I left the hot 98 degree Santiago air to land in a snowstorm in Boston. After a 15-hour journey, the freezing air slapped me in the face as the automatic doors opened to let me out. Disorientated and dehydrated, I bumped into a man on my way out of the plane. “I’m so sorry. I am sorry,” I cried out.

“It’s ok,” he snarled back. Ahh, yes, the frigid air irritating my skin, the cold remarks of strangers refusing to make eye contact, and the monitor announcing flights every few minutes. Logan Airport, we meet again.