Sundays are for cleaning house. Sometimes you do it on your own when you wake up and you feel sickened enough by time’s passage, the marker of a new week and the mark of not having done something to earn, let alone observe that newness. Sometimes you welcome help, or you offer it.
And when you’re done, or you’ve moved and sweated and waited and paused and listened enough, Sundays are for getting to walk down a couple of short streets to a nearby restaurant you’ve heard of and even seen written up but never visited. You get to eat something simple and tasty, sit under unexpectedly warm partly sunny sky and talk about your year in travel, where you’ve gotten to go once you left home and where you still want to go someday.