The Wandering Monkey

Today I took a little time out at a roadside restaurant. I was low on blood sugar so I stopped a this place I would never normally go. I ate something which was like fried won tons. After eating I did not want to move until my energy came back, so I just sat there a while. It was fascinating.
Everything -- the kitchen and dining area -- was all in the same room. Across from me, a man was taking out handfulls of dough then stretching it to arms length. He'd double it over and stretch it again. Reapeat several times, and flick the middle into flour every once in a while. After about maybe eight folds, he'd clip off one end of the strands and throw it into a pot of boiling water. Noodles. He was making noodles straight from dough into the pot.
Next to him an old woman was sitting on a stool with a small wooden block in front of her. She had a cleaver big enough to scare a mugger. She sliced away bit by bit on a piece of meat about the size of a large grapefruit. She must have been at it 20 minutes, patiently working away. She looked up at me from time to time, but I was too tired to be self-conscious at my own staring.
I looked around the room and Chinese people were eating at the opposite tables. And suddenly it hit me -- I'm in China. I had not felt this sense of being in another culture for some time. My usual routines involve seeing many English speakers and going to bars and restaurants I am used to. It was pretty cool to get back connected to the simple pleasure of experiencing the culture once again.