African tribal music playing in the airport, followed by 45 minutes of waiting through passport control and customs. Chaos and luggage and fifty languages and signs warning people not to smuggle parrots into America so we don't all die of bird flu. Good grief. Welcome home, right? But then, barely getting through the terminal doors before I see my mom rushing towards me. And then my dad. And then my 2-inches-taller-very-deep-voiced brother. And then my best friend in the whole world. It was perfect, and then to top it off we get a call from Anca that she's 20 minutes away. So, we met at the Carl's Jr. by the airport in the most ghetto part of LA, and it was in that parking lot that I laughed for the first time all day. At finally arriving and not caring that I hadn't slept in 36 hours and the neon signs blaring around me were selling "Live Girls", used cars, and fast food. Oh, the irony of it all.
Driving into Yorba Linda felt...safe; kisses goodnight, a hot shower, and my own bed. Suburbia isn't so bad sometimes.