Thwack! A faint sting replaced what was once the itch of a biting flea. Shimmering light pierced through the oppressive, humid air like daggers. A rooster – any one of the dozens that lined the cages surrounding the makeshift cockfighting ring outside – made its morning call. “This is exactly what you wanted”, I thought to myself; “something different, something authentic.” In terms of vacationing in Puerto Rico, it didn’t get much more authentic than Hatillo. Far from the tourist traps of San Juan, staying at the childhood home of a native Puerto Rican friend offered a different, yet equally beautiful view. The sounds from outside were soon drowned out by that of dissonance beyond the bedroom door. “I promised by grandparents I’d visit. Are you guys coming or not?” one voice said. “Take the car, but we’re staying.” I heard another respond. I thought to myself that this was bound to happen – that in my still-blossoming travel life, I had seen conflicting interests crack the façade of pre-trip unity and planning amongst even the best of friends. It was only a matter of time before lightning struck here. Shortly after, I was gazing out the window of our rental car, taking in the open roads, hills, and farms along the 60-mile drive southwest to San German. Some simple math done back at the house had convinced me that going with our friend Josh to finish the trip at his grandparents’ house would be the most diplomatic option. In doing so, I was evening the score between the emerging “stay” or “go” factions, at two apiece. The sun beat down upon the black pavement that stretched before us, and along the roads, the occasional sight of scaly green roadkill replaced the deer and possums I was used to seeing. For the first time, I was truly a world removed from home. Eventually, the wheels slowed as Josh pulled us into the narrow driveway of a home perched halfway up a large hill. I exited the vehicle and admired the panoramic view of the neighborhood below, as well as the homes dotting the forest-covered landscape above. Two elderly figures soon met us outside. Under the cover of a gray fedora and a salt and pepper mustache, Sam greeted me with friendly eyes and a smile. His wife Concepcion – diminutive in size while holding the presence and dignity of a proud Taino descendant – followed suit. Over the next few days, the two welcomed me into their home as if I were one of their own. They took us to the bioluminescent bay in nearby Lajas, watched Puerto Rico’s win over the US in the World Baseball Classic with us, and filled our bellies with chuleta fritas. It wasn’t until sharing a bit about my Irish American heritage that Josh’s grandparents suggested going to Boquerón for their annual St. Patrick’s Day parade. With my interest piqued, I agreed to go. Upon arriving to Boquerón, I looked down quizzically at the scene that developed in the town square. Next to Puerto Rican flags, the Irish tricolor fluttered in the wind. Guinness was consumed by the pint at street-side bars by drinkers adorned with green beads and clothing, their sun-kissed skin juxtaposed against the stereotypical red beards of leprechauns. A procession moved down the street, and a familiar sound rang through the air. Flanked by a small motorcade and flag-bearers, a solo bagpiper marched along. Though short in stature, he appeared almost larger than life, the eyes of the town drawn on him and the pipes standing tall above him as he played a set of Irish tunes with masterful skill. It was only then that I had a bit of an epiphany. As travelers, we salivate at the opportunity to go to distant lands and experience something different. It’s what drives many of us through the monotonous routine of life back home. However, what is exotic to us is familiar to others, and vice versa. This shared appreciation and curiosity between us as humans makes it more likely that no matter where you are, you’ll see shades of home. You can only go so far on the globe until you start heading back home, after all.