Home Sweet Home

How I know I'm home:
My seatmate and I exhange smiles at the sight of the Manhattan skyline through the airplane window--and a sense of calm immediately washes over me, temporarily displacing the nausea that overtook me as we began our bumpy descent. When we land, and all the passengers around me instinctively reach for their cellphones, I overhear one-sided conversations in at least three different languages. We arrive at the gate 12 minutes early--even though New York got more than a foot of snow in the previous 24 hours, and the blizzard alert was only lifted 3 hours before we landed. As I walk to the baggage claim area, I glance out the window and see where all the snow has gone: snow plows have created a mountain of snow at least 25 feet high outside the terminal entrance. But there is no snow on the runways, nor did I see any from my airplane window when we reached the gate.
(Meanwhile, at Chicago's O'Hare Aiport, where the snow stopped falling 20 hours before my flight would have left--had I been departing from O'Hare instead of Midway--at least half the flights were cancelled and I'd bet the other half were delayed).
The temperature outside is 15 degrees fahrenheit (feels like 0 degrees, with the wind chill factor) and the line for the taxis is at least 80-deep--and I don't mind. I am so happy to see the familiar yellow cabs and the transit cops with their thick Bronx accents and heavy jackets yelling at cabs and other vehicles to "Move along!" that I don't even notice how cold it is until I try to tell the cab driver where I'm going and realize my lips are numb.
I give my African cab driver directions in French--and a $4.50 tip (on a $16.50 cab fare) since he got me home in 16 minutes and carried my luggage to the sidewalk.
My husband opens the front door to our apartment before I can even put my key in the lock. And tells me "Welcome home--I missed you." Then kisses me before I can tell him how much I missed him too.
It's good to be home.