My bag is half packed and teetering on a baby pink bathroom scale that has seen better days. I have the tickets, the flight schedule. I’m braced for one degree in flip flops, for the first freeze. I’m wondering why I never ever think to pack a coat..
I have just two days left to go and every look is a goodbye, every waft and whiff of awful is a little different for being one of the last.
I will miss street food burning in my mouth, tingling my lips; crisp Puchka shells stuffed with potato, crushed chickpeas and coriander, fresh drizzled with tamarind sting, samosas crisp and wamr, roti hot from the pan and eggs sharp with green chilli fire, sweets that ooze finger licks and satisfaction..
I will miss the simple pleasure of scandalising other expats by breaking all the food rules – if I’m violently sick I just won’t tell them…
I’ll miss the magpie joy of collecting little nothings that sparkle.
I’ll miss the secret smiles of goats in strange places: napping in a cart, grazing in an angora sweater or walking gang-plank over a lake.
I love them for their casual disdain, for reminding me that for all the looks and stares, I am not that important.
I will miss the blood-burst of pomegranates, the sticky sweet pineapples – the artistry of fruit on show. I will miss star fruit and papaya when all I can afford is the apples that are an indulgence here!
I will miss the unpacked pleasure of knowing there is still much wholly unknown, much to be discovered. I love to find something, buy something, eat something, and still have no clue what that something might be.
I will miss at least an inch of my celebrity status.
I will miss license to laugh with strangers without needing an introduction or a reason.
I will miss the lessons learned without words.
I will miss being humbled daily, challenged daily, by the greatnesses of little lives in a multitude.
Bangladesh, I will miss you.