My month in Mexico has almost come to an end. It was different than expected. Usually I try to find a way to have built-in community whenever I travel solo, and for this trip, I thought there would be other artists and writers working on their projects alongside me but it looks like I should have done a bit more research regarding my accommodations (I was swayed by the B&B's pretty pictures and semi-reasonable price I guess). It turns out more artists come in the summer and so what I came down to find was along the lines of the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, i.e. a bunch of American retirees who had traveled south for the winter.

The group was a wonderful, eccentric bunch, all dressed in huipiles (which I have weird feelings about but generally think I'm okay with). They spent their days laughing and shopping and inviting me over for a margarita from time to time. But since they weren't really the type of group to go out at night, I missed out on exploring Oaxaca's nightlife and meeting some locals my age. No matter, what I ended up getting in return was a month with very few distractions, a rough draft of my novel done, a lush garden and sunshine out my door, and a small yellow room to call my own.

All in all, it was a success, although at times a solitary one. I'm ready to go back home and give my novel some space to breath while I figure out what's next. Still, my heart aches a little as I leave this charming, noisy, earthquake-prone town. I'll miss Oaxaca, inevitably, like I do with all things when I leave them.