It began in Siberia. The kind of Siberia you read about in books but never expect to stand in -- an infinite horizon of snow and silence that makes you realize the world doesn't care whether you are alive or not. I was there without a purpose, which is to say, without a direction. That is, until the thought came to me, sudden and absolute: There is Thai food in Ohio.
The idea was absurd, almost laughable -- until it wasn't. It became a drumbeat in my mind, a summons I could not ignore. Every step I took from that moment forward was guided by the invisible, intoxicating promise of Pad Thai served under fluorescent lights in the American Midwest.
The journey north was long enough that time itself became untrustworthy. In the polar regions, the sun refused to set and refused to rise, and the world was nothing but white -- until the white moved. Polar bears appeared, not as predators, but as trial-by-combat emissaries from whatever higher power governs irrational quests. They gave chase, their roars tearing through the wind, and I ran in boots stiff with frost, clutching nothing but my passport and the belief that Ohio was waiting.
Weeks bled into months. I passed through landscapes where human life seemed impossible, and yet my thoughts returned to noodles. Not survival, not warmth -- just noodles. I began to suspect I had invented Ohio entirely, and that my mind had conjured it as a final mirage before surrender. But then, there it was.
The restaurant stood in a strip of forgotten concrete, the kind of place where the only color came from flickering neon. Inside, the air was thick with the sweet-sour scent of fish sauce and the faint chemical tang of industrial floor cleaner that had long since lost its battle with the grime. The tables were mismatched, the chairs wobbled, and the lighting was the color of a tired cigarette filter.
Half the clientele were local homeless men and women, hunched over plates as they drifted in and out of narcotic half-dreams, their eyes clouded with morphine and amphetamines. They spoke in slow, looping murmurs, sometimes to each other, sometimes to no one at all. Their movements were loose, unhurried, as though the boundaries between waking and sleeping, life and afterlife, had blurred into one long, slow sway.
Far from detracting from the experience, their presence seemed to complete it. They were the chorus to my epic -- the weary, wandering souls of this place, moving like the lively dead, their conversations slurring into something almost like music. I ate in silence among them, an interloper in their strange, suspended world.
And the Pad Thai? It was... fine. Not transcendent, not terrible. Warm, filling, unremarkable. After crossing ice floes, surviving bears, and trudging through wind that could strip the skin from your face, I found myself at the end of all things with nothing more than an ordinary plate of noodles.
And yet, I would not change a thing.
Four stars. One removed for the wobbly chair. read more