Almost two years of absence have gone by and, just when the body and mind are finally resting from the stressful rhythm of the past months, consequence of the studying/working full-time/training routine, I find myself aboard the flying Shamrock, destination London Heathrow.

Just as I transfer through terminals, memories of that Easter weekend in 2009 are constantly invading my mind.
The airport has not changed much. The dark corridors and yellow signs are still there, as well as the glassed Virgin Atlantic building, the long corridors and the common waiting area of Terminal 3 is still untouched, that same place in which I once waited anxiously for a flight to Qatar, back when I was a merely 22-year old, back when I properly started my long traveling journey.

I somehow feel privileged to be flying a Boeing 747 this time, the mighty ‘Queen of the Skies’ as some would call it, in a world in which efficient twin-engine aircrafts have taken over the long haul journeys, making air travel less glamorous but also more accessible for free spirits like mine.

The plane heavily takes off from the busy runway and a 10-hour flying time is announced, a flight spent sleeping, watching the last ‘Jurassic Park’ movie, a few comedies and… more sleeping.

The heavy headwinds and turbulence announce our entry to the United States’ East Coast, minutes before starting a bumpy descend into Miami International Airport.

Little has changed in the airport since the last time I was here, although clearing immigration under the Visa Waiver Program has become more efficient, thanks to some conveniently located totems in which a picture is taken , a few questions are answered and a print out is then given, welcoming you into the U.S.
I leave the air conditioned airport fortress to face the hot Floridan weather, at the sound of ‘Miami’ by Will Smith, and meet my cousin at the arrivals hall.

A few minutes later, I am immersed in the world of American suburbia, in an endless row of gated neighborhoods, green lawns and minivans, with only minutes to refresh and, in between familiar catch ups, enjoy another one of America’s passions: eating out.
Tonight’s specialties are a mixture of Puerto Rican dishes, smothered with bottles of Corona beer, under the clear midnight skies of Florida.

In the morning, I am driven to the airport to catch a rather uneventful morning flight to the city of Panama, which is only about three hours away from Miami and reached through a wet approach over the Central American mountains and a sharp U-turn over the Pacific Ocean.
Almost three hours are spent in Tocumen Airport, which looks like it has seen better days and could do with a bit of makeover (although the structure of a massive new airport can be seen nearby).
And just as the sun sets, my flight departs from the ‘Hub of the Americas’ for a five-hour flight over the dark Amazon basin and into the city of Santa Cruz de la Sierra.

The small airport has received a few upgrades and we are efficiently separated into different queues, impressively clearing everything in no more than ten minutes.
Indeed, this efficiency is always welcomed as my stomach shrinks at the anticipation of that moment, the one when the arrivals halls is reached and where the faces you have missed for almost two years are finally there to be touched, kissed and hugged, starting a few days of family time and days in which one feels complete.
That is where the heart is, that is family home.

I am driven through the recently upgraded motorway into a city that has seen many changes over the past two years, product of a temporary economical prosperity, thanks to the fluctuation of raw material prices worldwide, and a left-wing government that has spent its resources in ‘propaganda’ projects.
Nevertheless, the city seems to be doing extremely well and foreign brands and shopping centres are sprawling like mushrooms.

The rain seems to have followed me from Ireland, and I face a row of hot and rainy days whilst enjoying some quality time with the family around luscious barbeques by the pool, espresso cups and long chats with my father in the city centre, and snacks with some old friends.

I realise that the past two years have been life-changing for many people around me, that just as much as the city has changed, the aspects around the life of its inhabitants have changed as well.
With this, I soon learn that a large amount of money can bring you happiness, but having enough to live the life you want can make you feel complete.
That those strong connections we thought we once lost, can always be recovered and of course, that happiness is only real when shared.

During the weekend, my mother, stepfather and I, leave the noise of the city and, two hours later, reach our little hideaway nestled in the Pre-Andean mountains, in the town of Samaipata.
Of course, as the visitor, spoiling me is the main premise, so homemade pasta is the choice for dinner, conveniently enjoyed with a glass of the best Argentine red wine an at by the warmth of a open fire, continuing with a night of chats and story-sharing.

Week one has now passed by.
The body is finally feeling rested and the clean morning air of the mountains is strongly inhaled, whilst my mind embraces the moment around me: a well-deserved time of happiness, shared with the ones you care the most (and topped by a delicious homemade paella enjoyed later).