No. 123

Wading Into The Shallow End Of Local Cuisine: I somehow missed out on that common experience in college life where you survive for years on nothing but booze, sex, Dinosaur Jr. records and an endless, stomach turning supply of ramen noodle soups. Those people who did are the first to gag at a whiff of lightly boiled noodles with freckled bouillon cubes, but I’m feeling fine; the taste of packaged soup doesn’t taste like poverty and suffering to me. In China at least, it tastes like salty adventure, and the array of flavors that all actually taste the same is mind boggling. Because nothing on the package is written in English, besides the occasional quality assurance statement (It so good!), I choose my flavors based solely on the graphic design. Picture instructions with a cartoon duck speaking gibberish? Sold. Amy's choosing hers based on which has the picture of the least offensive looking meat. And every train has a hot water boiler in the compartment, so these have become mandatory travel fare - as have the scaldings that come with the tightrope walk back to your seat. You can chalk this one up to context and a lust for salt that I'm sure is going to haunt my later days, but I'm loving these things.