I really don’t know a lot of people who don’t have ramen stories. Usually it’s during college, or bachelorhood (or bachelorette!), and centered around those little instant-fried squares at $3 for a dozen. I don’t mess with nostalgia, but I leave those versions of ramen on the shelf and in fond memories.
Others roll their eyes at those stories and then go into lengthy, dreamy detail about the “best ever” ramen shops in Tokyo, or Chicago or L.A where they had “the real deal” ramen. And that’s great, too. Authenticity, though, that’s another thing I don’t touch if I’ve never been to a place. I’ll leave that version in Tokyo, where you can go find it and have your own story (and maybe me, too, someday).