Campus Life wenbo’s walks

Goodbye grief, hello H Mart

Grocery shopping on Mass. Ave. was more than I bargained for

9321 egg
An egg dancing away its egg-conomic problems.

Massachusetts Avenue is more than a divide between East and West Campus. It’s more than a street that leads to Harvard Square where all the food’s at, and above all, it’s more than the road work that created and continues to incessantly maintain it.

What is the illustrious Mass. Ave. truly? This question keeps me up at night (as does the road work). Lately, I’ve stumbled upon a revelation — or more accurately, tripped over one. Brace yourself for word-vomit.

Massachusetts Avenue is a place to wander without purpose, a prairie where my wildest thoughts can roam free, and above all, a flower of hopeful memories blossoming in my nutritious heart.

Nutritious. I meant to reference fertilizer to extend the metaphor, but I’ll admit the word sounds a bit off on paper. But frankly, don’t let my umami choice of adjectives distract you from the fact that Massachusetts Avenue is my life.

Why go skydiving or spelunking when all it costs to experience Mass. Ave. is nothing but my time, mind, and calories spent struggling to maintain a sane body temperature during the winter months? Never mind. Feel free to unread all that.

Yet, this is precisely why I’m putting all my eggs in this one basket of a biweekly column where I compose a stream-of-consciousness as I walk Mass. Ave. (and, unfortunately, other streets too). I want to take all of you along with me on this intellectual dumpster fi — I mean — adventure.

By the way, did I mention how beautiful eggs are? They are, whether scrambled, hard-boiled, sunny side up, poached, or in whatever way you prefer them. Actually, scratch that: hard-boiled eggs taste horrible.

Which came first, poaching the egg or poaching the illegal activity? Was one sense of the word inspired by the other, whichever came later? Are they related at all? I suppose that’s a real chicken-or-the-egg kind of question. Oh man, I’m really hungry. I should buy eggs.

A warm breeze greets me as an automatic sliding door opens before me, inviting me into the enclosure within. The familiar smell of bread, of curry, of ramen, and of the meaning of life wafts into my mind and lingers like the numb aftertaste of a packet of Samyang 2X Spicy Ramen. I came to get eggs. But why?

And such is the dilemma of life. Why would I get eggs at this H Mart when they cost factors less at Target? Why am I looking for them in the produce aisle? Or perhaps the most important question of them all: are eggs just social constructs to hide the inequities of life? I leave you this week with that #deep question. Tune in in (I’m sorry, English is weird) two weeks to see what shenanigans I’ll be up to then.