I walked through the maze of alleys this morning, and the sights, sounds, smells, just carried farther, and farther. My system for not getting lost in these labyrinths, is to enter an alley, and walk straight, if it comes to a T, and I feel brave, I pick left or right, and always make the same choice for each T, so that I can always go back. I spot a street vendor, steam pouring from under a lid, many locals gathered, waiting for a bowl. I walk through the steam, and the smell, instantly sets my mouth watering. I keep walking, but slow, now to make a decision, do I stop and risk a bowl, Chinese tourist rule number one, eat from the street, at you're own risk. I glance, back, clean, looks very hot, maybe not 170F, many people eating, but they may be immune, I take a deep breath, summon my courage and walk back. When waiting in a line in China, if you leave more than a paper width between you, and the person ahead of you, you will be waiting a long time, I will ask Jingmin how to say no cuttsies, but I have a feeling that this won't help. I have a hard time being this defensive, so I always end up letting a couple in, and then making my stand. finally I get to the man with the large pots, he says hello in English, I take this as a sign from God, and point to the pot with the porridge. He smiles, as if he knows the position I am in, I keep up a good front, accept my destiny, and move under an awning with an old man, to get out of the rain. The smell is fantastic, I pear into my porridge, as if it contains the meaning of life. This part of Guangzhou is famous for this dish, I think I see mushrooms, they look like tiny agate bookends, translusent, and colorful, bits of a reddish colored meat, chicken?, Beef?, ?, and rice, in a gluetenous paste, I enhale the vapours, put the cup to my lips, and taste, wow, so delicate, like a chicken, and rice soup, that sticks to my ribs, and warms me to the bone. In everything I eat here, there are tastes that are familiar, mixed with ones that I can't place, and ones that I might not want to. I stand eating my porridge listening to the rain on the awnining, the sound of hawkers, plying thier wares. The smell of incense, trickles from the small window behind me, and I look back at the many things I have seen just in the two days I have been here. Confusious shuffles past teens, smoking cigarettes, in the latest fashion. Old woman, bent so low that she is horizontal to the ground, her nose almost touching the pavement, moving by thrusting her cane as far forward as she can, and pulling herself to it, noone giving a second glance. Even this woman appears content, this is her fate, her destiny, and she does what she needs to do. Someone selling noodles, in a small dented pot, at the base of a large modern bank of China. This is China, and I am in Love. I finish my porridge, place it in the bin, and start toward the hotel, thinking to myself, "Do I have enough toilet paper?" We soon shall see!
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