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I haven't finished with Mexico yet, photographically or otherwise. Considering how much I loved it, I may never be finished with Mexico, and I'm sure it isn't finished with me. Nevertheless, on a whim, I'm jumping ahead to this image from my departure.

Being in Merida had been a wonderful immersion in Mexico, in a blend of Spanish and Mayan culture. I had got sun-stroke, spoken foreign words, learned to wade through a different culture (at least in a rudimentary way). I had seen beautiful things and frightening, pathetic things... gorgeous children and heart-breaking beggars. I had unexpectedly fallen in love with a place I'd never been to before.

Returning to the airport in Cancun, packed with gringo tourists and American brick-a-brack, was a shock. The place was brightly lit, clean. It was stuffed with magazines, snack foods, and disposable paperbacks. I walked past the bar and heard excessive high spirits, yelling, cheering. I immediately felt cranky. I veered away and sat next to these people.

I flew out on New Year's Eve, as did these folks. They were beautiful blonde Europeans who'd achieved perfect tans in the Mexican sun. They sat in the Cancun airport in a miasma of perfume, cologne, and scented soap, surrounded by high-end luggage. They read fashion magazines, their make-up and coiffure were perfect, and they chattered about television.

Is there anything wrong with that? I don’t know, but seeing them, smelling them, and hearing them, my heart sank because I realized that being in this place -- dominated by foreigners and foreign things -- I wasn't just leaving Mexico, I'd already left it behind.