A thud hits as the undercarriage is deployed for landing. Outside, the lights of North Dublin grow closer like a swirl of summer haze. A bright light breaks from within the dark cabin, and the woman next to me flicks through picture after picture of embraces in bright Spanish tones.

The full circle of travel, the full circle of the pandemic. The circle beginning at lockdown with the longing presence of beloved ones, right through Zoom calls of forced smiles. Through the grim closeness of death tolls in six p.m. news and the amiable hope of the vaccination centres.

Her smile softens as she pulls a handkerchief to wipe a timid tear, and her phone now heavy with memories reaches her pocket as hard as the aircraft finally touches down. The flight from Santander and across the Cantabric has arrived shortly after midnight, guarded by sleepy airport agents ready to return to their beds.

A scene nested in my head as I drive home. Strangers sharing a parallel on a Ryanair flight. I stop halfway home for diesel, stretching my legs and taking gulps of cold air. I look at my phone and flick through photos that the pandemic has now turned into precious memories of plump lunches under the cypress trees of Castile and Leon, cold surf in the golden sands of Sardinero, and UFO stories with churros con chocolate.

At home, I prepare myself a late cup of coffee with a hint of anxiety. On my phone, I send the pictures to my aunt and thank her for the times in Valladolid. On my laptop, I book the plane tickets to finally see my family after a three-year absence.

Soon I land in Madrid again, and email after email, I work my way across cafes from Moncloa to Malasaña. At night in Barajas, all eyes turn across the Atlantic: last call for Buenos Aires, Montevideo or Lima. Guayaquil, Asuncion and Santa Cruz next. On the Dreamliner, my light cough is muffled under the face mask and a pill sends me into a tranquil voyage of dark clouds and cabin lights.

The cabin overloads with the hope oozing from underneath hundreds of face masks on final approach at early sunrise. The premise of a new day in South America finally bringing fulfilment to absent hearts.
Next is a blur. Next is what I manage to write after.

‘I rush out of the aircraft to find a long queue of immigration and pandemic controls. There is no disease and there is no sorrow. There is my mother and there is a hug. That hug. The one that cuts through breathing like a sharp knife and numbs feelings with the power of an electric outlet.‘

The late spring looms outside the airport terminal, where entire families await for passengers al fresco due to pandemic restrictions. Across the city, I battle jet lag with copious amounts of foamy craft coffee, its chocolate notes blending with the hazy orange sunset of early October in perfect tropical harmony.

I find myself in days of morning walks across avenues of leafy palm trees, their branches singing a refreshing melody of quaintness to the cool matinal breeze. I find myself existing in catch ups of cold and sweet watermelon crescents. I find myself laughing out loud underneath the shade of colourful jacarandas and tamarind juice at night.

And where the Andes break the continental monotony and rises victorious towards the blue thin air, my stepdad wins the night with seafood pasta and tannat. In the little cozy cabin, the silence is broken in llueve sobre mojado when the dim lights reflect on empty glasses of wine now filled with mirth. And in the distance, echoing across the dark mountains, a circus announces a two-for-one special from under a makeshift blue tarpaulin flapping at the Andean wind.

Opting for a wander, I treat my parents to a escape. At the travel agent’s office, a humble man lurches over a glass desk and practices canned answers for his U.S. visa interview. The clerk rushes with my plane tickets across the empty room as she loudly recites:

– ‘So where is it that you are going? Houston. Repeat after me, Houston.’
– ‘I thought it was Miami? ‘
– ‘You are transiting in Miami. Remember to tell them that at the embassy.’
– ‘Will they approve my visa?’
– ‘If you have the right answers they will. Now, back to the basics: remember what will you do there? A visit to some colleagues.‘

I pay and later enjoy an Arab lunch with friends in the heat. Darted questions and answers of a pandemic lived in the tropics and now seasoned with parsley and relief.

At midnight, the plane lands in a place called Tarija, and early in the morning, when the city is still asleep, I walk towards the colonial main square for coffee and freshly made pastries.
Small, clean and walkable, the place boasts the meandering lines of baroque in its façades, yet with a touch of modernity in its beef-based gastronomy.

The map shows us bordering Argentina and transplanted into a sunny valley plentiful in fruit, vegetable and most importantly, vineyards. Tipsy episodes of indulgence, right in the heart of South America.

‘We started the day in a high tech winery. The wine here grows at 1,800 meters above sea level, benefiting from sunshine, cool weather and winds. Imported mostly from France, the varieties grown here have won several international awards, most notably the Tannat variety, which here has found a new lush home.
Adored by the mind, hated by the gut. We next visited a singani factory, which is a grape-based spirit native of this region. Tangy and strong, like the midday sunshine upon us.
Ah, but to lounge on a balcony with a cheeseboard overlooking thousands of acres of vineyards in South America. Now that, that is the dream.‘

From the airplane to the car, across the Eastern Lowlands for a visit to the unvaccinated. Extinguished volcanoes now collapsing against the passing of time, in this region so rewardingly slow. The day grows heavy like the ripe mango trees closing around me in the heat, and stolen cars with fake license plates drag race over streets of red sand at a time in which the church bells of the Jesuit mission ring and conquer over the clamorous chirping of green parrots.

The last days are of pure and monotonous indulgence. A parade of tender beef lunches and sweet dulce the leche. Cross-legged mornings in the shelter of the air conditioned malls sipping on coffee and just being. Being alive when many have perished, being shareful when we were guarding ourselves, being present when we were previously absent.

On my last evening in South America, the sky dresses in coral at sunset. I sip on an orange juice and reflect on previous versions of my life when handed a fresh white towel at the Tennis Club. I feel the warm water of the swimming pool supporting my weightless back, floating vulnerable in front of a warm night of starry audience.

There is little crying in delayed emotional responses at the airport. A cold hug amongst the commotion of a departure outside the main terminal. There are no Cinnabon or last call tears, but a hasty return to Ireland during a pandemic. Bags are sniffed at the airbridge by a frisky German shepherd. Diligent for finding drugs and thankfully useless for finding sadness.

Air Europa closes operations for the day and the Dreamliner abruptly dips and rises from over the dark cumulonimbus. And just like the lady in the plane when landing from Santander a while ago, I find myself flicking through my own memorabilia upon landing in Dublin. Mere pictures in the past, a treasure chest in the present and future.

Indeed, if in the past I travelled to escape reality, I now travel to embrace it.

I have, we have, come the full circle.