su pais es mi pais "your country is my country"

The plane wheels hit the jet way with a screech. This was my least favorite part. I shot forward in my seat only to be braced by my seat belt and the tan arm of my fiance.
For someone who has visited many countries previously, you'd think I'd be used to the hard landings.

I'm not. But I had bigger things to worry about.

Anticipation was bubbling inside of me as we deplaned and entered customs in Queretaro, Mexico, the hometown of my fiance, Eric. This was my first visit to Mexico, and I was equipped with my fiance and a beginner's knowledge of the Spanish language. The lack of A/C was uncomfortably noticeable as beads of sweat built up on my forehead. A friendly customs agent swiftly stamped my passport, a sure sign that I'd passed the first test.

Anticlimactically, we zoomed through customs and were on Mexican soil before I could take in my surroundings.

Future in-laws, flowers, and a balloon greeted us in the tiny waiting area. The balloon danced in the night sky as we walked to the family van, mirroring the butterflies in my stomach.
Foreign words swirled around me, jarring me as much as each bump we hit on the cobblestone roads. The foreign words matching my foreign surroundings.
The dark sky obstructed most of the views, but as we came to a stop and Jaime shifted the van into park, I got my first clear view of Queretaro.

Saying it wasn't much would be an understatement. It was barely anything at all. The white walls were splattered with red paint and Spanish words I couldn't decipher. Had we not stopped in front, I probably wouldn't have noticed it at all.
"We're here". That was my introduction to Los Primos.
My van door opened and my senses were gifted with the smells and sounds that only an authentic Mexican hole-in-the-wall taco joint could produce.

In that moment, I was transformed. I stepped out of the van no longer a foreigner but a long lost native among mis paisanos (my Mexican countrymen).

Carne sizzled excitedly on the grill and the smell of fresh homemade corn tortillas became my new perfume. Real Mexican cokes were popped open and passed around. We lifted our bottles and toasted the first night of this new adventure, the bottles clinking together happily.
Mexican soda glided down my throat, simultaneously quenching my thirst and squashing my anxiety.

Unintelligible Spanish words surrounded me, but they were no longer intimidating.

Queretaro welcomed me like her long-lost child. I was home. The home I never knew I had.