Both groups, returning home or visiting as an American, are nearly indistinguishable as we load the plane. The young ones returning home are as urban as their American brothers and sisters. In the old men and women, the old country is more resonant. Groups of people with Brockton addresses on their carry-ons are offended as an old woman insinuates her narrow frame in the front of the line.

There is raucous chaos in the two aisles of our plane. Creole mingles with thick New England accents. The stewardesses patiently instruct first time flyers. Others lay lavishly in the luxury of our all-coach cabin. Teens, on their way for a summer on the islands, unpack their electronic entertainment and joke with each other. Everyone seems to be old friends.

One stewardess is repeatedly kissed and hugged as she is passed. She is tall, blonde hair against a cocoa brown face. From behind, she is white. From the front, she is a remarkable, exotic beauty. She is a TACV employee. She works for the nation’s only airline. She is Cape Verdean.

A few hours later, the plain is a lazy, listless vessel. We wake to catch glimpses of one of the three in-flight movies. We pull ourselves straight to eat ham and cheese sandwiches or order a snack.

When we approach to land in Sal, there is nothing but a salty, dry, brown to greet us. After miles of water, the plane sweeps into an unremarkable plot of dead earth. There is no ceremony. >>>