Earlier today, and eleven years ago, I was in Frankfurt, Germany while passing time on my layover while coming home from South Africa. It was a completely normal day in Frankfurt, but I had this silly urge to burst out and tell everyone how important the day was - especially to me, in that year. I had just spent 5 months in a country that most of my friends didn't even have on their radar, and as much as I loved South Africa, I really wanted to be home for the Fourth.

Of course, I didn't do anything silly in Frankfurt. I was actually nervous to even speak, for fear that my lack of knowledge of the German language would offend anyone. I would pass by stores if I didn't see a display at their cash register that would show me the amount due, and would just make some mumbly sound in lieu of saying "Danka" in a possibly American accent.

Then I flew back to Newark, and left the airport for a shuttle bus to my hostel near Times Square. I remember leaving the airport and stepping into the hot, humid New Jersey July day with a strong desire to turn around and run back to the impending Cape Town winter. Still, I was home, in New York City, on July 4, 2002.