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When we went through customs in Hub City, the inspector looked at my passport and said, "Where are you flying to?"

"Snowstorm City," I said. Well, I said the real name, not the pseudonym. After eight hours on a plane, I was looking forward to going home and sleeping in my own bed.

He looked up from the document he was stamping. "Good luck with that."

What? Last time I had talked to anyone from home, I'd gotten reports of warm weather and sunshine. But it turns out that while we were flying across the ocean, a snowstorm was moving across the east coast, closing airports everywhere.

As we walked through Hub City Airport, we saw long lines of people at ticket counters, trying to get flights to someplace, anywhere. We saw people sitting on the floor, lying down on their coats to take naps. The young man in uniform at our gate said cheerfully, "We are looking for people who are willing to get bumped, but we can't put you up in a hotel – everything is booked – and we probably can't get you out of here for days."

The flight was late, but Snowstorm City Airport stayed open. That's one advantage of living in Snowstorm Region – we have the equipment for removing snow. Sixteen hours after we'd left my daughter's flat, we hit the icy runway in Snowstorm City, snow blurring the windows of the plane as it screeched to a stop. We were home.