The Panama airport was just as humid as before, but I still had two more flights until I got back home. All I could think of was, "I hate airplanes". I still had two more airplanes to get on to. The flying trek to Bolivia and back was a nightmare. My dad and I were rehearsing for Around the World in 80 days, we were actually running to our next plane. We got in line, but I checked the gate number. “Dad, we’re in the wrong line.” We ran. It was down the hall. Somewhere and we only had minutes until take off. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach, ready to cry, and madly wishing to reach my homeland of Washington State.

This was August 2013, and yes, we reached the plane. I almost wish we hadn’t. I was exhausted and desperate to get home. By the time we were officially in the states, I remember the horror of customs. The lines were filled with people, and I almost asked if we were actually in Ellis Island. I was wearing the poncho I had made with the help of my maternal grandmother. Green and yellow, I felt more like a visitor than a returning citizen. Visiting Bolivia takes something out of me. It’s a country I will despise when I’m in it, but I will miss from afar.

Bolivia is a dust covered country of the proud and the poor. My grandfather’s brother, recently contacted us. He had a spaniel that resembled my Sherlock, a spaniel/dachshund cross, called Bella and I petted her almost every minute. My dad said, “He only talked to us because he heard we’re American.” I wasn’t sure what to believe, what to see in between those words. When I actually met this uncle, I saw he had a nice house. He had a large backyard, which is a rare sight, and he was making a playground for the children to play in - for a price.

In the streets, everyone has something for sale. Little clay figurines to handmade doilies, paper to popcorn, fruits and ice cream were on the streets to sale. It was constantly one great farmer’s market, 24/7, and anyone could be in it. All I could see was people competing, needing the money to finish school, buy new shoes or their own lunch. I think I saw enough of Bolivia in two months to last a lifetime, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned enough.

Visiting Bolivia takes something out of me. At twelve I would have said I loved Bolivia, from today I despise it and love it. There’s something about the dust-choking environment that I can’t forget, there’s something about the houses tucked together like people in a customs line that I adore. Yet, I would never want to build a life there. Perhaps my father’s talk about the crime in the countryside or the sights of poverty I’ve seen that keeps me from imagining anything there. This might seem like an odd thing to ponder, but it has been a possibility. My mother has been nostalgic for her native home for as long as I can remember. I recall a comment from her, “You can become a veterinarian, and start a practice in Bolivia.” It was my childhood dream to become a veterinarian, but I never dreamt of living in Bolivia.

At twelve I would have said I loved Bolivia, but today, at eighteen, I despise it and love it. There’s something about the twinkling lamp lights in the dark that I can’t forget, there’s something about the houses tucked together like people in a customs line that I adore. My mother has been nostalgic for her native home for as long as I can remember. I recall a comment from her, “You can become a veterinarian, and start a practice in Bolivia.” It may have been my childhood dream once, but now I could never imagine living in Bolivia. Perhaps my father’s talk about the crime in the countryside or the sights of poverty have kept me at a distance. Yet every time I visit Bolivia, I feel like I want to give something back. Especially to my cousin Zoe, for her children and her children's children. They're going to be a part of my family. I never want to forget that.