Our plane banks slowly around to approach from the South, giving us a spectacular view of the massive city spread out before us. From our height, we can make out crumbling old colonial churches and brilliantly-purple trees, shining skyscrapers and cobblestone streets. We swoop low past the Bosque de Chapultepec, where a gleaming old castle (former home of the Spanish viceroys) looks out over the city.

Over the runway now, and as our wheels touch the tarmac she leans towards me expectantly. This is our tradition, of course.

I lean close, and whisper into her ear, "Welcome to Mexico." Tears immediately spring to her eyes, much as they did the first time we landed here.

I know how she feels. When we're not traveling, it feels like there's a part of us that's always sleeping, waiting for the next adventure. And then when we hit the road, it roars to life again and we remember that this is what it feels like. It feels comforting, somehow. Familiar. Safe.

It feels like we have two homes. One is our little fishing shack up in Cape Cod. And the other is the one hiding in our backpacks. It's that home that we're returning to now.

It's nice to be home again.