South of the equator my cousin is El Asdado, stoking the parrilla, praising the guachos. A jet-lagged guest, three flights to here, I watch hummingbirds lap and slabs of churrasco drip-sear, while corn plumps sun-bright over flames. Fourteen hours to hear radios tango, dogs howl lusting the matambre arrollado. My eyes calculate the curve of a nephew's smile. My arms hold a wee one and I consider the source of love, our common blood, our history of emigration and famines, Irish, Poles, Spanish. My tongue savours the texture of language as spring-green chimichurri slathers and zings, so fresh. South of the equator, in this country of the Incas, the Andes, villas miseria, this feast of a family sates me. Faces like mine. Their language, the swimming pool, gated lifestyle are other. The same Moon, the laughter and politics similar, the shared and shared Malbec so cherry-bright familiar. I raise my glass, I am at home.