My favorite freaking day of the week.

I met a new friend at a coffee shop recently (because yes. I’m her. I’m the American girl living in Mexico City, hating on all the LA transplants and talking about it, in English, sporting Lululemon yoga pants post pilates class, over an almond-milk cappuccino at an ultra-trendy cafe buttressed by draping bougainvillea. I justify this behavior by insisting that “I’m not like them, I’m here for the real Mexico” which is total nonsense because if I WERE here for the real Mexico I’d be living in a pueblito in Jalisco starting an apprenticeship at an agave farm so I could make my own artisan tequila named Blanca Rosa and sell it to Americans at a 1,000% mark up.)

Which now that I typed that out sounds like fun. I might research that momentarily.

Anyway this new friend, adorable, and I didn’t talk smack on LA-ers this time but rather spoke about exercise and agreed to go spinning together, an activity I generally detest but her sales pitch got me interested. 

Days later she asked me if I wanted to join her on a Sunday at 12:00.

OMG GIRL YOU CRAYYYYY.

I would be here for HOURS listing all of the beautiful changes I’ve experienced since moving to Mexico (which is why I’ll turn it into a book, I hope one of these damn books makes me the big bucks soon) but I do need desperately to highlight just one of those changes.

Sundays.

My favorite freaking day of the week.

Here’s why:

I wake up when I wake up. I snuggle with my cat. We listen to the birds and look at the trees through the sundrenched window. She starts chirping (not the birds, the cat, yes she chirps) I slide out of bed, slip on my fluffy black slippers, shuffle my way to the kitchen to dump some tuna into B’s colorful tiny bowl. I grab my phone from the kitchen (working on not doing this), meander back to bed. 

It’s 7 something. It’s always 7 something.

I pretend to meditate until I can’t stay still any more. I simply musthave a slice of that heavenly, dense panque de plátano dunked into a (you’ll never guess) frothy, homemade-almond-milk cappuccino at the cafe a mere 10 minutes walk away. I pass dog-walkers, bike riders and the occasional shop keeper slowly opening the creaky doors of his store. At times a car passes by, but it’s rare.

The cafe isn’t generally busy at this hour on a Sunday. I revel in each delicious bite, the thick and not-overly-sweet bread adorned with chunks of real banana. I break off small pieces to dip in the foamy top layer of my cappuccino that isn’t too strong and doesn’t leave me jittery. Toward the end of my feast I always panic, wanting to drown myself in a gallon of coffee and 15 more pieces of this marvelous bread.

I’m like a pug. I’ll eat until I explode.

But I conjure up my barely-there self-discipline and stand up from the outdoor bench I’ve been sitting on to wander down to the Sunday market.

It’s always bustling. Local artists fill one end of the square with their bright, geometrically-inclined masterpieces. I flirt with the possibility of becoming an artist myself and selling my own sparkling interpretations of life in Mexico.

It’s on this end that I usually meet my friend Jia.

On the opposite end of the square is the beginning of the food market, positively stuffed to the gills with stalls which extend for blocks. Everything is here: plump yellow mangos, papaya as orange as a setting sun, fresh & dewy heads of bright green lettuce, soft pink and clean white roses, the occasional pig head which I find unfortunate (but hey, better to use the whole animal right?).

It’s a loud and chaotic place with lots of clanking and lots of little Mexican abuelitas darting to and fro to fill their cloth bags with local honey or bundles of chamomile. There are couples, recently rolled out of bed with tousled hair, walking their Australian shepherds (there are equal amounts Australian Shepherds here in this city as there are tacos) while toting to-go coffee cups, just to pick up some barbacoa for lunch later.

The market is smokey and noisy with occasional sharp rays of sunlight shooting between vendor stalls that pierce your face with heat.

“Güera, que te vendo?” “Papaya, papaya! Mango! Sandia muy fresca, que quiere linda?” Vendors stick samples of juicy watermelon or avocado in front of my face from every viable direction. I take them all as we drift to the end of the market and back. Once we’ve completed a round and aptly surveyed the scene (which is the same every week yet an investigatory lap still feels necessary), we start to buy.

It’s my day for fruit, flowers, and whatever vegetables catch my eye. Definitely jackfruit when it’s in season or spinach when it’s just 10 pesos per bunch. There is a little girl, about 11 years old, who often sells me 3 big bundles of multicolored flowers for less than the price of my banana bread breakfast. I practice English with the melon vendor and Spanish with everybody else.

When my bags are full and heavy, Jia and I slowly wander back to my apartment, about a 20 minute walk. Along the way I rub off one guayaba after another to the best of my ability and eat them on the street. When we get to my place, I put on Mexican classics like Luis Miguel or Javier Solís and cut and arrange my flowers, one Talavera vase at a time. 

We gossip.

It’s my favorite day, the best day. It’s the day I look forward to all week. It’s my slow, easy Sunday. No work to do, no class to take, no power walk to go on. I’ve never had this before. In fact it was so initially unfamiliar that I had to force myself to enjoy it in the beginning.

In the past I spent my weekends exercising or “being productive” because I thought if I didn’t, I might become fatter, poorer, lazier, or I might “fall behind” in some way.

It took me until now, at 38 years old, that NONE of those things have been at all affected by my decision to take it REAL easy on Sundays. On the other hand, my happiness level has increased exponentially!

Everyone deserves this. Especially you, my dear reader who has made it to this point in my ramblings. Schedule your own non-negotiable, super indulgent day, afternoon or evening doing something you love or nothing at all. Take your time arranging the flowers, prepping the food, relaxing with a honey-lemon mask. Let go of all the excuses because there are dozens.

If you need to hire a babysitter, work longer on Wednesday or get your groceries delivered, isn’t that a minute sacrifice in exchange for joy?

With all that being said I did agree to spinning NEXT Sunday so…there’s that.

With love,

Bethany