George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Houston, Texas

We had predictably mixed feelings as we rode out to Ezeiza Airport in the remise. Happy to be going home, sad to be ending the trip. Before we started traveling, Michael and I would look at the world map in our bedroom every night, tracing out potential routes down South America, talking about what we wanted to see and reiterating our impatience to begin.

And one night I said, "You know, right now we have three months to wait to start the trip, but one day we'll be getting on that first bus, and then we'll be halfway through, and then it will be over and we'll be coming home, and then one day it will be a whole year since we've been back." And of course that's all glaringly obvious but still we were both like, whoa. Because you don't want to think about it ending when you're still in the middle of looking forward to it.

But that's how time is. Everything ends. Wonderful moments and terrible moments and neutral moments. I see that as a little grudging bit of fairness in world where some kids go to school and other kids shine shoes. The best times end, but hey, that means the worst times end too, so we have to let those best times go.

But then, the ending of the trip does not exactly signify the beginning of bad times! Michael and I are incredibly lucky to be in a position where our hard work pays off and can actually provide us with things and experiences. We earned this trip, and we can earn anything else we want out of life. Next goals: A wedding. A brownstone in the Village. In the meantime, the best thing: our life together. We took such a long trip because we didn't want it to end. But if everything ends, then even a year-long trip must end. And we're ready for that. Mostly.

At the airport we got one last taste of the pain-in-the-butt side of traveling. Apparently some terrorist plot had been uncovered and as a result, airline passengers are not allowed to carry any type of liquid onto the planes. This includes liquids bought on the airport premises, so there goes our idea of bringing home a couple of bottles of Argentine wine. Unless we wanted to put them in our checked luggage, but that doesn't strike me as particularly smart.

The rule was new as of yesterday, and airline employees were still a little undecided on exactly what constitutes a liquid. But they did know, based perhaps on the edict that something like mascara was to be considered a forbidden liquid, that the rules were very, very strict. Some American woman in a red sweater carped for about fifteen minutes that her confiscated water bottle had been empty, she'd emptied it on purpose.... And there was a fairly long group discussion about whether I could bring a small quiche, purchased ten feet away from the gate and within the security checkpoint, onto the plane with me. (Final verdict: yes.) I can't blame them for being careful. But I couldn't help but think, "A quiche? For real?"

The plane ride was surreal. Our seatback screens tracked the plane's progress over South America en route to our destination of Houston, Texas. It took only an hour before we were creeping up on Asuncion, when it had taken us hours and hours on the bus to come from there. Michael nudged me as we passed over Santa Cruz, Bolivia and I looked down to see concentric rings of light far below.

That circle in the middle was our central park. Straight down below us, we had sat on a bench and drunk cafe cortado purchased from a white-coated vendador ambulante and felt so happy to be alive. It was as beautiful above as it was from within. But it was weeks ago that we were there, how had we gotten back so quickly? And why didn't anyone rush onto the plane to sell us empanadas?

And then, in the morning, George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, Texas. The baggage handlers were all black. Upstairs in the enormous immigration room, the officers seemed to be all white. This matters again. I don't float, dollar-green, outside of color issues here.

As usual I presented my passport with a goofy smile and as usual the official did not seem to care at all that I was back in the United States. It's always kind of a letdown when they just glance at me and then send me on. Like, don't you know where I've been? Don't you care what I've seen? Nope. For him it's just one more boring day at work, and soon enough that's going to be me again. I really wanted him to say "welcome home," but I guess I should be glad I was let in without problems.

Customs tried to punish us for mixing our things together ("shuddena done that") by sending us aside to have our bags examined. But the examiner turned out to be a photographer ("this isn't the only thing I do, you know") who said he'd been put out of business by the digital age. He seemed to feel a certain photographal fraternity with Michael, and he let us go after a very half-hearted peek into Owen.

And we were back in the United States. English all around us. Every conversation available for eavesdropping. Tabloids splashed with photos of people I've actually heard of. Lots of announcements beginning with "At this time, we'd like to go ahead and..." Nothing's ever "now" at the airport, even when it is.

I got angry for a minute in the ladies' room when there was no trash can in the stall with me. What am I supposed to do, throw used toilet paper on the floor like an animal? Cause, hey, I'll do it and it won't be my fault. And then I remembered. You throw it directly into the toilet and it just... flushes away somewhere. Whoa.

How is it that yesterday I was standing in front of the grave of Eva Peron and today I am standing in front of a toilet in Texas, confused about how to use it? Bus travel allowed everything to happen so gradually. I saw each house flash (or crawl) by the window and I felt the transition from country to country and region to region with every one of my senses. It was so much more organic than stepping into a plane and stepping out twelve hours later having to use different colored money.

We didn't have much time to reflect, because our connecting flight to Atlanta was leaving shortly, so we had to hurry onto another plane and make another drastic leap in space to our desination.