The moment I step out of the plane door and onto the stairs, the crisp air hits my lungs like a hug I’ve been longing for. As I inhale the freshness of the wind, only one word comes to mind: home. Not because the weather feels familiar, but because of the lack of a passenger boarding bridge. Out of all the airports I’ve ever been to, only Mexico, and of course my hometown in Cuba, share this quirk of walking on the runway as you step off the plane. Cape Town, it seems, has decided to begin its story in my life with a sweet reminder: a flash of the privileges of the places I’ve been and the country I now live in.

My legs, stiff from twelve uncomfortable hours of being restrained in a seat, shuffle forward toward the first bus waiting to collect the long line of passengers carried by the massive Boeing. For a second, I ignore the dramatic thought that I should stop and kiss the ground. Passport control isn’t far, but anticipation, emotion, and fatigue, the kind that builds after thirty-two hours of travel, or should I say days, start to creep in. Even my carry-on feels heavier than usual.

Immigration, in every country, is the same: a mixing pot of cultures, visas, hopes, and dreams. We are more alike than we admit, though we insist on finding differences because our goals are not the same. Truth is, in that long line, we are all traveling away from home, temporarily or forever.

My American passport earns me a half-smile and the familiar question: “How long are you staying?” The sarcastic part of me wants to reply, “Is forever too much time?” But I swallow the not-so-funny joke and simply answer, “A week.” A stamp hits the page. Yes! I love stamps. To me, they are like gray hairs: proof of time, proof of stories, proof that one day someone will say, “Oh, I’ve been there!”

Baggage claim sends another wave of déjà vu through me. How is it that so many “third world” airports look the same? Three big flights land at once, yet only one belt is running. A flock of passengers circles the carousel like vultures, blocking any view of the luggage passing by. Note to self: being tall is fun, at least I can still see the action over the plastic case race. Note to you: get an AirTag for your luggage. It will save you from being trampled while guessing if your bag has arrived.

There it is. Two kind family men wrestle my obviously heavy, battle-scarred suitcase off the belt for me, its stamps, dents, and scratches the occupational hazards of a well-traveled companion. I drop my weekender on top, and a wave of relief washes over me, the same one you get when you have finally ticked all the big to-do’s on a travel day.

I want to rush into the bathroom to put on some makeup, but the urge to escape aerospace and everything it represents for the next few days wins out over vanity.