Ramen house.

I ate alone but didn't feel lonely. I didn't need an excuse to be there, didn't need to absently play with my phone or look as though I was waiting for someone (because I wasn't). There is usually so much discomfort associated with eating alone- you almost feel the need to apologise for not being in company. Especially at dinner. But it wasn't that way this time.

I felt warmed by the buzz of conversation all around. Trailing husbands weighed down with shopping bags. Couples eating in the comfortable, peaceful silence that comes with many years together. Girlfriends dissecting their love lives and sounding kind of ridiculous- making me cringe into my noodle soup, before realising that my friends and I must sound the same.

This feels a lot like travelling.
I wonder why when I visit another country I am filled with a wonder and curiosity that is hard to feel "at home". Maybe it's the ease of presence and openness to whatever happens that travelling demands. The "newness" of the surrounds, the culture, the people, even the colours and smells- they must keep us awake and aware in the moment. Familiarity seems to dull this experience, and yet I know that the presence that comes with travelling is simply a mode of being, one I can choose to live from at any moment.

A man sits across from me. He removes a Japanese cloth from his head and I recognise him as one of the kitchen chefs. I tell him the soup is delicious and thank him. He smiles and thanks me politely. And then he starts slurping the steaming noodle soup with a delight that gives me a kind of unspoken permission: enjoy it and don't worry about slurping each spoonful. I remember a snippet of something I read in a Japanese novel- that slurping and loudly devouring a bowl of ramen is actually a sign of pleasure, a compliment to the quality of the noodle soup. And so I slurp too. 

It's a tiny, relatively insignificant event. A dinner that I ate alone in a Ramen house in the city, on my way to meet friends. And yet the calm and presence I felt, a solitude that wasn't tainted with anxiety or embarrassment, is like a lovely, small landmark for me on a path of knowing myself better.