湯圓 Tong1 Jyun2

Note: I just found this piece I had written the night before moving out of Hong Kong. I have since returned! 

I stare through the smudged glass as the green minibus I just boarded lurches down the street. I grab at the worn handle on the seat in front of me as the driver slams on the brakes and then shoots up to speed again. Though pushing midnight, the night is not lonely. Most pedestrians seem to be spilling in and out of the many tiny restaurants lining the street, no doubt filling their bellies with warm food before hitting their beds. I sit a bit taller, adjusting my grip on the plastic handle. My stop was fast approaching. 

"太康街 ! Taai3 Hong1 Gaai1!" I call out to the driver who waves carelessly. With another jerk, we lurch to a stop, and I leap through the folding doors. I hesitate for a moment as the van disappears, balancing on the curb for a moment before trotting across the street to the dingy, yellow-lit building looming down at me. Usually not one for eating right before bed, I felt a sense of loss that might be cured with some 湯圓 tong1 jyun2 (or tang yuan or tong yuen or rice balls, as you might know it). 

Did they even have tong yuen in Utah? They certainly didn't have green minibuses or grubby, maze-like buildings crammed with snacks and steam and humans. I nearly went to the dessert stand by the ATM, but at the last minute, I noticed the dessert uncle in the corner, dozing on his stool among a pile of blue and red coolers. I remember him, although I am likely just another face to him. 

Many a night after seeing a Hangout show, I sat with friends in this corner, perching on stools, warming our faces and stomachs with steaming bowls of sweet dessert soup. The spicy-sweet ginger broth was even more comforting when winter gusts swept through the building's open entrance, tearing at our noses and hair. 

"湯圓 tong1 jyun2," I say to the uncle when he rouses. Six pieces.

He says that he can only add two but the soup comes with something else. The something else slips past my day-weary ears, but I don't mind. Whatever he might put in it is fine. 

Sweet potatoes, it turns out. Back in the warm light of my apartment, each ginger sip leads me back to snatches of other nights, other desserts. I am alone. No show, no friends. On the cusp of leaving this neighborhood, at least for now and maybe forever. But at least the tong yuen warms my stomach. Like hugs, Randy had said. Warm ginger hugs. I sit among the boxes and drink until every last drop is gone.