Noodles

There is something I noted not too long ago when speaking with a friend; I said that when you travel like this, everything you accomplish (and, trust me, they are such little things) seems like some monumental task overcome by sheer will and perfect honing abilities. For example, today I left my little mountain town sadly, but proud that a bus happened to pop by that was headed my way as I traipsed down the lane. "I DID IT!", I said to myself, as if my own hands had worked in the coal mines of the province, as to fuel the factory spitting steel into perfect rectangles or as if I assembled the dear hunk itself. Five hours, countless stops, three kung-fu movies, and four MP3 episodes of This American Life later, I arrived in a city no one I know has ever heard of, but there are 2.5 million people here. China has over 100 cities with populations over 1 million. 100! The United States has 9. Nine. So I'm here: 'Taiyuan' they yell through smoke, and I file to get out. There I am, here I am, buses, cars, bicycles, not a Westerner around for the past 72 hours, it is 7pm, and I have to figure out where to lay my head, wash my hands, and fill my stomach. Sometimes I am so proud, the little things such as these take so much effort and I feel joyous and accomplished. But, really, sheets and running water and noodles? Well, I haven't found the noodles yet, but I bet I find the best and cheapest in the city.