The morning before I drove her to the airport The Guardian reported that five bombings in the northern city of Kano had occurred the previous night and killed over 170 people. National alerts proclaimed the obvious: don’t fucking go to Nigeria.

That was two weeks ago and my gal is finally coming home. She said it was the toughest country she’d ever been to, and that’s saying something considering she’s traveled to over 30 countries in the world. Next up: Myanmar. I might have to tag along.

We’re approaching an era of stability in our lives. There is one roof and only one city. We’re taking the same trips and creating memories together. I found my tripod last week in a garage housing decades-worth of belongings I’ve left behind and mostly forgotten. This was the first time I’d used it since…some time ago.

Milk, packaged behind this phenomenal door – adjacent to an auto shop – ready to be delivered every day.

The elevator doors opened and I barely advanced far enough for them to close. A big bear hug and a kiss distracted me from my luggage and it careened over with a loud thud. “Yay!” is all I heard. She made me quesadillas with tortillas made out of nopales and we had chocolate-dipped strawberries for dessert. We marveled at making it a year without each other. We survived. We quickly began planning trips across Mexico for the next month. She’s been here two years. She’s going to miss it.

There will be many more evenings of reflection, many more embraces. But we hope there aren’t any more years apart. Once was enough. The heart grew fonder, but also said “enough is enough, dude.” This is my next chapter. This is my future. I’m back where I’m supposed to be. Now I need to incorporate recording equipment into our lives.

These are my next two destinations over the next three days. New York City is a farewell trip to the new friends I’ve made over the last year. Mexico City is the reunion I’ve been anticipating for the last year. Patience is something I refined over the year, but it’s completely lost at this point. I’ve been away from my fiancee since July 2009. Time is simply an obstacle at this point.

The finish line is Mexico City and I’m three days away.

8 cities. 12 months. I don’t know how to reflect on a year of recording Latinos and Latinas in the United States, so I’ll simply say thank you.

I imagine my thoughts will be riddled with vignettes, flashbacks and snippets of participant’s stories for the rest of my life.

Tomorrow is my last day of recording. It’s unlikely I’ll be a ball of mush. It’s just not my style. But it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. This role – the most unique position I may ever hold – is a gift. The cuentos, historias, canciones, and dichos will be with me forever. From the Pachucos in Los Angeles, the Braceros in Fresno, the Coyotes (not the smuggling kind) in Albuquerque and the countless participants who shared the most intimate details about their culture and identity and let me listen, I say gracias. Above, a participant talks about the importance of oral history and the preservation of her community’s culture.

Almost a year went by without an instrument in the booth for me. I found this tragic since I listen to countless men and women share stories about how music was introduced into their lives. For some people, the songs they listened to as children played as much a role in the shaping of their identity as their grandfather’s dichos, their mother’s cooking or their father’s migration. This doesn’t shock me. Yet eleven months passed before a single person introduced music into my booth. Above, two participants weave storytelling with music. A serenade of “Las Mañanitas”, “Las Adelitas”, and what they referred to as the “Chicano Power Anthem”, “Volver, Volver”, echoed throughout the room.

Flamenco show attendee waits for the show to begin in Albuquerque, NM.

Lilly decided to test out the waters after the Albuquerque heat tried to melt us.