Christmas is one of those holidays that people in many countries celebrate. The commercialism of it has, seemingly, transcended borders. "Baby Jesus who? How about a microwave for $29.99?" One flight attendant on the plane today had crowned her hair with a felt Christmas tree and yellow Christmas ribbons for earrings. I'm wearing a red shirt. Ho ho ho.

With snow piling up all across the country, flights are delayed and cancelled, but I managed to make it to the airport with 6 inches of snow on the ground. My original flight had been cancelled ("Crew" the check-in agent said matter-of-factly when I asked why) so United rebooked me on a flight an hour earlier. Convenient seeing as I was there.

Everyone was in a cheery mood and I settled back into seat 8B on the 777 with my book, "The Global Soul: Jetlag, Shopping Malls, and the Search for Home" by Pico Iyer. Mr. Iyer, a well-traveled and internationally-grown Indian, pontificates on the notion of a Citizen of the International Empire. Home is everywhere and nowhere in particular, he says. "Sometimes I feel as if I'm going through the existential equivalent of that game I used to play as a child, in which I'd spin myself around and around where I stood, till I collapsed in a dizzy heap on the floor." More than helping to pass the time, the book resonates a familiar chord in me. Airports for an office. Air miles for currency. The local daily is USA Today or The Herald Tribune. And patriotism, as Iyer points out, isn't necessarily for a country, but for a particular airline.

The worst possible question to ask a Global Soul is, therefore: "Where are you from?" Andrea, my neighbor on the plane today, leaned over and asked me this question in an effort to strike up conversation. My response has become habitual over the years: "What do you mean?" The interviewer often twists her mouth and cocks her head sideways -- she has never been asked for clarification before. It's so clear to her. "Where is home?" they try to explain. "Well, how would you define home?" I respond with just a hint of a smirk, attempting to give her a glimpse of just how difficult her question is to answer. At this point, she realizes that she has tread dangerously beyond the realm of small talk. I reach in to save her. "If you define home by where one is born, then I am from New York. If you define home as where one's parents live, then that is Berlin. If you define home by the citizenship you hold, then I am both British and American. And if you define home by 'where the heart is', then I shall say Paris, France." I smile and return the favour. "And where are you from?" Without thinking, "Alabama."

Everywhere and no where in particular, I love airports because they bring together such an interesting diversity of people. No one is 100% sure of where they're going or when they'll get there. Living at the mercies of machines, we schlep around in these small generic cities (DFW is larger than Manhattan) watching others schelp around.

Waiting for flights today, I met two people who couldn't have been more different. Tom, a rancher from Wyoming who lamented the mechanical delay on our plane: "Horses may be lazy, but they sure as hell never get a fuel leak." Tom was on his way to Copenhagen, his first international trip in nearly 20 years, he told me, to surprise an very old friend on his 75th birthday. With the fuel leak, it appeared that he would miss his connection and the party all-together. He was a good conversationlist (for a rancher) and we bantered about weather and flying.

A few hours later, at a different gate, I met Kerrat. An Indian, he was a retired Johnson & Johnson executive. A small frame, with rich coffee skin, Kerrat sat quietly next to his wife with his briefcase upright on his lap. A warm smile danced on his face when he leaned over and asked me where I was going. Kerrat and his wife were on their way to Bombay, he told me proudly, where they would be spending the next 6 months. "It's a dirty, crowded city," he acknowledged. "But... it is home for us." He told me stories of his visits to Zurich and Strasbourg, and of being in Berlin when the wall fell. "My daughters, they told me go to wall and bring pieces home. Everyone was going, so I did hop a ride with the bellboy from my hotel." Even his chuckle had a bit of an Indian accent to it. "There was much happiness and joy that day for certain!"

I am reminded of how at home I feel in places like airports. Certainly not because of the impersonal coffee shops and duty-free stores, but because of the people. I like to think of my self as a bit of the Europeans and Kerrat mixed in with a dose of Tom.