Wrong about papayas

The fruit lady has my number. 

One of the things I like in Mexico — and other countries we have visited in the past — is buying fruits and vegetables from a stand, run by a family. I love wandering through the market, looking at all the unfamiliar things and asking questions.

“Is this for today or for tomorrow?” I ask in Spanish, wondering if it is ripe enough to eat immediately. The fruit vendors know when something is ripe. I load up my bags with papaya and little sweet bananas and pineapple and broccoli and cauliflower and carrots and potatoes and avocados and onions and tomatoes. And then I realize my bags are much too full and I have to stop buying things right now. 

Then the fruit lady gives me a present. 

I don’t ask for a present. But after everything is loaded into my bags and I look like a burro headed home, she finds one perfectly ripe tangerine or apple and pops it into my bag. 

“A gift,” she says. I don’t remember this ever happening in a grocery store.

And so, of course, even though there are dozens of fruit stands, I come back to her. She is always happy to see me. And every day, I tell her, “I want another papaya — sweet and ugly!” 

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