In the early morning, the fog in Viru Viru is a fresh omen of the hot summer day ahead and turns the sunrise bright pink. Swift good-byes are delayed until the last minute, when the heart is in a conflict between ripping off the band aid at once and move airside as fast as possible, or relish on the last minute of it until the last call is announced.
There are very few tears this time. Tears have been replaced by the joy of conquests in Ireland, about victories over visas and jobs. Leaving Viru Viru this time is not a vague ‘see you soon’ but a firm ‘see you later’.

Airside, I flick through my laptop pictures and smile. The pictures of a country getaway to the lowlands with my brother and father, the car breaking down every hundred miles, covered in dust. The unbearable heat and mosquito bites, the walks to Heaven’s Lobby in Tucavaca Valley. A trip that had a bit for everyone, for those I love in my family and those I grew up with in the swim team and school.

I board the departure to Lima and leave in peace knowing I will be back soon. I leave for another year of hard work, of progress. The life of the immigrant.
As we land in Lima, the stewardesses at the back sign a salsa while tidying up the galley and outside the sun shines over Callao. I connect onto a flight to San Jose de Costa Rica and sleep right after lunch is served. In San Jose, I change to another plane and we depart in the turbulent late afternoon in Central America, dodging rough air for an hour before landing into San Salvador Airport early at night.

In San Salvador, the tone of the trip changes. Gone are the warm nights and freshly squeezed fruit juices. Smiles are gone and have once again changed for closed faces bloated from crying. The life of the immigrant.
On the gate for the flight to Washington a queue of families carry heavy bags across the hall and on the gate for the flight to New York , I join the queue of heavily bundled passengers bracing for ice on arrival.

The last flight of the day is silent. The passengers’ sleep only interrupted by thuds or shouts on the inflight chick-flick being played overhead, or the seldom call bell calling for assistance. From the Gulf of Mexico, we enter the Eastern seaboard. I see Atlanta, Charlotte and finally Jamaica Bay.
The airport is eerie at two in the morning and I find a corner next to the JetBlue counters to nap for a couple of hours.

A floor polisher roars and awakes me. Around me I hear the clickity-clack of heels dragging suitcases. I wash my face and repeat the routine: Airtran and Subway line A to Manhattan.
I grab a Starbucks and grab a seat by the window, watching the thin snow blowing across Eight Avenue like a mini-blizzard. My mother’s friend meets me and we enjoy pastries before she takes a train to Poughkeepsie. I stop by Macy’s and purchase some basics before heading to the Amish Market for lunch with my Irish friend.

And so, once I return back to John F. Kennedy Airport with an Aer Lingus boarding pass in hands, I feel as if I had one foot on each side of the Atlantic, on each side of my life.
‘Shamrock Heavy 108’ departs late in the afternoon and I collapse in exhaustion shortly after I barely touch my spaghetti bolognese. My seat mate waking me up four hours later, when the lights of Howth are visible through the window and the undercarriages have been deployed.

I land in Dublin after being absent for an entire month. The immigration officer nods and stamps my brand new permanent resident permit. He welcomes me back to Ireland, he welcomes me back home.