Sundays at the Flea Market

It’s summer and almost every Sunday morning after church, my family and I drove to the flea market, or el tianguis as we would call it. As soon as we stepped out of the car, we felt the sun beaming down on us, the air was filled with sizzling carne asada, fresh tortillas, and fresh fruit. The sounds of Spanish music came from the different stands lined up throughout the market, mixed with the chatter of vendors, customers, and kids running around. 

My parents led the way, my mom holding on to her woven market bag and my dad scanning the aisles for good deals. My older sister walked ahead, eager to look at the jewelry stands, while my brother and I stuck together, wanting to stop at every stand where they were filled with colorful toys. 

We always started at the fruit stands, where mountains of mangoes, guavas, and watermelons were stacked high. My favorite was the mango that the vendors would cut into a flower shape and sprinkle it with chili powder and lime juice before handing it to me. The first bite was always

the best—sweet, tangy, and spicy all at once. My sister loved the fresh coconut, and the vendor would chop off the top with a machete and slip a straw into it so we could drink the sweet coconut water. 

Further down the market, the tortilla stand called to us where women made fresh tortillas by hand. They were flipping soft rounds of dough onto a hot comal. We could feel the heat as we walked past. The smell of toasty masa filled the air. My mom bought a stack, still warm, and handed each of us one with a little bit of butter. We ate as we continued walking. 

But my favorite part? The animal stand. 

At the end of the market, there was a truck where they sold baby chicks, fluffy rabbits, and tiny ducklings. I loved stepping inside to touch their warm little bodies. My siblings and I always tried to convince my parents to buy us a bunny but they never did. One time, I cradled a little bunny in my hands. Minutes later, my skin itched and my eyes burned. My mom pulled me out and started dabbing my skin with a wet napkin while my siblings laughed at me. 

By the end of the market, we were tired but happy, full of bags filled with fruit, snacks, and small trinkets. We’d pack everything into the car and sipped our fresh juices on our way home, falling asleep before we made it. Those Sundays were about family and traditions.

April 2025