My love affair with Arizona began on a runway in July

A version of this column ran Feb. 5, 2012. This is the first of two parts.

I was 14 when I first stepped off an airplane at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, the July heat baking me inside my skin like a potato.

The daughter of a Marine, I had lived all over, moving every two years or so, even to my mother’s native New Zealand when my dad went overseas.

This time, my dad had retired from the military. Phoenix was our last stop. Everywhere else we lived had been temporary; here, there was family. I could put down roots, real ones, that wouldn’t need to be dug up anytime soon.

As I stumbled toward the doors of Terminal 1 that day, feeling like a goldfish that had fallen out of its bowl and onto the tarmac, I could only wonder if my parents had moved us to hell.

But once I discovered that our new house had a swimming pool and that air-conditioning was everywhere, I began to fall in love with Arizona.

I learned to drive and packed my friends into Mom’s silver station wagon to cruise Metrocenter mall. We tubed down the Salt River in cutoffs and built bonfires in the desert after Friday-night football games.

My dad offered to send me anywhere for college. I didn’t want to leave. I had never been in one place for so long; I liked how solid it felt.

I went to Glendale Community College and to Arizona State University, where I worked on the

I spent spring breaks in Rocky Point, Mexico, and wore flip-flops to classes in January. I discovered waterskiing, rock climbing, mountain biking and the beauty of glowing pink-and-orange sunsets.

I applied for jobs in places you would expect — the

— and I would have been thrilled if hired by any of those. But I was secretly pleased when their rejection letters arrived and I was hired by the

Because I could stay.

I am still here.