I'm sitting in the C terminal at Nashville airport, waiting for some hail and lightning to clear out. My flight's now three hours behind schedule and counting, and my years-long record of having a problem on every trip is still going strong. My family refuses to travel with me.

I'm headed to California for a few quick days of organizational consulting, time with friends and--at least once--being prodded into wakefulness at 5 a.m. by four year-old Avery looking for chewing gum. I can't wait, which makes these delays all the more frustrating.

I like Nashville a lot, and most days I think moving here was the right decision. It's wonderful to see my family more than once or twice a year, to experience seasons again, and to remember houses really can cost less than $700,000.

But sometimes appreciating my new home is a lot like enjoying a long-term relationship; the decision has been made for all the right reasons, but the "in love" feelings come and go. Sometimes I long for my life back west. I did, after all, live there almost five years, longer than I've lived anywhere as an independent adult. Although I didn't realize it at the time, it became a home, and now I'm homesick.

So I choose to love Nashville, but this week I'm having an affair with California. If I ever get out of here.