There are days when I hardly realize I’m in Mexico – when day to day life takes on the same rhythm as life in Illinois and I lose the feeling that it’s extraordinary to find myself living in a foreign county.

These are usually days when I’ve been walking the aisles of Walmart or Costco, picking up the same samples that friends back in the States are tasting and filling my cart with bagels and waffles and brands that are familiar.

They’re days when I’ve ventured to Andares or Galerias malls, where I can step into a Gap and buy a pair of khakis identical to the favorite ones I brought from the United States. Where I can head to the food court and find most of the same fast food options that I’ve been choosing from for years.  

As an expat, it’s fairly easy to find that bubble of familiar comfort in Mexico. Too easy, I often think as I navigate streets that are marked with 7-Elevens and Dominos and Burger Kings. My daughter gives me directions to my grandson’s futbol practice by referencing a Starbucks, and to a birthday party by referencing a Subway.  

I take advantage of the convenience of these places that I know, but it bothers me that the bubble is not more elusive; that it’s rare to find a street without an American chain restaurant or store; that it’s easy to stay in the bubble.

There’s an Applebee’s a few blocks from my house, close enough to walk to. I’ve always liked their riblets and think about heading there for lunch. At the corner where I would turn there’s a man selling colorful brooms from a retrofitted bicycle that looks too heavy to ride. I see him often and always wonder about his sales. I make a mental note to learn how to ask him.

I decide to take a different turn.  

There’s a woman in the next block selling plants from a wooden wagon that she pulls. I ask the price of the lavender, but end up buying a plant I don’t know the name of.

I pass a saddled horse, tethered loosely to a chain link fence next to the railroad tracks that I have to cross to get to the Friday market. His rider sits a few yards away, asleep, under the shade of a tree. I walk on to the market that offers a tantalizing array of fresh fruit and vegetables, chicken cut to order, and small independent lunch spots with no menus and just a few folding chairs and tables set next to the street. I point at two things I don’t know the name of and sit down to eat.

On the way home I stop at the last stall, which sells a mixture of clothing and candy and inexpensive toys. I buy a small container of bubbles to take home for my grandsons.