Whenever anyone has asked me this year whether I was homesick, I replied that the only things I missed were my boyfriend and my dog. It’s mostly true. Caught up in the thrill of being on my own and the newfound freedom derived from being a college first-year, I barely thought of my home city of Guangzhou, China, except to text my parents every night and check up on my dog. Until I visited my friend at MIT last weekend, I’d forgotten how much I missed Asian food, which was so much more readily accessible in Guangzhou.
I recall a nightmare I had two summers ago during a summer vacation to America. A table of American and Asian foods were laid out in front of me, only for all of the Asian foods to fade out of sight like an unsubtle iMovie cross dissolve. At Mount Holyoke, I hadn’t considered how I’d feel about dealing with American food again—the food at MHC was far better than any tasteless food from my high school’s cafeteria, and I was just grateful for that.
When I reached Boston, my friend, Eileen immediately took me to Santouka, a Japanese ramen place located within Harvard. Although I tend to have a paltry appetite, I devoured all the ramen and even found myself drinking the soup, which I rarely did back home. After that, we went to Abide, one of the few boba places available outside of Chinatown. Sadly, all the boba was gone, but I hadn’t had any form of bubble tea in weeks so I bought some anyway, even though it was technically bubble-less. We passed through HMart, where I resisted the temptation to buy Korean instant noodles, because back home I’d had a habit of eating them daily and was trying to wean myself off the addiction. (Two months clean, I swear!)
We ate pho for lunch the next day, then went to Boston’s Chinatown on Sunday. I hadn’t been to a Chinatown since growing up in North Carolina, and the Chinatown there was much smaller. I was immediately reminded of home, compressed into busy, colorful buildings and crowds streaming by, murmuring in Mandarin. At the restaurant we went to, the hostess greeted us in Cantonese. We stopped by two more boba places that day, including Gongcha, which was also quite popular back in Guangzhou (although I still prefer Yidiandian).
All of it reminded me of the things I liked about China, which was surprising since I’d never liked Guangzhou. I associated home with noise, pollution, terrible hygiene, and poor quality fruit. I didn’t understand Chinese well, so I didn’t think I would find Chinatown any more familiar than China itself. But being surrounded by people who spoke the language, Chinese seemed more familiar even if I wasn’t fluent: familiar, and calming like the sound of rain or ocean waves.
I’d missed Chinese food even more badly than I thought. My dad grew up in Hunan province, which is known for its spicy cuisine, and such vivid flavor was missing in most American foods. The sushi in China was also considerably better than in the States, where I always thought the soy sauce tasted like watery maple syrup. But beyond Asian food, I felt a stirring of wonder, a sense of appreciation for China that was absent when I actually lived there. Though Boston’s Chinatown couldn’t make me love a city I was far from fond of, I discovered comfort in it and a newfound sense of gratitude for all that I was able to experience.
Image Credit: X (photos in the body taken by me)
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