It was one of those rare streets covered with dirt instead of cement. In the few steps that it took to walk down the street, I would encounter many puddles and pebbles would find their way inside my shoes. Houses stacked on top of noisy restaurants and stores lined the dirt road. Broken air conditioners and blankets curtained the windows and the aroma of noodles filled every corner with happy souls. But you could hear the painful wheezing of an old man’s breath in the humid air and see an old lady bend over her near empty purse looking at the few worthless coins. How lucky it is to live in such a wonderful place without dust flying around and dirt roads. How lucky it is to live in a place like this and not “Noodle Street”.
For a twelve year old girl born and raised in towns and cities, dirt roads were only seen in movies. Compared to other places walking down “Noodle Street” was walking down the main street in a ghost town – forgotten in the mist of modern troubles. I could walk across the street without waiting for my streetlight to flash green and only encounter a few bikes, while if I had done that in downtown Beijing I could have been killed. Although “Noodle Street” was less populated than other streets it was defiantly livelier. Every store sold something different and had different signs hugging the windows. Some stores wore flashing neon lights that stood out despite the fact that the sun was present. Some stores put lucky cats dressed like glistening butterflies at their doors that rang a chorus of hellos when someone passed by. Each store also seemed to represent the people working in it. A sold out concert with screaming fans, each with their own chant. A small store dressed in yellow ribbons that wrote out squiggly characters sold make up and other accessories. The shop next to it was a bit dimmer in light and had heavy purple curtains pulled back so that customers could see some expensive silk placed behind the windows; the workers in this shop were older in age and talked as if they had been frozen in time. It was hard to see how people could be possibly happy while living in a place like this.
The restaurants were no different. Waitresses floated across wooden floors like lilies on water. Chefs cooked while singing to songs. Customers filled every seat in the small-one-roomed restaurants, each telling ancients jokes to the rhythm of clapping bowls and chopsticks. Waitresses laughed at every joke – even though the customers all tell the same one. These restaurants were very popular, although the only thing they sold was different types of noodles. Customers would come everyday and never get tired of the noodles. I couldn’t understand how these people could eat noodles everyday and look forward to it; how they smelled the aroma of noodles everyday and not throw up. I couldn’t understand how “Noodle Street”, a dirt street, could house so many happy souls. The people living there didn’t seem to worry about taxes, they didn’t seem to worry about what to wear tomorrow or even if they could keep their soon-to-be-laid-off jobs. How the people living here could be happier than most of the people I’ve known have ever been. I couldn’t understand how “Noodle Street” was just a few steps from a busy highway yet looked like as if I was living in the early 1900’s. How can this be?
For a twelve year old girl born and raised in towns and cities, dirt roads were only seen in movies. Perhaps it’s the fact that I take everything I have for granted or that I was too busy in my own little worries that I couldn’t stop to enjoy what I have. Seeing the people on “Noodle Street” made me realize how much I really have and how much I should appreciate my belongings. How lucky it is to live a life with such ease and not so many hardships.
