When I’m twenty-one and still feeling homesick, I go to the Hong Kong wet market on Whitney Avenue. I inhale nostrilfulls of smoky grit and ripe filets, of marble-eyed Capelin and dusty ginger root and plastic tubs lined with plastic bags filled with teensy plasticy sucking candies. The air feels smogged and thick like my Manhattan Chinatown, curling around my calves like a greased, endearing street cat. Most New Haven grocery stores are thick with fluorescent lights, security cameras designed to be noticed, and pyramids of apples that look and taste like wax. They lock their de-scaled, de-boned filets behind butcher’s glass, embalmed on ice with browning lemon halves as garnish. But at Hong Kong Market on Whitney Ave, the smell of the produce in the basement beckons, real and raw. As tension bleeds from my shoulders, I play my childhood marketplace game. I browse the top floor looking for snacks or canned goods I haven’t tried before: palm hearts in syrup, steak flavored Lay’s, dried and wrinkled black fungus. I imagine my dad walking right next to me, pointing out the different rice cake flavors; or my grandparents, holding each vegetable up and explaining where it came from, and why. Once my basket feels heavy, I go down to the basement. Because I still live in the dorms, I forbid myself the privilege of buying any glimmering fish. But I walk the cool concrete floor in a familiar embrace, soothed by the almost-seaside air.
