4:51 PM on a Friday, sitting in the convenience store behind my high school in Taiwan, under fuzzy fluorescent lights next to an old man who reminds me of my father, I savor each bite of my instant beef noodle soup. I gently blow on my noodles, then inhale before eating; the scent of soy and ginger fills my nose and fogs up my glasses. 

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The soup is spicy and sharp and scalds my tongue, the chunks of fat beef so tender they fall apart on the splintered chopsticks before reaching my mouth. By the end, my white plastic spoon is stained red with chilli oil, and the paper bowl fares no better. Without looking, I know my lips are ridiculously bright orange, and I dab with my napkin to no avail. 

 

One bowl of noodles every Friday night before dinner. For years, I followed this routine before heading home. I look down into the remainder of my soup, trying to catch my reflection in the near-black liquid, then out the window as people weave through the tiny alleyway on scooters. Headlights flicker in and out as shadows loom long over the crowd; rain drizzles gently on the curb. It will be years before thirty minutes becomes long again, before I can ride the subway and look out as the sun drags over my favorite airport. 

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It’s my last day in Taipei. My friend leads me through one of the largest subway stations in the city. Bookstores and small eateries are scattered throughout the underground shopping district, its five floors somehow impossible to tell apart. The smell of red bean pastries and fresh, warm custard buns wafts through the air. 

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It must be here, she says, before leading me three floors up. Oh, this looks like the place, I say for the tenth time. And I do not mind, even though I have been walking for hours, as long as this moment does not end. 

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​​​​We pass through entrances that become exits, go up and down the same stairs, watch the light slowly shift through the windows as the river of people rushes by. She stands next to me, people-watching in the feeble white glow of the overhead lights. 

 

You’ll leave us behind, she says. It sounds like an accusation, but there is no anger in her words. 

 

I know.

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We’ll leave you behind, too. 

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Is that so bad? 

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No. I hear the smile in her voice. You’ll carry some of us with you. 

 

Ah, did I take too much? 

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You could never. 

 

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We stayed for another hour, laughing and joking over pineapple buns – that were worth getting lost in a subway station for – and a conversation I no longer recall, until her mother rings and asks when she will be home. Soon, soon, remember to wear your jacket, and hang up. 

 

Go on, she says to me, and pushes me towards the nearest escalator stretching two hundred feet down into the belly of this breathtaking city, don’t look back. Especially not at me. 

 

Haha, I won’t. 

 

I do, I do, I do, until the tips of her sneakers disappear, until the unknown swallows me whole. 

 

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I do not go home. I walk out of the station and to the nearest convenience store, glowing orange-green-red like a beacon in the night. An alley cat dashes by, followed by the curses of a man who has just discovered the fresh claw marks on the faux leather seat of his scooter. A spark, then the harsh odor of cigarettes fills the air, and I hold in my urge to cough; in the glow of the lighter, I catch a glimpse of his face. He watches me for a moment, then returns to contemplating the ground before his feet. 

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The sliding doors open with a little jingle as I approach the store; the cold that has sunk its claws into me finally lets go as I walk in and survey the shelves of the convenience store. I have never been here before, but it feels like home: rows of red bean cakes, egg tarts in the shape of children’s mascots, cheap beauty products next to magazines from last year; the freezer with ice cream and popsicles tucked near the back, with a sliding mechanism that young children struggle to push; and finally, my beloved selection of cup noodles, stacked near the back but one row ahead of the coolers of flavored milk cartons and miniature iced teas. 

 

One last bowl of Taiwanese beef noodle soup from a convenience store. I hiss as the soup burns my tongue and deadens the nerve endings of my taste buds; this store must keep its water hotter than usual. For the next few days, every time I push my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I can only feel the pressure on one surface of my body, and my own self feels foreign to the touch. 

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It is dark by the time I leave. The alley is completely silent, draped in shades of quiet black. I make my way back to the station, which has somehow become more colorful at night, and take the subway to my favorite bookstore in the city. It is one of many locations this chain has opened, but this particular one is known for its many spaces that invite the public to come sit and read quietly, then leave with nothing but their newfound knowledge. 

 

As a child, a visit to this bookstore was a grand event worthy of remembering for weeks to come. I would run my fingers over the hundred-dollar fountain pens displayed on lavish velvet, admire Japanese notebooks of quality that outshone Moleskine for half the price, and flip through books on space physics and dragons. I purchase three postcards of the Taipei skyline for my dorm wall, two photos and a watercolor painting, and thank the cashier as she tucks them into a grey envelope. 

 

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1:51 AM a year later, on a Saturday morning that is really a Friday night too long, sitting cross-legged on my bed under warm yellow lights dimmed to not disturb my roommate, I carefully peel my postcards and photos and mementos from the wall, ignoring how the white paint crumbles between my fingers and gathers under my nails. Now and then, I stop to press my fingertips into the growing ball of dirty Blu-Tack stuck to the sleeve of my left arm, leaving crescent-shaped trails of white powdery paint. 

 

I reach for the grey envelope where I stored my collection, and I push it open with two fingers, and immediately I am transported back to a bowl of beef noodle soup in Taipei and a bookstore that no longer exists, cup noodles in hand and a blister forming on my tongue, watching the seconds tick away on my last day at home; a drop of fragrant chili oil must have landed on my postcards and crossed the Pacific in my carry-on, and there it stayed, preserved thousands of miles and hundreds of days away from home; and I start sobbing because I have held on to nothing that matters and left all that I loved across the sea, and this drop of oil has managed to preserve everything I could not. 

 

As instant as the name suggests, the oil found in convenient noodle soups stains far longer than the real dish. The flavor is artificial, not strained and simmered from hours of bubbling broth on the kitchen stove, so companies add vivid orange coloring that looks like drinking pure dye. And yet, it still holds just as much flavor. 

 

The instant version of beef noodle soup is nothing like that which it tries to imitate, but in its pursuit of greatness, it has become something of its own. Not as great, not quite, but something worth remembering.