Just Another Sunday (Premium)

This past Sunday provided an interesting reminder of why we love Mexico City so much, thanks to a set of similar but different experiences, each emblematic of the magic of this place and its people.

That morning, my wife Stephanie and I got up, went for a walk, got some work done, and then headed down to Coyoacán, a favorite Mexico City neighborhood south of our place in Roma Norte. It takes 25 to 30 minutes to get there by car, and each drive there is an incredible reminder of the vastness of this city, as you can see pockets of skyscrapers and neighborhoods everywhere from the elevated highway, each big enough to be a city in its own right.

That Uber ride was inexpensive, as most things here are, and when we stepped out of the car into the warm sun in front of the Mercado de Coyoacán, the central market in the area, I did what you do when you exit an Uber: I rated and tipped the driver. In the spirit of tipping correctly, I found the default tip choices, which maxed out at 15 percent, inadequate, so I did some quick math and gave him 20 percent instead. Which in U.S. dollars worked out to about $1.40, a ludicrously small amount of money for the service.

With that out of the way, we started into the building to find a place to eat lunch. But then my phone buzzed, and so I paused, looked down at it, and saw an Uber notification: Our driver had thanked us for this tip. And had left a personal note. Which to me was completely unnecessary, but also nice, and exactly what the people here are like, almost universally.

In we went, threading our way through the busy market, with its tight aisles and curious mix of food stalls of all kinds, restaurants, and every type of thing imaginable, from clothes to durable goods, hardware and flower kiosk, a sort of proto-mall that still persists in this country, defying modernization. Thanks to a handful of high-profile museums and other destinations, Coyoacán is popular with tourists, and we could see there was a mix of locals and expats in there as we worked our way to the back. Where we found what we were looking for: A family-run cocina eatery with home-cooked meals that's just unfamiliar and intimidating enough to scare off the tourists. And it was there that we had several more wonderfully Mexican interactions.

Perhaps expecting a confused English-speaking disaster from the two very white people in front of him, our waiter was delighted when we instead ordered exactly what we wanted, in Spanish, and without needing to look at the menu. And when a woman behind the counter opened up a vat of steaming salsa verde with chicken and enchiladas soaking inside, I exclaimed out loud positively; she happily explained what it was to us, having clearly enjoyed my reaction. Later, two older gentlemen sat beside us at the counter, and I could feel their curiosity about us, these two outsiders, and how it only grew as we got food, ate it, and interacted with each other and the staff.

This type ...