hasta la próxima

At the airport hotel in DF on my last night in Mexico, my stomach was topped off with chocolate and churros, and I was already missing Chiapas.
My bus from San Cristóbal to the Tuxtla airport had descended through the clouds, where an enormous valley sprawled below and green mountains lingered beyond. Along the highway were huipil-clad women tending a herd of goats, and men in straw cowboy hats clearing brush, their pants ballooning over tall green rubber boots.
And it felt hard to leave San Cristobal. I'd finally stashed enough javelin-sized sticks near where I was staying so I could fend off irate territorial geese from all directions. The loudspeakers on water trucks, endlessly advertising ¡AGUA PURA! were starting to sound mildly poetic. Casa del Pan finally had tofu for sale every time I wandered in. The neighborhood dogs that napped along the street I took home seemed to recognize me, merely opening their eyes and stretching instead of jumping up to bark. And my friends' six month-old loved nothing more than slowly tearing the leaves off trees.