Driving down to Charlottesville, crammed against piles of suitcases and a giant panda pillow pet, I gazed out the window at the idyllic Virginia countryside. My stomach strained against my waistband, full from my ‘last Korean meal’ until fall break.
After living in Africa for the past six years, I was delighted to be home again. My parents had decided, on the eve of my 13th birthday, to uproot their small Asian family from the suburbs of Northern Virginia to the valleys of central Kenya. I fell for the clear skies and warm people in my small town, but the bowls of African rice and beans did pile up over time. Now that I was back, my taste buds longed for some pure Asian flavor.
When others heard I was coming to U.Va. however, they told me to fatten up on the sticky rice. Charlottesville is known for many things, but unlimited access to Asian food is not one of them. Still, I held out hope. I wouldn’t be completely deprived, would I? As we passed fields of green and country diners, my full stomach sank lower and lower. I clung to the small bottle of kimchi my mother had given me as a parting gift and savored the lingering taste of Korean barbeque in my mouth.
My first week on campus — excuse me, Grounds — felt very much like an awkward middle school dance. I stood on the periphery watching the rest of the world boogie while I shuffled my feet and pretended to know all the songs everyone was shouting the lyrics to. My life was held precariously by Google Maps, directing me from the Amphitheatre to Old Cabell to New Cabell and back. Every day at Newcomb, I holed up in the corner and acted as if I had an important amount of work to do while eating a tuna sandwich. In reality, I watched in awe and jealousy at the crowds of people hugging and calling out each other’s names.
After the third time getting on the wrong bus route — I now know the entire Inner Loop quite well — my chest felt tight. This school was too big. I never had to walk more than five minutes in my rural Kenyan town to get from one place to the next, and my entire school could fit inside my dorm. I didn’t know anybody here and my K-Pop t-shirts looked increasingly frumpy against the J.Crew tops of the girls sitting next to me. Most importantly, after a whole week of O’Hill dining, I realized I really wouldn’t be getting much Asian food here.
Maybe I had chosen wrong.
On a particularly stressful day, I was mentally preparing myself for another party-of-one lunch at Newcomb when I noticed a long line of people by the Amphitheatre. I shuffled closer to see what all the commotion was about. A faint aroma of soy sauce tickled my nose and my stomach grumbled. A short girl passed by with a box of freshly made dumplings, the steam rising from them in an intoxicating incense. Dumplings? In Charlottesville? After eagerly waiting in line, I set myself down on the steps of the Amphitheatre and looked hungrily at the perfectly round dumplings before me. At the first bite, my whole body relaxed. I was transported away from the fissured steps of the Amphitheatre to my mother’s kitchen. She smiled at me and tipped a sizzling pan to let the last few dumplings slide onto my plate.
Scraping the last few grains of rice into my mouth, a boy sitting nearby gave me a nod of acknowledgement as he chewed the last bits of his own pork dumpling. My stomach indulged, I let out a satisfied sigh. With renewed vision, I looked around, amazed at the majesty of the red and white buildings around me. I may not have known anyone in my Biology lecture or the difference between Ruffner Hall and Ruffin Hall, but for some reason those things didn’t seem so life shattering anymore. I savored the lingering taste of the dumplings in my mouth on the way to my next class.
By the third week of school I finally felt the confidence to put away my GPS. My classmates and I bustled into Newcomb, complaining about the humidity and laughing about the dumb things we said in discussion that day. At around midnight, when our brains were at their limit, I broke out mom’s kimchi jar and passed it around to my hall-mates as we watched strange cat videos and songs about bananas. That night I went to bed, Christmas lights twinkling above me, and couldn’t help but smile.
It wasn’t that one order from a food truck changed my whole vision of college and the University — it was more the small taste of home that assured me this new world wasn’t as scary or unfamiliar as it seemed. What makes us feel comfortable isn’t necessarily recognizing everyone’s face in the dining hall or knowing the fastest route to Runk. Sometimes it’s something as insignificant as a freshly steamed dumpling to make us feel like we have chosen right.
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