This is my mom.
Not only does she wear her sunglasses inside (she thinks she's a g), she's from El Salvador. She moved to the US when she was 16. Ever since I found that out, I've been dying to see the country she grew up in. I guess I feel like it's kind of part of part of my history too. I've probably asked to go once a year since I was 10.
"It's not safe," she'd always say. "You're too blonde. They don't like Americans there."
But she kept telling me about her childhood there; about the trees heavy with mangoes, the beautiful beaches, the screeching monkeys, the open courtyards where everyone, including neighbors, even strangers, gather for a meal, the stray cats that will come right up to you to ask for attention, the constantly beautiful weather. And so I kept asking to go.
Now, we're finally going.
We're in the airport as I type this. I'm listening to all the people from El Salvador traveling home chatting quickly in Spanish about their families and their plans while they're at home.
It's weird -- I've never been there, but I feel like I'm going home.
I better see some monkeys.