The things that I will miss seem cliched somehow, but nonetheless true.
The warmth. Day after day of warm, strong sunshine. Cool evenings and nights.
The colour. Women's dresses of yellow, red, green, blue. Christmas decorations fluttering in the wind. Red ribbons in plaits of thick black hair. Chillies piled high in the market: all shades of reds and greens. Turquoise paint in the freshly renovated colonial town centre.
A hearty breakfast that will leave me without hunger pangs for seven hours.
Walking down Calle Alcala in the December sunshine and suddenly thinking: Here I am in the middle of this great continent of America.
The warmth of the welcome. I still can't get over this. I have just finished my presents shopping at a small outlet in the centre of town, selling goods made by female artesans in the countryside around Oaxaca city. The shopkeeper chatters to me as we go along, encouraging me, gently, to buy different things. By the end she is popping little extras into my bag ("I can't take it with me when I'm dead..."). Once finished we are firm friends and she asks me, as all Oaxacenas do, not if but when I will be coming back. As I leave she gives me a hug and a kiss goodbye. My eyes sting with tears.
But I think what I will miss most is the noise. The constant backdrop of happy, infectious Mexican band music. The crash of cohetes. The call of the water seller, honk of the gas man, chimes of the rubbish collectors. Men whistling to each other in place of shouts as they work. Bus conductors thumping the side of the bus to count the passengers on and off. Their shouts as the bus trundles past. "Mitla!" "Tlacolula!" "Oaxaca! Oaxaca!"
Colour, creativity and warmth of welcome: women's artesan market in Oaxaca
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