Home for Christmas.

The waiting was killing me. I worked all morning. Went to Tumbes. Kept busy with errands. Showered. Ate lunch. Visited with the health post ladies. Re-packed everything-twice.

And I still had 5 hours left until I left for the airport.

I sat on the back stoop and watched the turkeys. Clouds had rolled in, breaking the heat, and I squinted at the sun as it set behind the banana fields.

It had been a hot day. Like super hot. Can-feel-the-sun-touch-my-skin-hot. And I was enjoying the breeze.

I looked at my watch for the 80th time that day. It was 6:05 p.m. The car was picking me up at 7:30 to bring me to the airport. I knew I should eat, but the idea of food made me want to sew my mouth shut. I was too excited.

I was going home.

How I didn't give it away for 3 months, I have no idea. I'm a terrible liar. And I'm sure if my mom had been able to see me as I repeatedly fibbed about my Christmas plans, she would have called me out months ago.

"I don't know ... maybe I'll go to the beach." ... "I was thinking about maybe Lima." ... "No, mom. Peace Corps isn't allowing us to go home for the holidays." ... etc.

They were seriously pathetic. But I'm glad she believed them.

The car picked me up 20 minutes early. Despite spending the whole day preparing, I ran around one last time, making sure I had everything. My host mom hugged me twice. And my host dad hugged me for the first time ever. I promised I'd call.

They hugged me once more. I waved goodbye and hopped in.

The driver's name was Darwin. A friend of a friend from the next district over. We chatted, and I thought about how easy Spanish had become. A wave of panic hit as I questioned – yet again – if I had my passport.

The next 12 hours was a foggy blur. I flew from Tumbes to Lima. And then made my way from Lima to Miami. I slept maybe 20 minutes the entire flight. My legs were stiff. My stomach was in knots.

I daydreamed about what my parents would do. How I would greet my sister. Should I do the run and jump? Maybe a squeal? Perhaps a casual "Oh hey ... fancy meeting you here." Should I do a British accent maybe? ... you know, as a joke.

A friend of mine had told me once that when she came back after 9 months in Quito, Ecuador, she started crying when she saw the 8-lane highways out the plane window. As the plane got ready to land, I tried nonchalantly to lean my entire body over the guy next to me so I could see out the window. He gave me a weird look. I pulled back.

They told us that reverse culture shock is harder than original culture shock. And I wondered what would make me crack. The highway didn't do it for me – I live off the PanAmerican Highway. Too many choices in the grocery store? Probably not; they have big stores like that in Lima.

Even so, I lasted a whole 20 minutes in the US before I lost it.

It was in customs. The guy who stamps passports was stamping mine, and asked where I lived.

"Peru," I said.

"Ahh well, then," he said. "Welcome home."

He smiled, handed me my passport, and I had tears trickling down my cheeks before I made it the 30 meters to baggage claim.

40 minutes later, I passed a water fountain. A WATER FOUNTAIN. Free water. Perfectly clean and parasite free. I smiled. I wasn't thirsty. But it was FREE, CLEAN WATER. It tasted like I remembered.

5 minutes later, I was sipping a Starbucks House Brew while watching CNN. Jesse Ventura will have is own show? I audibly groaned. And what was going on with his ponytail. Seriously what happened to our country (our media??) in the 15 months since I left?

It was rainy, and I was nervous my flight would be delayed or – oh God, please no – canceled.

I needed to surprise my mom. I was going to give my camera to my sister's boyfriend, and he was going to film the whole thing. The car pulling up to the house. Stef and I stepping, lugging my camouflage hiking backpack and little black roller up the ice-covered sidewalk. We'd open the door – or wait, better, we'd knock. We'd knock, and my parents would answer the door together. The door would open, and a breath of fresh-cookie-smelling heat would kiss my face. My mom would register my sister's presence. Then turn to me and – gasp – could it be? Yes, it's she! And we'd hug, and cry. And she'd say how surprised she was while my dad gave me a quick side/shoulder-hug before hauling in my Peruvian dust-ridden luggage –

The flight was delayed. But not for long. And 3.5 hours after boarding the plane, I was impatiently tapping my foot behind the world's longest line on the way into the terminal of the Minneapolis airport.

When I finally broke free, I booked it. My bag hit my hip as I ran from the gate to baggage claim. It hurt. Carousel 4 Stef had told me. 4. 4. 4.

13 ... 12 ... 11 ...

8 ... 7 ... 6 ...

4! 4!

I saw her. I ran, arms stretched. We hugged. A symphony rose in the background. A deep crescendo. I started crying again. Huge tears this time. Soaking my sister's fleece.

We spun. People stared. Gawked. Swooned. What a lovely reunion! They thought. How cinematic!

During the 45 minutes driving back to my hometown, I braced myself for the shock, but it didn't come. I didn't even really mind the cold. When we pulled up to my parents' house, I started getting nervous. It suddenly dawned on me that I lied to my mom for months. I Lied. To my Mom. What an awful daughter I was! Maybe she'd be mad?

She wasn't. She screamed. Hugged me. More crying. My dad walked through the door, in his quiet astonishment, and said to no one in particular, "You're not supposed to be here."

Followed by more hugging and tears. Finally, I was home.