13. A noodle shop relic

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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The neighbourhood around the college campus felt quieter this evening, a shift that seemed to reveal something more intimate about the place. The air was tinged with a dampness from the day’s rain. The city buzzed with a rhythm that I had yet to fully comprehend, but I was learning, step by step, how to listen.

I found myself outside a small noodle shop just beyond the college campus, a modest establishment wedged between two taller, gleaming buildings - its windows fogged from the heat of the kitchen, its sign faded and chipped. The scent of broth and something savoury drifted out to meet me as I paused, drawn in by the sheer ordinariness of it all. The hustle inside was palpable; the shop was packed with businessmen, their faces set in the kind of quiet concentration that comes only from the rhythm of habitual eating. They spooned steaming bowls of la mian (拉面 - literally ‘pulled noodles’) into their mouths, the soft clinking of chopsticks against porcelain the only sound breaking the quiet drone of conversation.

A small booth at the front of the shop caught my eye. Through the steam, I could see the noodle chef - a young man with a bright, open smile and cheeks flushed with the warmth of his work. A white hat, perched slightly askew, sat atop his head. He stretched the dough with a kind of effortless grace, the long strands unfolding like ribbons of silk, then twisting them into the rhythm of his hands before dropping them into the boiling water. Each movement was a practiced dance, fluid and precise, as though he were in perfect harmony with the work and the heat. There was a simplicity to his actions, but in his focus and light-hearted expression, he made it something more - almost as if he were performing an ancient ritual that had been handed down through generations, and yet, still felt fresh and full of joy.

I hesitated for a moment at the door, unsure of the unspoken ritual—whether to find a seat, wait for a cue, or simply help myself to a menu. The decor inside was worn, the tables functional but tired, as if time itself had settled here, leaving behind a mark of quiet endurance. The walls were painted a dull white, the edges of the paint chipped. High above the heads of the diners, a small TV was fixed to the wall, broadcasting the absurd slapstick antics of Mr. Bean. I looked to see the businessmen, all of them - young and old alike - would occasionally turn towards the screen, laughing uncontrollably at the misfortunes of a man who seemed to embody the kind of silent comedy that transcended language. The laughter was genuine, full-throated, shared with such warmth it felt as though they were reliving the moments together for the first time.

As I stepped in, a woman - middle-aged, with tired eyes and a face worn by years of steady work - approached. She handed me a menu, the plastic lamination of which had begun to peel, curling at the edges. The menu was printed in Chinese, of course, but here and there, small handwritten translations had been scrawled in English - jotting down the names of dishes in a way that suggested someone had done this in haste, but with care. There was something deeply personal about it. It was as though the words had been laid down by a stranger who had once been here, walked this same path, blazed a trail, tried to bridge the same gap between cultures. I wondered who had translated this menu. Had they been a teacher? A wanderer like me? How long ago had they left their mark here, and what had driven them to take this small, seemingly insignificant action? Whose footsteps had I followed into this shop, and what story had they left behind?

I held the menu, feeling its creased edges, as if I were clutching an ancient relic. The mystery of it lodged itself in my mind as I ordered my bowl of la mian. The words fell easily from my tongue, and yet I felt an unfamiliar weight to them - words that belonged to a land not my own, a language I was only beginning to grasp.

The woman behind the counter nodded, her face impassive, and in that brief moment, I felt like an actor playing a part. My body seemed to fit here, but my thoughts were somewhere else, lost in the language of the menu, in the traces of English on the laminated page, in the ripples of laughter that cascaded towards the television. The hum of the shop filled the air, blending with the distant sounds of the city.

My bowl arrived: a steaming heap of noodles submerged in a fragrant broth, its surface flecked with green onions and chunks of meat. I studied the soup for a moment before taking up my bamboo chopsticks, which felt unfamiliar in my hands, foreign tools that I had yet to master. The act of eating was not so simple here, I realised. The chopsticks required a certain grace, a fluidity that I was still far from achieving. As I fumbled, struggling to pick up a single strand of noodle, I glanced around the room and watched the others. They ate with ease, their heads lowered, bodies hunched slightly over their bowls as they slurped the noodles with a kind of joyful abandon. The sound was sharp in the room, like the echo of a shared ritual.

I copied them, lifting my bowl closer, lowering my head, and slurping the noodles with all the enthusiasm I could muster. The heat of the broth, the chew of the noodles, the slight sting of spice - it was all comfort in a bowl, a taste of something new.

The taste lingered in my mouth as I finished my meal, my chopsticks now more confident in my grip. I called for the bill, paid with the crumpled banknotes from my pocket, nodded politely and offered a xie xie to the woman behind the counter, who offered me a tired but polite smile in return. I stepped back out into the street, the cool evening air welcoming me as I turned back towards the campus.

As I walked back to my apartment, the cool evening air pressing against my face, I felt the quiet shift within me. The streets, the noodle shop, the worn menu - all of it was becoming familiar, more than just the backdrop of my days here. I was no longer an outsider drifting through a world that didn’t quite fit. I was beginning, imperceptibly, to be a part of this place. The rhythm of the street, the hum of the neighbourhood, had started to settle into me like a second skin.

The neighbourhood, like the city, was not just a place I had arrived in - it was something I was becoming a part of. And in that quiet understanding, something stirred in me.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink—it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.