Who Will Meet Me in Alaska?

I just realized something. When I meet a person, I must find out where they're from before I can shake his/her hand. The reason, you ask?

Well, let me give you a scenario:

I find out that Adam is from California. I have just met him. I am from New York. I shake his hand and our hands become Nebraska in my mind's eye. My hands feel dry, yet meaty. Well-fed and plump. Although, on the exterior they are the same amalgamation of chicken bones.

Do you see what happened there?

I met Parisian Pierre. My hands were clammy, moist. I met Jaime, from Mexico. My hands were ten gallons and again well-fed. On winter days I hold hands with my South African princess chicle. In the summer, who will meet me in Alaska?