I could live here.

The wife misunderstood me. "You could never live with the traffic."

I don't mean in Denver. I mean here.

In DIA.

We were standing by the non-velvet velvet rope that keeps guests back from the gate for arriving passengers, waiting for youngest son on this, the second morning of the new year. Watching the cowboy-hatted greeters directing travelers whereever they wanted to be. Like Wal-Mart greeters, presumably in preparation for the big stock show soon to come to this city.

Youngest son's plane was late, so we had taken our time getting to the airport. And enjoyed a leisurely second breakfast at the French restaurant on the second floor.

As we paid for our mochas, raspberry scone and chocolate bundts, a tall, thin, manicured but harried mother went by with two small children trailing behind. She was clearly trying to get them something to eat, but didn't know what. I couldn't understand what they were saying, much less what language it was, but I heard the boy say "leché".

He wants milk, I explained to the wife. I don't know what else they're saying, but he said he wants "milk".

"That's good," the woman behind us in line announced, a complete stranger 5 seconds before. By all appearances, an unremarkable American housewife. "If you can order milk, at least you won't starve."

Turns out she can order "milk", and all the other basic essentials, in eighteen different languages in eighteen different countries.

Eighteen!

The people you meet in airports.

And the ones you see.

As we dined, I had my back to the aisle, and didn't have time to turn on the camera when the wife snickered and nodded to my left. Turning, I saw a large, western-hatted man in a drover's coat walking away.

With a pink and green backpack hanging over his shoulder, and the blonde head of a large doll hanging out.

No daughter in sight, but clearly there must be one.

The wife also pointed out the young woman, probably European, carrying a snowboard.

With white snow still clinging to the cleats.

Yeah, we're that close to the ski slopes in this state.

When youngest son called to tell us they'd landed, we went below by the fountain to wait his arrival. It is one of the most remarkable, uplifting ways to spend a few minutes, standing where family and friends greet long-missed travelers.

The young woman crossing the ropes to hug her friend or sister, the tall boyfriend/husband lugging the carryone luggage standing a foot away, almost ignored.

The young couple walking past, her carrying a lime-green poster with "Welcome Home RJ" hand-written on it.

"You're not really going to hold that up, are you?" her escort asked.

She did. He helped. And later, RJ, with a military-looking buzzcut, carefully rolled the poster in his hands as they left.

Another welcome card was written on a spare piece of cardboard. But there were at least four people holding it up when the young woman named in black pen broke into a huge grin.

The disembarking passengers come up to our level on two escalators, or up two flights of stairs. And they come in flocks, presumably the contents of each plane are regurgitated separately. We have fun watching the first ones scamper up and out, followed by the great mass of people, and then the leisurely stragglers.

Then nothing for a minute or two, until the next plane's contents are delivered.

A throng of people come up, and almost all are dressed in light jackets or suits.

Nope, that's not his plane. We've been watching his weather in Arch City. They've been almost as cold as we, and there in the great river valley, the humidity is high.

You feel the cold more than in our dry climate. It cuts right through your clothes. These folks clearly came from some place warm. Texas, or Florida, or California.

Maybe Las Vegas.

And are in for a real shock as soon as they step outside.

The next mass of humanity is dressed appropriately for our weather, and includes our tall redhead. After retrieving his luggage, we head west, towards the mountains.

And I stop to grab a shot of the western gargoyle.