I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I really don’t like Sundays. Beautiful weather on Sunday looks a certain way that reminds me it is Sunday. That probably only makes sense to me but as I tried to explain to my friend Halla over tea today, the sun looks different on Sunday and while I can appreciate its beauty (and am thankful it’s not raining and really pushing me into a depression), it remains a day I dread.

My relationship with Sunday is particularly complicated by the fact that I enjoy partaking in a variety of habitual Sunday activities – the Richard Lenoir open-air market, brunch or coffee with friends, cooking and baking, picnicking, or going to the movies. This was true even as I was growing up when I dreaded the end of the weekend because I was forced to go to Sunday school at synagogue and promptly forget everything I learned the second I exited the building, and the evenings of finishing my homework. Yet I also looked forward to pizza/pasta night (we alternated) on our über-American TV dinner tables while we watched football or Star Trek. I hated both viewing options, but now that I’m older and far removed from such rituals, and removed from the US for that matter, I have moments of extreme longing for an evening like that. I’ve tried to explain to Ced why I will suddenly have an urge for take-out pizza and a good ol’ Eagles game and he simply rolls his eyes confused by my sudden Americanism.

Halla knew what I meant. When we feel nostalgic we have a tendancy to regress and are instantly taken back to certain rituals, no matter how life-specific and bizarre, that make us feel at home. My 3 hour tea date with Halla made Sunday much more bearable, however. We talked about our families, our friends, how people mistake us for latinas (despite what you may think I’ve heard that MANY times) and what we want in life (to win the lottery and not work…)

We had tea, which actually was not very good, at Les Petites Indécises, one of my favorite neighborhood cafés meters away from my apartment. I’ve had dinner there a couple of times and the food is excellent. When I ate there with Robert his fish came with a plastic syringe filled with sauce which was to be inserted into the side of the fish and pumped into it. Original and yet slightly disturbing. The service is great, the staff is friendly and sociable and the ambiance is warm and inviting. I walk by the café at least 2x a day – morning and night – and get to see two different sets of staff. I was convinced they didn’t like me though since they often see me on my way back from the gym traumatizing their diners as I pass by hurriedly and drenched in sweat.

It’s a great place for many reasons, including its proximity to my place, but mostly because its location, decor, service and quality make it a suitable place to designate as “the neighborhood café”. With so many cafés in Paris, and so many in the 11th alone, it feels nice to have a place I can go to read, have a coffee, chat and people watch comfortably. Often in the mornings I see the same man, at the same time, at the same table with his espresso and newspaper – clearly another local who marked it his favorite neighborhood spot. It helps to feel at home and feel settled.

I’m glad we ended up at the café instead of the movies as originally planned. Julie & Julia will have to wait.

Finally, I must say I’m pretty proud of the lunch Ced and I made – homemade red pepper burgers on little whole grain pavé rolls. You can’t see much of anything but it was scrumptious.

In review, I guess Sunday wasn’t that bad. I was bothered by the same man again at the gym who finds it necessary to make me feel guilty for only doing 30 minutes of cardio and insists on talking to me when I’m unable to breathe, hunched over the stair climber (probably bad form) and drying the sweat from my brow (ok who are we kidding, from my whole body) with a beach towel. Emma used to say he looked like a rapist. He’s definitely a creeper and talks to every female in the gym yet somehow seems asexual in his approach. Anyway, today he decided to tell me that I had maigri (lost weight) at which point I forced a smile and put my head phones back on. This is why I keep an I’m-angry-and-focused look on my face so no one messes with me at the gym.  Despite the uncomfortable encounter, the day was lovely!

Next Sunday I will be in Buffalo, New York. Talk about reverse culture shock!