had flown into Roanoke late, picked up my puke green KIA rental, and drove to the Super 8 I booked near the airport. You know how in movies when the protagonist is lost at sea in a raft or stranded on a deserted island and just as they are about to give up all hope they spot a rescue party on the horizon? That exact same thing happened to me only instead of being lost at sea, I was super hungry. And instead of a rescue party, it was a Waffle House. I shouted, “YES!!!” and punched the steering wheel repeatedly when I saw the glowing yellow sign as the GPS guided me to my hotel, which shared a parking lot with the Waffle House. Within 5 minutes I had checked in, dropped off my bags, and was sitting on a stool in the Waffle House waiting for my smothered and covered hash browns. I have never booked a hotel room based on its proximity to a Waffle House but motherfucker I might. Whilst sipping on a vanilla Coke, I flipped through a travel brochure of Roanoke and the surroun...