Made In Taiwan

I Joined - Have you?

2011-03-10T10:00:00.001-08:00

Taiwandering Episode 1: Taichung (no, that's not how you pronounce it...)

2010-04-25T03:20:00.000-07:00

As I believe I've said before (and if I haven't it should be known), organizing a trip on the weekends is like trying to find a Taiwanese man without a ridiculous-looking haircut - it's possible, but takes extreme patience and effort. Between the weather and the general lack of decisiveness among the Travel Buddies, it's amazing that we ever actually go anywhere. Once a decision IS actually made, there is also the problem of figuring out the logistics of getting there, though this is becoming easier now that we are all more familiar with the rails, the cabs, and bus systems. However, we still do a lot of standing around, staring blankly in random directions, sometimes whimpering. Carrie often openly weeps.

So after much stalling, mind-changing, deliberation and debate, we found ourselves on a slow train (as opposed to the High Speed Rail) to Taichung (pronounced Tai-Zong...kind of. At least, that's what is SOUNDS like everyone is saying...I just parrot people now in hopes of not sounding like a total idiot), which is somewhere to the South of Hsinchu and not really famous for anything in particular. It does, however, have over a million people, and thus we all agreed that it should be seen at some point or another. So, on the train we went, the weather slowly improving from dreary to not-as-dreary-but-still-not-sunny as we headed South, the noise from the tracks clinking away and adding rhythm to the ride.

Authors Note: Dear President Obama. Trains are cool. We need more of them in the U.S.A. That is all.

After arriving and figuring out which bus would not get us lost, we hopped on the correct bus and immediately got lost. Apparently we should've gone the OTHER way. Soooo, a ten-minute ride turned into an hour-long tour through the streets of Taichung, which wasn't all bad in the long-run. (Fun Fact: paying on buses is OPTIONAL. At least, this is how we all treated the bus system. No one seemed to notice). Finally, we arrived at our first destination: The National Museum for Weird Art That No One Understands. Haha, not really, but we did see some pretty crazy-looking exhibits that were obviously too deep for my tiny Modernist brain to grasp the meaning of. Carrie, Denise and I played some fun games, including "Name That Art!" ("This is is called 'Blue Square over Red Square'"...."You're full of shit, it's called 'Red Square UNDER Blue Square'") and "How Does It Make You Feel?" ("This one makes me feel anxious and frustrated" or "This one makes me hungry for peanut butter sandwiches cut diagonally with no crust"). Overall, a great experience, and it felt good to do something cultural for a change from our usual routine of...well...killing brain cells.

But I'll get to that shortly...

(getting ready to get lost)

(ostrich with his head in a submarine - makes complete sense)

(me still trying to understand the art I just saw)

(the view from the museum deck)

Next, to the hostel to stash our stuff and then out into the chilly April evening and the Taichung Night Market (it probably has another name...I don't know it). For those who don't know, a Night Market is usually a narrow street lined with shops, street vendors, and about 6 billion Asian people. It is loud and bright and a great place to feel totally OUT of place, but we're all used to that by now so we just go with it. On this particular Night Market outing, the goal was to try every possible food we could, no matter how strange is looked or foul it smelled. Though I can't remember all the delicacies, some of the highlights were:

- stinky tofu

- a corndog (whoa...hold on, don't go too far out of your comfort zone now)

- japanese mini-burgers

- mashed potatoes that tasted like cake batter

- mushroom tempura (tempura is japanese for "dipped in fried batter-y heart-arresting goodness)

- cold squid with mayonnaise (I'd eat anything with mayonnaise on it)

- something that was probably meat covered in some sauces

- corn on a stick!

- watermelon juice

(The Taiwanderers)

(Taichung Night Market - lets play Where's Waldo with the white people!)

(stink tofu...its potency would make it illegal in the States)

(I don't know what Carrie is about to eat...we rarely do, but she'll never learn unless we let her make her own mistakes...)

(is it potato? Is it cake? YES!)

(me and Matt going super-cultural; corn dog. enough said.)

After we all felt full and about to vomit, we went back to the hostel to change and pre-drink (Carrie found an alcoholic beverage called "The Cup" which happened to resemble the plastic urine-sample cups at the doctor's office - only in Taiwan...), then out into what Cynthia described as "the great Taichung Night Life". We found ourselves at a nice little bar/club called "Freedom", which offered an "all you can drink" special for $500 NT ($15 bucks). Mistake. Long story short, after much dancing, sweating, and tequila shots from an unknown girl literally pouring alcohol DIRECTLY into our mouths (I thought once you graduated from college you didn't have to do stuff like this anymore), we made it back to the hostel, but for all I know we teleported through space and time 'cause I couldn't tell you when or how this came to be. All I know is I woke up Sunday morning and the sun was shouting at me.

(our hostel which was more like a hotel)

(trying to get Mike to drink The Cup)

(Mike and Matt, 9 drinks down. It looks like Mike might be hallucinating, and Matt's face was frozen this way for the rest of the night)

(rehydrating, Mike catching the leavins')

(I'm trying to figure out where I am, both immediately and also in Life. I get deep when I drink.)

Another beautiful day to be alive and experience the beauty of Taiw...but first, hold on...I think I'm gonna have to hurl....

(On the next Taiwandering: Taichung Part II: Lonely Planet is full of it...)

Team Taiwander: Where Adventures Meet Alcoholism

2010-04-23T07:00:00.001-07:00

Ahhh. Allright, well before starting off on our Taiwandering Adventures, I feel like everyone back home should know that yes, I actually DO have friends here. I know. You are shocked. Many probably got the impression, from my first 6 months of blogging, that I spent much of my time meandering the streets aimlessly and playing on the internet in my one-room palace. And while this was true of my first month or so here (which is about how far I got in my previous blogs - don't even get me STARTED on how behind I was/am and will forever be) - I have since made some awesome friends, many of whom will probably even reach "lifelong" status. (Those of you who have already attained this rank, you are aware of the perks that come with such a title; you know, like letting me sleep on your couches and getting to throw multiple goodbye/welcome back parties).

And no, for those who are wondering, none of my good friends/traveling buddies are, in fact, Asians. This is not because I don't like the Taiwanese; in actuality, I have yet to meet a Chinese person who I do not instantly like (with the exception of this dude at the bar who knocked over my guitar and then REFUSED to pick it up...who DOES that?!). It's just that, I guess when you're far away from home, you tend to gravitate toward things that are as familiar as possible. That is why almost all my friends are exactly like me (with a few outliers here and there to prove I'm not completely close-minded): They are all laid-back, enthusiastic, and like to explore. They are tell good stories and like to drink, which in turn makes their stories even better (if not less coherent and lengthier/louder/less based in fact). Most are Midwestern or Canadian, and while being Canadian is never to be viewed as a positive affliction, the Canuckleheads are generally chilled out, which lumps them in with the rest of the Midwest mentality. They are all good people.

SO, without further adieu, meet the players:

Team Taiwander

Starring:

(don't worry Reefer Madness fans, it's a tobacco hooka)

Michael John

Aliases: Mike, George Michael, Serg (or is it "Surge" like the drink? Whatever happened to that drink, anyway? Didn't they discover it actually contained pure crack-cocaine or something? Is that why those people did all that crazy shit in the commercials?)

Hometown: Lansing, Michigan (Midwest represent)

Biography: Mike is known for his ability to dance better than any person I have EVER seen (and by "better" I mean that everyone who sees him says "oh my God! WHAT is that guy DOING?!?! AWESOME!"), his propensity for wearing neon, and his enthusiasm that rivals most five-year olds when their Ritalin prescription runs out. Oh, and he sweats. A LOT.

Authors Note: Dude is my best bud in Taiwan...until he gets hammered. Then I want to kill him. But in a good way.

Denise Ritchie

Alias: Menace

Hometown: Canada (that's right, all Canadians just live in 'Canada'. Are there even real cities in Canada? I thought everyone just lived on frozen lakes and occasionally spoke French in between confused-sounding blurts of "eh? EH?")

Biography: Denise is probably the girl most like MYSELF that I have ever met, and therefore she (and Carrie) is just like sisters to me. She tells great stories that all involve alcohol in some way or another. She is rarely pissed about anything. She says she is going to the bathroom at parties, but instead just goes home and leaves everyone wondering/searching for her.

Authors Note: Part of the Dynamic Duo of "Menace and Cheddar Bob", which constitutes my other best buds in Taiwan.

(Plug: Carrie and Denise's VIDEO blog...check it out for some embarrassing footage of the Taiwanderers, myself included):

http://menaceandcheddarbob.blogspot.com/

Carrie DIXon!

Alias: Cheddar Bob

Hometown: Canada (Me to the girls: "quick, name the Prime Minister of Canada". Response: "....uh....?". I love Canadians.)

Biography: Carrie is the nice, maternal member of our motley crew, but still laughs when we injure ourselves doing something idiotic. She is a terrible scooter driver, but sometimes cooks for us. She smiles ALL the time and snores like the wood-chipper from the movie Fargo. From the way she bruises, she may actually be a fruit of some kind. My guess is a tangerine.

Author's Note: The other half of "Menace and Cheddar Bob", the most ineffective superhero team ever.

The Internationals:

(no, it's not Halloween. This is how he always dresses)

Marc Woods

Hometown: Leeds, U.K.

Biography: Marc is the talent in our two man acoustic band affectionately dubbed by our "fans" (read: drink friends) as "Sex Church", after someone said "What is the most controversial name one could name a band? (I'm sure you can think of worse...don't bother telling me, the polls in the official "Vote For Marc and Tommy's Band Name Contest" ended last Tuesday). Hilarious individual, claims he is actually more British now that he no longer lives there. Also, one of the best guitarists I have ever met.

(yes...it's monkey)

Chris Bradley

Hometown: U.K.

Biography: Chris is another who COULD be a standup comedian but who actually has a REAL job (assuming that we foreign teachers are not actually real people because...let's be honest...we're not). He is one of the most chill guys I have ever met, but would go to war if someone messes with his friends. You can't buy loyalty like that.

Authors Note: The first time I met Chris, he was drunk and, within 2 minutes of meeting me, pyscho-analyzed me as "a guy who tries to appear confident and cool because in reality he has no idea what the hell he is doing", which of course made me hate him because...you know...he was dead on. I'm over it now, though. "No worries".

Jamil Leva

Hometown: San Pedro Sula, Honduras

Biography: Besides Mike and the girls, Jamil is one of the first guys I met in Taiwan. An all-around good guy, is always down for pretty much anything. He is fluent in, um, like 17 languages, and knows more about being a foreigner here than any other person I've met. An invaluable resource. A better friend.

Also starring:

Jason Lacoste

Hometown: New Orleans, LA

Authors Note: Smart guy, my favorite debate partner in matters of religion, philosophy, and determining the best way to terrify some random dude that owes him money into paying him his money.

Cythia Lapierre

Hometown: Canada (Is it a coincidence that "The Star Spangled Banner" and "Oh, Canada" both start with the word "oh"? I'm calling plagiarism)

Authors Note: A relatively new addition to my personal traveling entourage, but way fun to have around and always looking out. Holler.

Trey Gregory

Hometown: Somewhere in Indian, I think.

Authors Note: Yeah, Trey went to Mizzou. How crazy is it that I came ALL THE WAY AROUND THE WORLD and met a guy that went to the same University as me. M-I-Z baby.

(For those of you unmentioned, it's not because I don't love you, it's mostly because I'm tried of writing and my readers have a short attention span...doubtful any of them have made it this far anyway...you'll be in version 2.0)

So, now you know my friends and can reference them when i say something like "Mike set a Filipino bartender on fire" (actually happened) or "Marc broke up with a Taiwanese girl after three weeks only to have her threaten to fling her tiny Asian body off the roof of his apartment building" (actually happened). I guess it's true what they say..."No man is an island who has friends, unless his friends are made of water and then yes, I suppose he could be considered an island in a metaphoric sort of way, but who are these 'water people' you refer to....?" Don't ask me what it means...its a Taiwanese Proverb.

Preface: Taiwandering Blogisode

2010-04-22T03:56:00.000-07:00

I woke up the other day and realized that I have been in this country for almost eight months. This marks the longest I have lived in any one place since graduating college, a feat which I'm not sure if I should take pride in or be slightly ashamed about. Am I adventurous or fickle? Probably a little of both. My transient nature has begun to inform me that yes, it will soon be time to move on to the next chapter in this crazy novel that is my life, and therefore my time in Taiwan is limited and quickly waning. Where will I go, you ask? At this point it seems like Saint Louis is the logical choice (with a pit-stop of undetermined length in Texas to see the family, of course); almost all my friends and half my family live there, I love St. Louis sports, and let's face it, the low cost-of-living in the Midwest makes it ideal for a struggling....um....whatever I will be when I return. But rest assured, I WILL be struggling.

But the point here is that, in eight months, I have seem almost NONE of this beautiful country. Part of the reason for this is because, for the last 5 months, it has rained literally every other day, making planning a sight-seeing trip nearly impossible. Part of the reason is that my school, along with every other school and institution in Taiwan, doesn't believe in Holidays. In the Sates, I remember we used to get off school for EVERYTHING. ("Happy '3rd Tuesday in September Day!' Stay home!") However, the parents in this country would never stand being around their children this much (because they actually HATE their children), and so here we are required to go to school ALWAYS, even during typhoons, earthquakes, and sometimes even on Saturdays. And lastly, part of the reason I have been nowhere is because, as with any routine, complacency tends to arise after time and repetition. I get stuck in a rut, and happy (or content) with being just...there. Sometimes it takes a push to get me out.

So here's the push...

I've got four months left here. That's 16 weekends and possibly a week off in July if the scheduling cooperates. My goal is to see as much of beautiful Formosa as time and money will allow, and hopefully blogument much of it for your reading pleasure. (I will do my best to be as un-educational as possible, and in all likelihood will probably make up a lot of what I don't immediately know off the top of my head. You can get your facts from Wikipedia...I'm here to entertain.)

Let the Taiwandering begin.

(On the next episode of Taiwandering: Taichung ("no, I don't know what it is. eat it anyway.")

Complacency in action.

Welcome Homeless

2010-04-20T08:13:00.001-07:00

All right, so I know I JUST got finished saying how I'm actually NOT the kind of idiot that routinely misplaces his keys; I actually thought I was getting more responsible. Exhibit A: I haven't lost anything of value since I've been in Taiwan (except my dignity on various occasions), this including keys, passport, I.D., phone, wallet, scooter, or my Barry Sanders rookie card that constitutes my 401K retirement plan. Exhibit B: I haven't ONCE slept through a class, which is phenomenal considering in college I retook the SAME course THREE times because they only time I could ever get into it was 9:00 a.m. and, for the love of God, do they REALLY think a 19 year-old kid is going to be awake any earlier than 11:00? Exhibit C: I actually (brace yourself) sort of follow through on stuff now. I mean, not everything, but I used to have more flakes than Tony the Tiger. (rimshot) OH!

So yeah, things have been going well, and I seemed to be slowly progressing toward that foreign land of responsibility that some might call "adulthood" but I just refer to as "I'm tired of people giving me a hard time because I keep screwing up so I'm trying to get my shit together-hood". Smooth sailing. That is, until this last weekend.

These are too stupid NOT to tell.

Event #1:

So, as per Thursday routine, Marc and I go down to Mr. Sevens pub and play some 80's hits on acoustic guitars for the regulars (I realize no one back home knows of this, but I will soon blog about it so you can say, with confidence, that Mr. Sevens is a terrible name for a bar). It had been raining all day, and though the precipitation had lazily tapered off to a light drizzle, the temperature had dropped to around 50 - unusually cold for Taiwan, and worthy of hoodies and jackets. We played until about 2, then (although I had to teach at 9 the next day) continued to "hang out" (which is code for "drink White Russians and learn Chinese profanity from the locals") until 4. God only knows what inspired me to think this was a good idea.

At 4-ish I decide to call it quits, and with my buzz nearly gone I scootered the short distance back home to my apartment, squinting my eyes against the cold and the mist. Safe at home, I went up to the 7th floor and realized immediately that my "security door" was closed. [the security door is just a giant metal door on the OUTSIDE of the normal door]. Strange, I never close my security door, and I don't even have the key so I most CERTAINLY would never loc....oh hell. I yanked and I pulled and I twisted. Nothing. Who would be playing such a mean trick on me? WHY?!?! Is it because I sometimes watch old "Scrubs" episodes too loud on my computer at 1 a.m.??? I'm sorry, I'll never do it again, I swear.

So, after a brief attempt at problem solving - which my faculty for had also, apparently, been drinking - I decided my best option was to....call a friend? No. Too easy and logical. Oh, I know! I'll camp out against my stupid self-locking security door like a homeless person. Yeah...that's what I'll do.

Cut to me, 2 hours later, after shivering and passing in and out of florescent consciousness. One of my neighbors had probably left for work - I can't imagine WHAT they thought of this creepy white homeless guy - and the sound had woken me up. I tried to collect myself, tested the door again. Still nothing. Damnit. I turned around to go (I don't know where I was going to go exactly), and was suddenly overtaken by a fit of rage. I whirled, Street Fighter II style, and flying knee-kicked the metal security door.

With a click, It opened....

And just in time for me to start getting ready for school.

Event # 2:

"Tim-Tom, wake up. We're leaving in 10". What? Where I am? Why is the sun shouting? I roll out of bed and realize that we had made it back to the hostel. Hm. The last thing I remember was eating 7-11 rice that, judging by the feeling of my tongue, was actually ON fire. In the state I was in, I probably would've eaten the flaming molten-rice off the pavement.

Out the door in a hurry, more sight-seeing in Taichung (more on this as well). About halfway through the day I realize that I no longer, in fact, possess my keys. Awesome. Oh wait, I know where they are...sitting right where I left them the night BEFORE so I wouldn't lose them at the club. I'm an idiot. Call Trey. "Sure man, I'll bring em back up to Hsinchu when I come home around 9". Cool, thanks Trey. We make it home, but not before my phone dies rendering me unable to communicate with anyone, and in a country where I am unable to communicate with anyone this can be a problem as far as problems go.

We get back early, around 7, and I drag my hungover feet around town for a little while to kill time until Trey arrives at 9. At 8:30, I go and sit outside the exit to the station, undoubtedly looking haggard and ready to sleep. Nine o'clock comes and goes, as do thousands of Asians, through the exit carousel and out into the night. No Trey though. And no keys. No scooter key. No house key. And no phone to call and politely ask "Where the hell are you, dude?"

I sit on the sidewalk until 11:30. The Asian train station workers are obviously concerned. My ipod has since died and, though my headphones are in as a disguise, I can hear them mumbling in Chinese and sending sideways glances at me. "Is he going to sleep here?" "Doesn't he teach my son?? What is he doing, trying to score drugs???" Finally, the digital marquee is blank, which I assume means no more trains. I surrender, and begin walking to the nearest 24-hour McDonalds, where I will try to sleep until I have to get up and work in the same scummy traveling clothes that I have been wearing all weekend. This will NOT be a fun day.

Luckily, though, the story has a happy ending. On my way to my McHostel I happened to pass an all-night internet cafe, and after figuring out how to pay (50 cents an hour...nice) get on The Facebook and start frantically messaging anyone and everyone. Denise, my dear savior, agrees to come get me and I traded a McBooth mattress for my familiar place on the girls' couch. Thank Goodness for good friends. I totally owe her. And Trey eventually got me my keys, so I eventually go to return to my home. Eventually.

---

So, in summary, I'm dumb. That said, my experience also affirms my theory that everything works out in the end, even if the getting there kinda sucks. It ALSO affirms my theory that actually being homeless would not be NEARLY as fun as everyone has led me to believe. I thought it was like a party with fingerless gloves....not so. I guess it's time to rethink my future occupational choices. I'll get back to you when I find something with more perks but which still doesn't require me to, you know, do anything.

It's like looking into the future. Eerie.

Comebacks Are For Losers, Winners Never Leave

2010-04-19T04:55:00.000-07:00

I realize I haven't blogged in, oh...forever. Part of the reason for this was because, in what I can only assume to be a restructuring of Universal management, Someone pulling the strings decided that I had just too damn much positive energy in my corner and needed to be humbled. Word trickled down from Upstairs that someone was getting the axe, and shortly after New Years a death blow was dealt to one of my dearest friends - my computer, Brian. (That's right, I tried to name my CPU icon "brain" and misspelled it. Thank you $40,000 education.) So, as it was I have been unable to write anything because, honestly, who would even THINK of using a pencil or pen these days?! I don't even think I remember how to hold one, and even if I did, my gnarled fingers are forever frozen in the "poised over the keyboard" position. My opposable thumb can no longer even make the connection with my other digits; it can only move in a repeated and swift downward space-barring motion, and also occasionally stick itself straight up whilst I am trying to communicate that yes, I do very much want the coffee you are pointin....no, not that one. Go up one. No, not the soy latte section, i just wanted the....fine. Whatever. I always end up leaving the coffee shop with something decidedly NOT coffee. And a scone. When the hell did I order a scone?

The Reaper's sickle not only did a number on Brian's video card, but also grazed my motivation as well. My first and only nine-to-five job was starting to wear me down, and all I wanted to do when I got home was do something unproductive. Luckily, I have been practicing this technique for years, and I am quite deft at it (I will soon be publishing my first "How To" book entitled "Time Consumer: Waste Your Way to Happiness" featuring chapters on: staring blankly, walking around a house aimlessly for long durations, and concluding with a tear-jerking and well-written editorial by my good friend Sam Miles called "Facebook - Internet Friends Are Better Than Real People Anyway".

Not only this, but weekends, when I usually got most of my writing done, were now booked solid doing actual THINGS, not just writing about doing actual things. Every Friday my pesky friends would drag me, fingernails peeling up the hardwood, out of my apartment and into the world. Didn't they realize that I have an eager fan base of maybe TWELVE whole people that SOMETIMES get around to reading the first seven sentences of my blogs before my incessant descriptions and run on sentences force their brains into boredom comas?!?! Who do these people think they ARE, tearing me from my work this way? Everyone back home now thinks I've died!

So these are the reasons why I hiatus, and now I have returned bigger and better than ever. No, I still won't have any pictures because I still don't have a camera. And no, I still am not funny. But there are some crazy things that have happened in my life that I would love to share - some of them directly relate to being in Asia, most of them directly relate to me being kind of an idiot. But, you know, one of those loveable "aw, the dog got his big dumb head stuck in the banister railing" idiots, not the "if losing my keys was an olympic sport, then I would have missed the medal ceremony because I can't find my keys to drive there" kind of idiots. I hope that my readership will return once they realize that I have not actually been lost to an earthquake, scooter accident, or H1N1, but if your patience has worn too thin and your girlfriend has thrown it out even though it was your favorite patience and you always wore it on Sundays while watching your favorite team lose, then I guess I'll still enjoy writing this, as it was meant to be an exercise in reflection anyway.

Oh, who am I kidding? This has always been all for you.

Christmas in Taiwan - Part III

2010-01-19T00:07:00.000-08:00

As expected, everything moves in a blur, which is what usually happen in life when we have too much to do and are desperately clinging to the moments that are dying faster than we can hold on to them. In the morning I shuttle my Kindies downstairs for one last dress rehearsal before their big debut, their costumes falling apart before the rehearsal even begins. They do not look good, but they also do not look awful. They look like they were outfitted by a 25 year-old boy who haphazardly pieced together 13 costumes using scraps and a skeleton budget. However, I think my effort is sufficient enough that none of my peers or parents will think me a slacker. Watching my kids take the stage, I can say without hesitation that my costume ideas were a little too ambitious, but at least they are SORT OF recognizable. Sort of…

The children deliver their best performance during rehearsal, and I am both proud of how far they’ve come and terrified that they’ve peaked too soon. However, I am mentally prepped for disaster: “Don’t expect too much” some of the veteran teachers caution, “once they look out in the audience and see their parents, they will either turn to statues or begin the waterworks.” But everyone seems moderately impressed with my class during rehearsal, and I have to keep reminding myself that the kids are only three and four years old; if they do ANYTHING at all, including vomit while singing (“Away in a manger no crib for a BLAAAAHHHH!”), it will be marked as a victory.

After morning rehearsal and lunch, I hustle over to Elementary to prepare for THEIR mini-recital which is to take place during school hours. This performance is much more sedate, and doesn’t involve costumes or elaborate choreography, just each elementary class singing one Christmas tune. We run through our song, “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas” a few times to warm-up, then head downstairs to Miro’s small basement auditorium for the performance. My class surprises me with more showmanship than I have seen during our practices, and they are well received by the other elementary school classes. As soon as we exit the stage, I make an excuse that I have to use the restroom and slip upstairs stealthily.

Upstairs, I slide red felt pants over my slacks and stuff a balled-up sheet under my shirt. I put on the red felt coat and fasten my black belt over my massive belly, then put on the foot-smelling scraggly white beard/mustache combo and red felt hat. The transformation is complete: I am now Santa Tommy.

I grab my red sack (pillowcase) full of candy and creep quietly back down the stairs, the sound of children singing wafting up the tile steps and gradually increasing in volume as I descend. At the landing I peer around the corner, keeping out of sight. At the far end of the room the elementary students (somewhere around 60 or 70 students) are all gathered together on the stage, mumbling the words to “Oh Christmas Tree” as the foreign teachers half-heartedly flail around and point to lyrics written on a giant sheet of paper. The small collection of parents that have gathered to witness the performances and subsequent cacophony begin to notice my presence, and they swing their camera lenses toward my shrunken, partially hidden figure. Suddenly, I dash from my hiding place and take cover behind a support pillar, once again out of sight. I smile as I hear a few of the children start to squeal, some of them exclaiming in loud whisper “Santa! Santa!” I linger just long enough to inspire doubt of my presence, then quickly tip-toe Grinch-like to the opposite wall, where I crouch and vanish behind a Nikon-wielding mom.

At this point, all of the children are now in an uproar. “Oh Christmas Tree” has been completely abandoned, and the students are all pushing their way to the edge of the stage to get a glimpse of the mysterious man dressed in red. I burst forth from my hiding place with a startlingly loud “HO! HO! HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!” and jollily waddle up to the stage. Chaos ensues as if I am the most recent winner of American Idol. Everyone is shrieking, tearing, pushing. “HO! HO! HO!” I repeat, and I suddenly realize that I have not rehearsed any lines other than this. Thinking on my feet, I shout “WHOOOO HAS BEEN A GOOD LITTLE BOY OR GIRL THIS YEAR?????!!” The stage erupts with deafening chorus of “ME!!!! ME!!!” I reach in my bag and pull out a handful of candy, then gently toss the handful into the rabid mass that is balanced precariously on the ledge that constitutes the end of the stage.

Terrible idea. The hoard of ravenous students becomes a monster of arms and clawing hands, emitting screams of glee and horror and it rips itself to pieces with its own greed. Another handful of candy goes into the air, prompting the children near the back of the mass to start maliciously shoving in order to obtain a single piece of individually wrapped chewy goodness. Friendships are carelessly cast aside and all humanity is lost in the quest for these priceless prizes. The stage begins to look like the deck of “The Titantic”, and the students on the edge can no longer hold back the force of the crowd clamoring for lifeboats. In agony the first wave of children plunge over the side of the stage, meeting their untimely demise at the hands of the auditorium floor two feet below. It is too late to stop the madness now. I continue throwing handful after handful into the crowd, fueling the frenzy to dangerous levels.

I see a small group of boys standing on the side of the stage, not partaking in the wonderful disaster. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I shout at them and underhand several pieces of candy in their direction. Out of the corner of my eye I see Teacher Mia lunging to intercede, but she is too late. “They are being PUNISHED! They can’t have any CANDY!” she pleads. “Oh NO! NO! NO!” I yell at them, trying to correct my error. But it is too late. The only way to get the candy away from them now would be to tear it from their cold, lifeless hands. Oh well, it’s Christmas Time…Santa must have left his “list” at home.

Finally, my bag runs out of candy and Santa must make a quick getaway. I give one last “MERRRRY CHRISTMASSS!!!!” and dart up the stairs, out of sight. I change quickly into my “civies” and casually head back downstairs, where I am immediately greeted by a wave of pointing fingers and accusations of “Teacher Tommy is SANTA!!!” I am shocked! “WHAT!?!?!” I exclaim, my eyes wide in disbelief. “You mean Santa was HERE?!?! I missed him!?” Most of the older kids don’t buy it, but I can see some hope creeping into the corners of the younger ones’ eyes. Could it be? Did Santa really come to Miro?

My secret will stay safe unless somebody happens to get a whiff of my face. It still smells like feet…

Christmas in Taiwan - Part II

2010-01-13T21:42:00.000-08:00

So here I am, the week of the Christmas Show, feigning composure while I try and figure out how I am supposed to accomplish all that is before me in such a short period of time. Luckily, I have been in this situation before. (By this I am referring to my last semester before I graduated from the University of Missouri, wherein I put off ALL of my final projects, including a massive 20-page Capstone paper, until two weeks before I their due date [I ended up writing just shy of 100 pages worth of research papers in this time]. I literally did not sleep or eat for two weeks; by the end my face was tanned and my eyes were scarred from the unholy glow of a computer screen. And, although the circles beneath my eyes took months to fade and the sugar-laden caffeine drinks eroded away my stomach lining, I somehow pulled it off. I consider it my greatest accomplishment, though completely unnecessary in light of the time I actually had to do all these things). Thus, I have learned that: a) for some reason, procrastination seems to work for me, and until something truly awful comes as a result of it, I will continue to embrace it, and b) everything always manages to get done, even if the task at hand seems overwhelming.

So I suppose I have not yet allowed stress to seep into and infect my carefree demeanor, but have silently begun making a mental “to-do” list nonetheless. Here are some of the high-points on the list:

1. The song I have chosen for my Kindergartners, “Away in a Manger” is far too short. Apparently the parents require at LEAST three minutes of adorable “standing on stage looking confused” video footage. Therefore, I have to figure out a way to lengthen it via audio-editing software. Thank God I own a Mac, hopefully GarageBand will afford me some solution.

2. When choosing this song I had envisioned a tiny Asian nativity scene, complete with tiny Asian donkeys and a tiny Asian “Angel of the Lord”. Yes, it would be disgustingly cute. However, in my planning I did not consider that I was going to have to MAKE all of these costumes. So now, while all the other teachers are mass-producing identical, matching reindeer costumes, I am trying to figure out how to make 13 individual historically accurate AND identifiable costumes while staying within our budget of $0 (that’s $0 NT for those of you who need it converted).

3. Last week, due to what must have been a brief stint of temporary insanity, I volunteered to play “host” for the Christmas Pageant, which responsibilities include but are not limited to: standing in front of a roomful of parents and informing them of what “act” will be next; trying to maintain some semblance of order as parents with three year-olds will most certainly be clawing their way to the stage in order to get a perfect shot of their child’s vacant-eyed mumbling performance; filling down-time by telling jokes/entertaining to an audience who, for the most part, does not speak fluent English; AND, last but not least, dressing up like Santa (Santa suit provided) at the conclusion of the show and asking the parents what they want for Christmas. I know, right? I though it was a joke as well.

4. “Well,” the Chinese Teachers reasoned, “since he is already dressing up like Santa ONCE for the Kindergarten Pageant, surely he won’t mind doing it for the Elementary School during THEIR recital either, right?” Of course not. Truthfully, I’d wear the Santa suit all day if the beard didn’t smell like feet. Anyone who has spent ten minutes with me knows I like to be in the spotlight, so even though I will act annoyed and put-out by this request, I secretly revel in it.

So, as the days get crossed off and the calendar counts up to Friday, I diligently whittle away at the jobs on my list. Our class’s song is digitally cut, copied and spliced in GarageBand, breaching the four-minute mark while avoiding adding any new words or choreography (thank God). Costumes are made with some combination of construction paper, tape, yarn, and ripped up bed sheets. A script is written for the Pageant, complete with terrible jokes that won’t be laughed at. I practice my Santa voice and “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Finally, Friday arrives, and though I am exhausted I greet it with a feeling of anticipation. The day feels surprisingly festive as I enter the school on the brisk 60 degree morning. I smile and try to cling to the small Holiday concessions that faintly glow with the Christmas Spirit – The small, fake Christmas Tree in the corner, the colorful decorations on the front window, the Chinese Teachers with red bows in their dark hair. Christmas may be on life-support, but it is still alive enough to whisper its song. I breathe deep and mentally sturdy myself for the day ahead, excited for the madness that is infused into the Season…

Christmas in Taiwan - Part I

2010-01-06T00:20:00.001-08:00

Many of the English Language Schools in Hsinchu have decided to celebrate Christmas on the 24th of December, which falls on a Thursday this year. Other less accommodating institutions will even have their Foreign Teachers come in on Christmas Day, effectively ripping from this holiday whatever joy was left remaining after homesickness had dwindled the Christmas Spirit down to mere embers. Fortunately for me, Miro International Institute has decided to be gracious to its poor, lonely English Teachers and give us Christmas Day off, leaving us with a three-day weekend to sit alone in our small apartments in front of the Christmas Trees we don’t have, listening to “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” on repeat, weeping openly and drinking cheap wine straight from the bottle. I guess Miro doesn’t consider any of us suicide risks.

However, in order to make possible this extensive and well-deserved vacation of ONE DAY, we teachers will be required to pretend that Christmas actually falls on December 18th. This, as many of you may know, is a lie. This ignorance of our beloved Gregorian calendar also means that we are required to prepare everything needed for Christmas an entire week early. “You teach English to Kindergartners and Elementary students,” you say. “How much do you really need to prepare?” Ah, good-hearted reader; let me enlighten you on the proceedings:
* * *
‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through the school,
Children were screaming as chaos ensued.
* * *
“PLACES!” I yell once more, and my three and four year-old students look at me like I’ve just asked them to amputate their own toes using only our bright green safety scissors. “Teacher, we KNOWWWW” they groan almost in unison, and I curse myself for ever teaching them this useful yet incredibly annoying phrase. “I know you know!” I cry in artificially cheerful exasperation, “Just ONE more time, I promise”. They all stagger to their assigned X’s on the classroom floor, arms swinging deadly in front of them in an exaggerated manner as if sheer exhaustion had caused their appendages to go limp. Kids are awesome actors. I push play on the small CD player and the opening bars to “Away in a Manger” begin to play. The children sway haphazardly, failing to achieve the simple choreography that Teacher Yvonne and I have created. In seconds a chorus of child performers on the CD sweetly sings the opening words of the song, but is quickly drown out by the incoherent shrieking of my children who are not actually singing words, but only sounds that resemble words. Their faces contort in painful expressions as they force their voices into deafening registers. They forget all the choreography. Thirty seconds into the song Howie falls over for no reason at all, his oversized head bouncing off the floor with a “thud”. I look at Teacher Yvonne in desperation because today is Monday; we are nowhere NEAR ready for the Christmas Pageant on Friday, which will showcase our students’ talent (or lack thereof) for the other students, teachers, my principle, and most importantly, the tuition paying result-oriented parents.

The entire process of preparing for the Christmas Pageant does not sound nearly as difficult or time-consuming on paper as it actually is. About a month ago the Foreign Teachers were told that we needed to select a song for both our Kindergarten class and our Elementary class (or classes) to learn and perform. For me, that is ONE song each – two songs total. “Piece of cake” I thought, and began searching both the internet and my memory for songs that I thought my kids in each respective class would enjoy. Picking the song for elementary song came easily enough: First, there was much less pressure to impress with my elementary class, as the performance would be low-key and during school hours, thus only being witnessed by the other students, faculty, and a handful of stay-at-home moms with video cameras. Secondly, being 9-11 years old, my elementary students had a fairly good grasp on English and I therefore didn’t need to worry about choosing a “level-appropriate” song. I settled on “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas” which was upbeat enough to be difficult but not wordy enough to cause mumbling or frustration. I think this pick was met with as much approval as a ten year-old can muster when told that he has to memorize a song in a different language. (Remember learning “Silent Night” in German? I do. What’s the German word for “suckass”?).

Selecting a song for my Kindies was a little trickier: First, I had to make sure the song was easy enough that the children could, maybe, actually learn to say some of the words, as parents and administrators would certainly be listening with sharpened ears, judging my performance as a teacher based on my students' ability to articulate and pronunciate. Any repetition of phrasing was vital to this point. Furthermore, the song had to have words that lent themselves well to some movements or choreography. Lastly, and most importantly, the children had to look as cute as possible while performing the song, as the Pageant would be held in the evening thus allowing every known relative of every single child to be in attendance. It was, we were warned, a "Big Deal". Taking all these factors into account, and after much deliberation, I decided on “Away in a Manger” for its slowish tempo, its repetition of the phrase “Little Lord Jesus” and the eased at which I could come up with simple hand-gestures to illustrate lyrics like “asleep in the hay” and “no crying he makes”. At the time I was proud of my selection, and confident that I could make it into a hit. But in the coming weeks my self-assuredness began to wane, and it became apparent that I had made an awful mistake...

Christmas in Taiwan - Preface

2010-01-03T22:50:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, Dad wrote me a short email asking me how things were going, making sure that my financial, mental, and emotional states were all in harmony and that I was not yet becoming mired in regret or homesickness. I assured him all was well; I was still enjoying my experience here, and my desire to be reunited with my friends and family had not outweighed my intense longing to satiate my lust for adventure, growth, and exploration. He ended our correspondence by warning that the Holidays are always the hardest part about being away from home – at least, that’s what he remembered from his time spent abroad in the Dominican Republic and points beyond.

I took his cautioning to heart, especially knowing my propensity to sway toward a “grass is greener” mentality and my past bouts with seasonal-affective disorder (self-diagnosed, of course, and never to the degree of requiring medication – at least, I never thought so. Past friends and girlfriends may claim differently). However, I was also confident in my ability to keep my head up and grind through the lonely Holiday season, as this is not my first Christmas away from home. Last year, I spent the winter in Keytone, Colorado, starving to death in one of the most beautiful places in the world. As is consistent with other negative experiences in my life, I tend to blot out the bad memories and romanticize only the good, but I do remember these points about my Colorado Christmas: 1) Giving, literally, my last $20 to my friend Baz (Australian, my best friend in the Stone) to cover my share of Thanksgiving dinner, which was comprised of tuna sushi, mash potatoes from a box, and a giant turkey. After dinner we crowded into Baz’s undersized dorm room and played drinking games, pretending it wasn’t actually Thanksgiving and we weren’t all away from our families. 2) My girlfriend at the time Stephanie coming to visit for Christmas time. I couldn’t tell you what we did or where we went. I just remember it felt nice to not be alone, but that feeling was overtaken by the shame of being too broke to buy anyone anything for Christmas, including her. 3) For New Year’s, I fell asleep at 10:45 p.m., before the Ball even dropped. I had no money for booze, no one to kiss, and my prospects for the Upcoming Year were looking bleak and directionless.

So, although my Holiday experience last year was viewed in a generally negative light, I had made it through with my sanity and shreds of dignity. This gave me hope for my second Christmas away from my family. After all, this year my situation is significantly improved from my destitute days in Colorado; I now have money, I have better friends, and I have reached a point in my life where I am genuinely excited to be where I am. However, I am also learning not to underestimate the impact being in a foreign country, and how removing myself from the familiar can take a larger toll than just the pangs of grief that being physically separated from the warm glow of loved ones can create. In Colorado, at least Christmas – in all its beauty, pageantry, and commercialism – still existed, and there was some comfort knowing that the good tidings of Christmas were surrounding me even if my family and friends were not.. It is not nearly the same here, as it seems like the Spirit of the Season has been surgically removed, leaving a lifeless travesty, a hollow shell. Going into the week before Christmas, the debate is still raging in my mind: Is it better to be immersed in the essence of Christmas Time but to do so in isolation from the people that give true joy to the Season (as I experienced in Colorado), or to simply bypass the Christmas Spirit altogether and half-heartedly celebrate a shallow reflection of a holiday that barely resembles the Christmases in my childhood memories (as things seem to be in Taiwan)??? While the conclusion may not be reached anytime soon, I only hope that the loneliness here will not cast a pall on my memories of this country and this experience.

I go into the week before Christmas feeling optimistic, but having armed myself against the inevitable tinge of sadness that always seems to accompany the cold weather and the shortened days. I know others, even in the presence of warm fires and warmer hearts, are experiencing some of the same sadness as me, a sadness that can’t be fixed by presents or proximity to those we love. At the very least, I know we are in this sadness together, even if we are apart. It is our job to fill this emptiness with whatever we can hold on to…

(to be continued…)

Friday August 21st: The Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-day Insane

2009-12-15T11:05:00.000-08:00

(Authors Note: For those of you wondering how I can describe these experiences which happened well over 3 months ago so accurately, I promise I am not making all of this up. I have taken [and continue to take] painstakingly detailed notes about my days which help me to paint the pictures you now read. Certain romantic liberties are always taken, however, but I consider these my journalistic and literary right. Thank you once again for reading).

As I walk home, my thoughts scatter around like the points of light that reflect off of my metal surroundings and catch my eye like harmless spears of God. I mumble to myself, my dry lips moving slowly, adding up figures, calculating departure and arrival times, my brain tightening the slack on my mental budget. "Yeah, its going to be close" I say out loud, but the whine from the multitude of passing scooters screams over my worried whisper. It is true, I have not gotten here alone, financially or otherwise. I have swallowed my pride many times in the last few years and taken support when it has been offered - much of the largess probably even forgotten by its givers. But although I now own new debts which have helped make this trip possible (and which I will NOT forget), I had hoped that this adventure would mark a turning point for me. When I left Texas less than two weeks ago, Dad had given me $100, saying "this is the last you'll ever get from me". He said it with a smile and I knew that he was less than serious, but I realized that this was an important moment in my life. This was the last time I would rely on my father, or anyone else, to help me (financially) make my way or to acquire the things I desired. I am twenty-five years old. I am smart and independent. It is time to accept adulthood. It is time to be on my own.

This is not to say that Dad or the various other people in my life wouldn't rescue me if I was drowning, and truthfully, that notion of security is one of the reasons I can take such risks where others cannot. But it feels exhilarating and terrifying to be out in the rain, out from under the umbrella. Let's hope I won't have to run for cover so soon after my long-awaited liberty.

I turn the corner at the stoplight, glancing into a small shop where a weathered-looking man is staring blindly at a small silent television, the concrete floor of his store littered with green coconuts. The sun is gaining momentum behind me as I walk toward the bridge, my flip-flops making slapping sounds on the uneven blacktop, the cars and scooters flying past close enough for me to feel the air they move and their exhaust on my ankles. As I look ahead, I notice two white men on bicycles, both in white button-down t-shirts, both with sandy brown hair. I smile instinctively, trying to contain my excitement at seeing Westerners other than my co-workers, as these encounters have not happened at all since I've been here. They cycle past me, but then quickly throw on the brakes and turn around, peddling back to where I have stopped to wait for them.

"Hello!" they both gush enthusiastically, as if they were both being reunited with a childhood friend. I return the salutation, my voice involuntarily slipping into a friendly Texas drawl. Names are exchanged but theirs are forgotten almost immediately, as if snatched away by some invisible claw in the space between their mouths and my ears. (I really have got to improve my name-remembering ability). They ask me about my "Taiwan experience", to which I reply that I am "just off the boat" (my new favorite expression) which seems to impress them in a sort of "remember when" kind of way. Shortly, I come to discover that unlike me, they are not here to educate; they are here to convert.

FACT: As of 2007, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (better known as the Mormons) had over 50,000 missionaries working around the world. However, although traditional Christianity may be able to boast higher numbers in terms of "troops on the ground", the average Mormon mission is arguably more intense than working in a Central American hospital or camp for two weeks. Most Mormon missions last two years, during which time the missionary's sole purpose to try to talk to people who would rather put their hand in a blender than discuss Joseph Smith and his crazy golden tablets.

"Now hold on, Tommy" you say, "it's not fair to jump straight into assumptions that Mormonism is some kind of cult". And normally, I would stand by this rebuke, shielding myself from Conservatives behind the first amendment freedom of religion and my belief that we, as human beings, can never fully know or understand the Truth and it is, therefore, not our place to reprimand others for their beliefs when our own could be just as flawed. However, this argument crumbles in the plastic, smiling faces of the Mormons in front of me who ooze congeniality like they eat lovable cartoon characters for breakfast. I mean, come on! NO ONE is this genuinely happy and completely agreeable! And, as hard as I fight it, I begin to feel myself being sucked into their infectiously peppy personalities, being drawn closer as if I am a recovering alcoholic that smells the sweet scent of whiskey on another's breath.

This, I firmly believe, is why Mormonism (principally a Christian denomination separated from that distinction by their belief that the Book of Mormon - based on the writings of Joseph Smith - is a Holy text) is such a successful sect; Mormons, for all their disagreements with Christian doctrine, have somehow managed to take the message of Love that Jesus Christ taught and manifest it in their daily lives. To see this Love in practice, one either has two reactions: The first (the one I now experience) being "these guys are full of shit. No one can really be this overflowing with goodwill unless they are on prescription medication", and the second one being a feeling of uncomfortable awe because of how drastically their actions oppose everything we, as members of society, have come to expect from fellow human beings. In either case, the feelings summoned by an encounter with Mormons can be defined as negative, but only because we are so unused to being exposed to such genuine affability.

On the other hand, perhaps the notion of "too good to be true" applies here, and their kindness is nothing more than a sales pitch for someone to idolize and follow blindly to a new belief system. While that is a bit overly pessimistic for my taste, I can't help but wonder what is behind the curtain. As I turn down requests to attend the Mormon service on Sunday but accept my new acquaintances' cards as consolation, I am tempted to ask them out for drinks, though I know they will decline my invitation just as I have declined theirs. What would they say about their church, their Mission, their LIVES after eight or nine rounds? Would they retain their happiness, their shiny dispositions once the alcohol forced the honesty from their bodies, or would I see the rust under their bellies and the frustration and angst in their words that I secretly wish hides inside them because it hides inside me? Do I just want to see them at my level, to destroy their attempt at Love because mine has failed so many times before? As the conversation draws to a close and I continue on my journey home, I wonder how the conversation would go between we three Believers, and what God would have to say about it.

* * * * *

That night, after recovering for a bit, I walked the 20 minutes to the RT Mart to find some dinner. I have put myself on a $100 NT ($3 US) a day food budget, which still might not be frugal enough, but I'm hoping the cut-back will allow me to make it through the next few weeks without crawling back to Dad's generosity. I am starving, so I head straight for the bakery, knowing that carbs are the cheapest and fastest way to fill one's stomach. After perusing through various muffins, breads and pastries, I finally settle on dinner: donuts. A bag of five costs $40 NT, and although they look soggy and unappealing, I know they will be filling and the sugar will give me a boost. I head to the check-out, pay in change, and eat the entire bag before I get back to my apartment. "So much for eating healthy and staying in shape over here" I think, but if there is one thing I've learned, it's that eating healthy is expensive, and I have now switched to survival mode. Let's hope I start earning some money before I break 200 pounds and find myself with extra chins. I go to sleep late, my stomach protesting loudly at the lack of nutrition that I have forced upon it.

Friday August 21st: The Necessities of Lying to Legally Smuggle One's Self Into A Foreign Land OR Who Taught Texas Grammar?

2009-11-16T07:35:00.000-08:00

After the successful performances by all the summer school classes and the amazing rendition of Michael Jackson's "Beat It" by Rex and Yuta, summer school is dismissed and the crowded lobby begins to clear as students are whisked away by parents and school buses. The Chinese teachers stay and continue working, preparing for the arrival of the new semester. I stay as well, along with Connie, in order to try and book an upcoming flight to a different country so that I may, eventually, have the appropriate paperwork to legally work in Taiwan. Let me explain.

Before leaving for Taiwan, I did quite a bit of research to determine exactly what I NEEDED to bring so that everything would go smoothly. I didn't want there to be any hang-ups; in my mind, I only got one shot at this thing, and if it didn't work I wouldn't have the money (or the secured job) to try and do it again. I discovered that the list of required documentation was pretty short, but some of the items weren't necessarily easily obtained. I will enumerate the checklist that hung like a bladed pendulum over my head for the final month before I left, inching closer and closer as the days counted down.

1. Passport - Thankfully, I had already gotten my U.S. Passport LAST summer when I thought that this trip was a possibility then, but dragged my feet too much to follow through and ended up wandering around the United States for 12 months. Although I still have the better part of a decade before mine expires, anyone coming to work overseas should be sure to have at least two years before expiration.

2. Passport Photos - Of course, I waited until four days before I left to have these taken, but the process was easy and inexpensive. Several websites informed me to bring at least 12, which I did. However, since I got here several other teachers have expressed that this is probably not going to be enough, so I may have to find some way to have more taken or forge copies. If I could set back the clock, I'd get twenty, just to be safe.

3. University Diploma - For most, this item would probably be pretty easy to come by. Just go in the bathroom (where I WOULD have hung my diploma), take it out of the frame, fold it neatly and put it in your wallet. However, for me, this item took over a year to secure, and was one of the largest factors that went into me NOT going to Taiwan immediately following graduation (as was the original plan). See, instead of using my student loans to pay my tuition expenses, I decided that I needed a new computer. This is a decision that I still do NOT regret (for I use this purchase roughly 3-4 hours a day), but because of it I owed an outstanding debt to the University of Missouri which I didn't have the means to pay until shortly before I fled the country. It did feel mighty satisfying, I must admit, to stroll into the Cashiers Office at Mizzou and finally get that $40,000 unimpressive piece of paper. (Keep in mind that everyone in Taiwan requires your ACTUAL diploma, not a copy - however, as soon as you give it to them, they make a copy and give it back to you).

4. Travel Visa - Procuring this, by far, was the most arduous task of all. Growing up in the U.S., I never had to think about visas or borders; I just drove for hours, catching glimpses of state signs as the sun was rising out of the misty summer half-light. (For example: "Welcome to Kansas - We're Sorry" or "The Lone Star State - Drive Friendly" where the word "friendly" is not actually an adverb...the correct way to say this would be "Drive Friendily", but "friendily" is not a word at all...so there IS no correct way to say it.) Even Mexico was always just a short drive and a hassel-free border stop away. However, now that my world was being broadened to an international scope, I had to consider how to get INTO these nationalities without swimming or hiding amid a herd of goats in the back of an old toothless man's trailer. Luckily, for almost all countries, the U.S. Passport will allow one to visit for up to 30 days without any kind of problems. Unluckily, This did me no good because it would take longer than 30 days to process my Alien Resident Card, which means that the government would have put me on a flight home before I became a legal alien resident. To solve this problem, I needed a 60-day visitors visa, which would require a special application process.

This application process demanded that I produce all documentation showing WHY ON EARTH would anyone, especially I, need to stay in the country of Taiwan for longer than 30 days, as well as explicit proof that I would be leaving before my 60 day visa expired. I needed a letter explaining what I was going to do and see in Taiwan. I needed a bank account statement showing I had sufficient funds to do and see all the things in my letter (which was tricky because I didn't actually HAVE any money). I needed an actual ticket or itinerary showing my departure flight and date from Taipei back home to the U.S. Naturally, I didn't have any of these things - I had no travel plans, no money, and a one-way ticket - so I lied.

Less than a week before I was scheduled to leave, I forged bank account statements and round-trip flight itinerary, and constructed a letter detailing my fake travel plans (which prompted my father to ask if I majored in "bullshit"). I sent these, along with my passport and $360 U.S. (for rush service and application fee) off to Washington D.C. to have them processed by VisaHQ, an online visa service that seemed reliable enough and promised my visa and passport would be returned in time for my departure. My other option, instead of going through a visa processing service like VisaHQ, was to drive to Houston and visit the Republic Of China (R.O.C.) Embassy in person, which I imagined to be like the DMV only without fluent English speakers. The online service seemed like the logical choice.

Sure enough, two days before I was set to leave (which would have been impossible without my passport), a FedEx Express envelope was found leaning against the front door of my dad's house. I opened it with anticipation, excited to see my visa and finally be free from the stress of this whole complicated situation, and instead found a letter apologizing; "Your visa application has been denied..." Damnit. Apparently, my forged itinerary had fabricated my "return" date for only 26 days after my arrival, and the letter cheerfully informed me that, because I would be staying less than 30 days, I wouldn't need a 60-day visa after all! I knew that sucking at math would come back to haunt me eventually....what was I thinking?

So now, back in the teacher's area of Miro, Connie and I must book a flight for me to LEAVE the country, then re-enter with a 60-day travel visa. This process is actually quite common and is called a "visa run", but at the moment I am sweating because I am almost out of money and truly cannot afford to go gallivanting around Asia, even if it IS necessary for my prolonged stay. One of the Chinese teachers, Mia, who is very nice but seems extremely busy, finds a cheap round-trip flight to Macao through a travel agent for a little over $6000 NT (just about $200 U.S.) that leaves the following Thursday, and I tell her to book it. My options are either Macao or Honk Kong, and rumor has it that the Taiwan Embassy in Macao is a piece of cake, so that's where I will go. I thank Connie and tell Mia I will bring the money and my passport next week, and head home, wondering how I am going to make it to payday (September 5th) without going completely broke. "Oh well" I think, "You can always do what you did in Colorado, and not eat for a week or so". I suppose I COULD lose a little weight, and now I get to travel to yet ANOTHER country - even if it is for only two days. Besides, what fun would this adventure be if everything went according to plan and I didn't have to tiptoe on the edge of survival for a while? All good stories must find the protagonist up against the odds so that he may eventually overcome and emerge the hero that everyone believed he could be. Or, you know, starve to death. Whichever comes first.

Friday, November 6th: Round Up The Usual Suspects (First Trip To Taipei's "Nightlife")

2009-11-08T07:39:00.000-08:00

Since making some new friends a couple of weeks ago, weekends have regained their familiar place as the time to "unwind" after a long work week of spelling tests and runny noses; however, while most think of unwinding as a relaxing pursuit, unwinding among twenty-somethings in Taiwan is defined much the same as it was when I was in college - namely, drinking until we all do things we will not be proud of when the morning sun shines light on our torn shirts, bloody knees and heavy eyes. Though I can no longer claim the stamina or tolerance that I proudly called my own in my university days, I am thankful that I now have something more to do on the weekends than just sleep until noon, explore aimlessly on foot and watch Bruce Willis movies alone in my one-room mansion.

Walking home from work on Friday evening, my friend Jamil sends me a text message: "Let's hit the Taipei nightlife tonight. What you say?"

I have been in this country for almost three months and have yet to visit its largest and most "energetic" city. Part of the reason for this has been lack of expendable funds, part has been fear of being in a massive foreign city by myself, which I have never done save for my limited experience in Macao (a decidedly more English friendly tourist city). However, now with this month's freshly deposited paycheck waiting to be tapped and at least one friend to go with, any reservations I have been nurturing are slaughtered at the hands of my ravenous sense of adventure. "Pick you up at nine" texts Jamil. I shower and am ready by 8:00 p.m.

Before getting on the bus to Taipei we stop off to pick up a couple of Jamil's friends, a Frenchman by the name of (can you guess it?) Pierre and a Moroccan Frenchman who goes by "Face", and to wait for our British friend Marc to finish giving a guitar lesson. I have never been in the company of Frenchmen before, but they seem to fit into the preconceived stereotypes that I have been doing my best to shake since I left the States; they are smooth and friendly, well-dressed and well-groomed. After everyone arrives we hop the bus to Taipei, passing a bottle of Scotch whiskey around and drinking beer, talking too loudly and trading questions and answers about each other's personal histories and cultures. I learn that Face is from the city of Casablanca, and I do my best Humphrey Bogart impression, which falls flat because no one else has seen the movie. As we talk and laugh and drink it amazes me that six months ago everyone I associated with was from the same state, or even the same town. Now, between the five guys disturbing the other passengers from the back of the bus, we represent four continents (Jamil - Honduras [Central/South America], Pierre and Marc - France and the U.K., respectively [Europe], Face - Morocco [Africa], and me [U.S.A], can speak just as many languages, and are going drinking in one of the larger cities in East Asia.

The bus fare is $105 NT ($3.40 US) for the hour-long trip to Taipei, and though I'm not exactly sure what time we arrive, it is probably approaching midnight when we all pack into one cab and pull up to our first destination. Upon getting out of the cab, Marc asks where Taipei 101 is. "Oh, you can't see it now," replies Jamil "its over there, but the buildings are in the way". Marc laughs. "The tallest building in the world and we can't even see it over the buildings?!" I, too, am disappointed, but the alcohol consumed on the way up is beginning to take effect and the lights and sounds of the city are igniting my senses. I soon forget the tallest building in the world and focus my attention on the activity at street level.

I am not exactly sure what the names of the bars are called or how Jamil knows how to find them (I guess he HAS been in this country for a while, now), but I soon find myself gliding up the side of a building in an elevator and slipping through well-dressed men and woman at an upscale lounge. A waitress comes and takes our drink orders, I order the margarita martini for a taste of home. At $300 NT a piece the martinis are not terribly overpriced by U.S. standards, but expensive enough to keep us from ordering a second and we soon leave the pounding house music in search of something a little cheaper and somewhere a little crazier. The next bar is, literally, underground. We descend the black staircase and pay the $600 NT cover charge, which would usually elicit complaints; however, this fee also included all of one's drinks for the evening.

Forgive me if the following seems to lack detail or description. These were both lost somewhere in the music and the tequila sunrises:

We drink tequila sunrises. I switch to whiskey & cokes at some point and never look back. The deejays are Asian, but have dreads and wear N.B.A. jerseys. I remember singing some remix of Red Hot Chili Peppers when one of the deejays holds the microphone in front of me. (Yeah, I am "that guy"). I dance. A lot. We meet a girl who claims she is from Miami, Florida but looks and acts very Taiwanese. We call her Miami the rest of the night. I jump up on the stage. I dance until my legs hurt. Miami bites me on the shoulder, I still have no idea why. We leave the club and I buy everyone sausages from a street vendor, but eat it so fast that I burn the hell out of my tongue. We wander around a corporate park for what seems like hours. I buy a stick of gum from a homeless lady for $100 NT. I let some random Taiwanese man use my sim card from my phone. I lose my shirt. Jamil finds my shirt in Miami's purse. I begin to think Miami is a little crazy.

After this the night fades to black, like a movie where the protagonist is poisoned and all the audience sees is his world blurring, spinning, and stopping. When my memory resets itself I am in a two-story McDonalds and the sun is rising. I eat the over-processed calorie-laden sustenance without tasting it. I feel ashamed that I have broken one of my rules of living in Taiwan (never eat something you can get back home), but my body has convinced my brain that I will die without ingesting something that begins with "Mc" and will surely end with a stomach ache. We leave the McDonalds and drag our feet along the sidewalk; the sun has been born once again. People are heading to work, glancing quickly at us as they pass. I'd like to think that they smile inside, remembering a past life when days and nights melted into each other in a seamless haze, when they too were young, irresponsible, invincible.

We take the bus home and Marc and I talk about Southpark, music and video games while everyone else sleeps. My body begs for sleep, my veins need rest to strain all the poison from my blood and make me new again, but I fight on, prolonging the inevitable until it will be sweetest. Finally back home, I draw the curtain and collapse into bed, succumbing to exhaustion. My muscles shudder and stop, my lungs exhaling fumes in shallow breaths while the world slowly grinds on without me far below. I will not dream, and the memories of the night that should be saved will elude my sleeping mind and be lost forever to the ringing in my ears. But there will be more memories to erase, more nights to embrace this life. Don't wake me I plan on sleeping in...

Friday, August 21 2009: It Doesn't Matter Who's Wrong Or Right

2009-11-03T06:32:00.000-08:00

The end of my first full week of teaching comes without much in the way of fanfare or any "congratulations! You didn't screw everything up immediately!" from my colleagues or superiors. I guess this is because I have been trying to disguise the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing, and my faux-confidence seems to be doing the trick. I, on the other hand, am thrilled with my relative success (or lack of failing disaster) and silently praise my own accomplishments. I tend to be my own biggest fan sometimes, but this helps keep my chin up and allows me to live independent of the opinions of others, which can be fickle or damaging to the foundations of my self-esteem. There are, however, a small number of opinions I value very highly...I'm sure you know who you are...

Today in summer school my class is to perform the song "Wonderwall" (if you want the full effect, you can listen to the actual version here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6hzrDeceEKc), but no one in class seems nearly as nervous as I. This is probably because, of the 18 eight, nine, and ten year-olds in my class, only four or five have decided they are going to try and sing the lyrics. The rest are content with mumbling along incoherently or not even making an attempt at all. It's a shame; apathy seems to be claiming younger and younger victims these days. I remember being at LEAST twelve before doing this kind of thing in school became lame. Regardless, as the hour of our "performance" draws nearer the lack of participation begins to unsettle me, not only because I fear I will be the ONLY person singing to a room full of Taiwanese children but also because I do not want the faculty to think me an "uninspiring" teacher. Time to pull out the secret weapon: choreography.

It is a well-known fact that children love to beat on things and to make as much noise as possible. Why is this? My theory suggests that because society has deemed loud children to be annoying and their creative expression - at least when it bursts forth in the form of shrieks, yells or disruptive, deafening banging sounds - is to be suppressed and not tolerated, kids naturally rebel against this oppression whenever possible. Its almost sad because at some point most of us lose this spirit of individuality and rebellion; the world says "we don't want to hear what you have to say," so we bite our tongues, tie our shoes, and keep our heads down. What ever happened to "making a joyful noise to the Lord?" Or simply allowing our voices to carry into the heavens, the waves rippling out into space forever, tiny pulsating evidences of our fleeting existence echoing off the walls of eternity?

It is also a well-known fact that Taiwan has a readily available supply of disposable wooden chopsticks, of which I now had in my possession thanks to a Chinese teacher who had raided the local 7-11's condiment and food accessories section hours earlier. Lucky for me, "Wonderwall" just so happens to have nice drum fill about halfway through the song, which I meticulously and skillfully choreograph by saying "Okay, GO!" and telling everyone to start banging on whatever is around them with their miniature, flimsy drum sticks when they hear the rapid snare drum pops on the CD. This creates both noise and laughter, and suddenly everyone is enthusiastic, knowing that maybe their small contributions will be heard. Never mind that no one can hear the music from the weak boom-box speakers anymore; at least we are having fun.

The performance comes and goes, my class does about how I expect them to - very little singing or enthusiasm, but their efforts are applauded and no one seems to be looking at us disapprovingly. After all of the classes finish their respective songs, the encore is herded onto the stage and subsequently steals the entire show. The "encore" is actually two elementary students, named Rex and Yuta (pronounced almost like the state), who have been coerced by fellow students and faculty into singing Michael Jackson's "Beat It". I am told that we have another Foreign Teacher to thank for teaching them this, a quiet-spoken Philippine, Maynard, who plays the original song through the computer's speakers while Rex and Yuta sing, from MEMORY, every word to the King of Pop's hit. I am floored, and cannot stop smiling as I exalt to everyone around me, "This is the GREATEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN!" It is truly a spectacle, to see two ten year-old Taiwanese boys belting out a song usually reserved for drunken 2 a.m. Karaoke nights. I honestly can't imagine a better eulogy.

The Sticker On The Bathroom Wall Asks The Question: "What Are We Going To Do About The U.S.A?"

2009-10-25T08:33:00.000-07:00

I realize that I have been lazy. As it happens, just like with anything else, even the things we love doing most can begin to wear us down and become a chore rather than a pleasure if the proper steps aren't taken to fan the flames of enthusiasm. A couple of weeks ago I discovered that my blog entries totaled over one hundred pages - a good start to my novel, and an even better resting place. I needed to catch my breath. But I am back now and have decided that, thanks to some suggestions, I am going to try to do things a little differently. First, I am going to try to write less but say more, which is difficult for me because I love to ramble and use endless commas and semicolons. No one should ever accuse me of excessive conciseness or brevity in my life or my writing, but I have always admired those men who are described as being a "man of wisdom with little words". Perhaps I can be more like them. Secondly, now that a decent enough foundation of setting and mindset has been establish concerning the first week of my adventure, I plan on swinging back and forth between past and present, which will help show what I am doing NOW as well as the events that led me here. Although this might be devastating to my narrative cohesiveness, it will help me to stay inspired. Living in the past can be tiring even though I believe reflection is important. Besides, I can iron it all out later, and chronology isn't a huge concern for me right now; perhaps one day my publisher will disagree.

Last night I was invited to a birthday party by a girl named Janneke, a South African whom I met when I was trying to find an apartment in my first few days here. Janneke had listed a place on a popular expat Taiwanese website, and since our initial correspondence we have talked occasionally on the internet, me always promising to, in typical exaggerated Texas swagger, come out with them and show them how a real American could "drink them under the table". Having no excuse not to go (previously money has always been a deterrent), I walked the three minutes to the 7-11 across the street from the Hsinchu General Hospital and shared a cab with Janneke and her friends Robert and Lucy, all South Africans of varied ages. It was my first time meeting any of them, and they were friendly although they mostly spoke their first language, Afrikaans, which discovered is closely related to German or Dutch. I didn't mind, though, as I have become used to people speaking languages I cannot understand.

The night went exceptionally well, and evolved into something of a bar tour of Hsinchu. The first stop was at a tiny bar in Nanliao - the fishing harbor by the ocean. The establishment was run by a man named Ahur, who I likened to a Taiwanese hippie, and who was drunk when we arrived at 8:30 and continued to become friendlier and more talkative as the toasts went up and down. At one point in the evening he put his arm around me and we talked for a few minutes about his travels around the world and some of the things he has seen. His English was excellent, almost native sounding, and I was fascinated by his life.

The bar itself was even less formal than its proprietor. There was not actually any "bar", from what I could tell, and if one wanted a drink they simply had to find Ahur or one of his friends, who would cooly slip behind a curtain and disappear from sight, emerging seconds later with one's beverage of choice. The decor was amazing, the walls completely covered with posters, records, photographs, magazine cutouts; the furniture was warm and inviting, mostly couches and hand-carved wooden stools. The music was played through a small but powerful set of speakers connected to a computer in the corner, and the South Africans seemed comfortable enough to take control away from the deejay often, which contributed to a strange mix of techno, Afrikaans music and American pop as the soundtrack for the evening. When the small bar became too hot or crowded, or when one of the drunk South Africans shattered a glass of red wine on the floor, the party would spill into the street and onto the wooden dock opposite the bar, and dancing or smoking would ensue as the wet night air swept away the sweat and the darkness of the ocean lapped against the wooden pillars. I hadn't seen stars since leaving Texas on the night when Katherine and I had escaped into the night. In Nanliao, we were just far enough away from the city lights that the brightest ones burned through the cloudy atmosphere. It was nice, romantic, and the warm tequila and cold beer left my lips feeling numb and my head feeling light and carefree.

After midnight we took a cab back to Hsinchu where we stopped in a little bar district and had a couple drinks. Apparently, this area is where all the Westerners go during the weekends, and it was strange to see so many of us in one place. I met a girl named Emily from Ontario, a guy named Russell from Scotland, and a kid from Michigan who had arrived in Taiwan less than 24 hours earlier. I met an middle-aged man named Sean who told me he produced adult films because, and I quote: "The girls will do anything for almost no pay". After allowing me to awkwardly stutter some response about the value of pornography in today's society, he handed me his card which read "Sales Manager for the Gram English Center", and informed that he did not, actually, produce adult films. "When you told me you had only been here two months, I had to mess with you" he said. I drank to gullibility.

We finished the night at a "club", or possibly the closest thing to a club that Hsinchu has to offer. It was not my scene, but I didn't want to be rude and leave the party early, even though it was almost 4:00 in the morning. I didn't dance much, but made a new friend in Joanita, a very pretty South African girl with big dark eyes, and we talked loudly over the beating house music and watched the evening's stragglers dance clumsily on the lighted dance floor. Afterward, I showed the girls into the cab and walked home through the cool autumn air, the light from the new day whispering into the horizon and warming the grey-sky morning.

While this night was good and marks the first time I have really been "out" since my arrival in Taiwan, it was no different than anything I could've done back home in the States. The descriptions are mostly to lay foundation for my commentary which is as follows:

First, last night was the first time I have had to clarify the statement "I am from Texas" with "Texas...United States". In the U.S., it is a given that everyone you meet knows where Texas is, or has at least HEARD of Texas and understands it to be a part of America. However, as Americans we take this knowledge for granted and do not realize that our identities, insofar as our specific home makes up our identity, must be simplified as we broaden our horizons. No longer is my home a house or an address or a city or state; my home is now a NATION, which serves to both inspire pride and national identity, but also to create a small feeling of ambiguousness - a homeless feeling, like you belong everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

Secondly, last night is the first time I have ever been "attacked" for no other reason than because I am an American. This attack came from a South African girl, a friend of a friend of Janneke's, who was VERY drunk and very obviously wanted to take me home with her (I am not being arrogant here...she was disgustingly indiscreet). However, her tactics for wooing me was to continually insult my nationality, which she must have likened to flirting, but which I likened to insulting. On top of all this, she was far too drunk or too rude to learn my name and insisted on calling me "Bob", while I made a strong effort to learn everyone's name, as well as the correct pronunciation. I listened quietly along with other wide-eyed Taiwanese locals while famous South African songs were being played on the stereo and the South African National Anthem was being sung loudly throughout Ahur's bar . I tried to speak little of America, though it is difficult to speak of much else because it is all I have known in 25 years, and asked many questions about culture and language different from my own. Yet, despite my concentrated effort at open-mindedness, I was still accused of arrogance and small-thinking.

I realize now that this girl was probably too intoxicated to know how judgmental and hypocritical she was being, and she was definitely a poor representation of South Africans as a whole, who are very friendly and generally accepting. However, they are also passionate and they love their country and, from what I have seen, are not afraid to display their national pride. So why the double-standard? Why are South Africans allowed to revel in the colors of their country while American have to live in fear that we will be labeled as arrogant or boastful if we speak or celebrate our home? Perhaps, as I see more of this world and meet more fellow travelers who have left their homes I will understand and sympathize more, I will begin to see the ugliness of American pride. Or maybe, just like as a middle-class white male in America can never really identify with centuries of oppression or socioeconomic determinism that flourishes in the undercurrents of American society, I will always be blind to the reasons why Americans are despised because I am not on the outside looking in. Maybe my mere existence is a testament to the perceived superiority of American ideology. I hope all of this becomes more clear as the world gets smaller and the list of places I have called home gets bigger.

Ahur's bar in Nanliao (photo courtesy of Joanita Stander)

One of my favorite lines from the movie "Into The WIld":

Man: "Hello! Where are you from?"

Alexander Supertramp: "I haven't decided yet."

All The Roads That Lead Us There Are WInding, And All The Lights That Light The Way Are Blinding

2009-10-11T08:48:00.000-07:00

Thursday morning I wake up refreshed but sore and roll slowly into a sitting position on the edge of my box spring, rubbing my eyes and willing myself to walk to the shower so that the day can begin. I faintly remember waking sometime last night to take out my contacts and put on boxers before returning to sleep, and now I undo both of these things and get in the shower. I have learned that the temperature of the water in the shower doesn't necessarily respond to the position of handle, and thus I usually settle for something CLOSE to satisfactory. Today the water is warmer than I would have preferred, but the heat seems to relax my muscles so I don't mess with it. After soaking up the soothing warmth for a few extra minutes, I turn off the shower and towel off, neglecting to shave. I usually don't like shaving everyday, and due to the lax working environment I doubt anyone will care, so I give my stubbly skin a break from the irritation of steel. Anyway, I think a hint of a beard makes me look more...genuine. As if my personality is so amiable that it does not need to be softened by a smooth exterior. That, and I am lazy.

Today is an exciting day, for today I begin working at the elementary school in addition to my morning shift as an English instructor for the Kindergartners. Although I am growing fonder of my Kindy kids by the day, all my previous experience with children has been with those a little older, mostly through my volunteer work as a counselor at Christian Hockey Camps in the hot St. Louis summers (where I usually mentored to 8-11 year old boys) and my limited stint as a substitute teacher in Louise, Texas (where I babysat middle-school and high-schoolers); therefore, I feel that I will be more comfortable around the elementary students and will be able to both teach and "control" them more effectively. I am not really sure what to expect - Connie has told me that I will be teaching a "summer school" class, but I have no idea what that entails, or why, suddenly, they have enlisted ME to teach the class which has been in session for weeks prior to my arrival. Not one to retreat from a new adventure and needing the hours in order to make enough money to pay the bills which seem closer than they really are, I walk to school briskly, looking forward to the afternoon.

The morning's patterns continue on as scheduled, and the fourth day of teaching my Kindergarten class goes better than each of it predecessors. Each day I am learning more and more, figuring out what works and what doesn't, adapting to each child's individual personality and reacting accordingly to how they each learn, communicate, and interact with me and with their classmates. I am sinking my teeth into the intangibles now, the things that no amount of college or instruction or reading or friendly warnings can prepare you for. Everything we do before we get to these intangibles teaches us WHAT it is to be something or to do something, but not until we are in over our heads do we actually learn HOW to be something or HOW to do something. I suppose this is why every employer is so insistent on job experience, because ultimately, this is the only experience that actually amounts to anything at all. As Henry Rollin says: "Knowledge without mileage equals bullshit" - this is fast becoming one of the favorite and most relevant proverbs in my life.

At 11:45 the Kindergarten class ends, and I exit to a few random "bye bye Teacher Tommy"s (although the word for "goodbye" in Chinese is "zia jian" - pronounced "zi [rhymes with 'die'] gen [as in 'genetic'], most Taiwanese people actually just say "bye bye", which is the less formal and friendlier way of saying goodbye - very easy for me to remember) and head upstairs to get lunch. Once again, lunch consists of rice, some seasoned beef, and a side of sliced guava. Very basic, but I suppose most Kindies in the States won't eat much outside of mac n' cheese and apple slices, so I blame the lack of culinary variety on the children's picky taste buds. It doesn't matter much to me anyway; all I taste is how "free" the food is. If there is one thing I have learned in my last two years of relative poverty, it's NEVER turn down free food.

After lunch, I walk up to the Elementary School, which takes about three minutes. The sun is doing some unknown, underhanded business behind a grey-tinted cloud, and the world can feel the effects of its shadiness as I glide along the sidewalk, catching fleeting reflections of myself in the mirrored shop windows. Upon entering the Elementary, I find Connie and ask her what exactly I am to be doing in this summer school class. I remind her that the class starts in less than an hour, and therefore I don't have much time to prepare anything, but she assures me that the class is extremely laid back and I should have no problem "winging it". Ahhh, yes. My specialty. Connie also tells me that this week in summer school the theme is "music", and that everyone is just learning about different instruments, musical styles, and making noise-making machines out of random scraps that are lying around; the one thing I DO need to prepare is a song that I will teach the children, and which we will perform on Friday (tomorrow). "The song should be something popular, but also something slow enough for them to learn the words and sing along to" she says, and I begin rifling through my massive mental library of music, sorting my favorites into "popular hits" and "unheard-ofs", then refining the category of popular hits into "slow songs" and "upbeat songs". Eventually, I feel like I have selected a good song, and Connie approves. The song is downloaded, put on a CD, and lyrics are printed. At 1:30, I climb the three flights on stairs to the small, drab classroom where eighteen 2nd and 3rd graders are waiting for me.

I am not nervous to be in front the grade-schoolers, but their apprehension feels more defined, and I am aware that these kids are old enough to smell fear. I use the same upbeat approach that has served me relatively well with the Kindergartners, speaking loudly and with enthusiasm, gesticulating with my arms and hands for emphasis. I introduce myself, telling the students that I am from "America", and their eyes light up with recognition. Apparently they have heard of America, and their attention has been momentarily captured. I ask each of their names, only understanding about half of the students due to their poor pronunciation skills or quiet speaking voices, but to keep them from getting frustrated I don't press them to articulate or speak up. (After all, I have an entire year to learn their names, and they won't really start to stick until the second or third week anyway).

After introductions are made, I begin to ask the kids what they have been doing up until my arrival, and they all seem eager to provide me with answers pertaining to the class. Although their English is not excellent, it is still refreshing to be able to communicate WITH my students rather than speaking AT them. With some difficulty and often having to ask for things to be repeated, I learn that earlier in the week they were introduced to musical styles and musical instruments. Using this as a segway, I find the large box of scrap paper, rubber bands, marbles, styrofoam, cardboard tubes, tape, and scissors that Connie had earlier said would be in the room, and drag it to the front of the class. "Now", I announce to my curious audience, "we are going to make instruments. The children seem very excited at this, and immediately begin digging into the box and working away, chattering excitedly in a combination on English and Chinese. I oversee production, and I'm genuinely impressed by some of their designs. There is something so beautiful about a child's mind; they are not concerned with functionality or symmetry or aesthetic beauty, they only want to create something unique, caring very little about how others will judge or interpret it. They put little pieces of themselves into everything they make, and send it out into the world proudly, allowing the world to be changed by their raw, beating creativity. For whatever reason, growing up suddenly makes us so concerned with how others view our work, we become so AFRAID that we will fail. We forget how it feels to invent something truly original and personal and unique, and keep all those pieces of ourselves locked inside where no one can laugh or scoff at our efforts. The world needs more pieces of me, pieces of you. It will grow cold without them.

After an hour or so, I think it is time to start learning our "class song", which I have chosen to be "Wonderwall" by Oasis. I find it fitting that my class is going to be singing this song, as Oasis' "What's The Story Morning Glory" was the first actual rock record I ever bought, and so many of the songs on that album still resonate so deeply as the music that opened my twelve year-old eyes to the world of rock n' roll, power chords, and thinly veiled lyrical metaphors about drugs and sex. I remember sitting and listening to the tracks over and over, allowing the music to fill me up and become a permeating soundtrack to my adolescence. Although I know that Oasis is now outdated and foreign and it will not have nearly the same effect on my class of 3rd grade Taiwanese kids as it did on me over a decade ago, it still hits a sentimental chord as I pass out the lyrics, press play on the CD player, and sing along loudly to a live version of "Wonderwall" that someone must have downloaded by mistake instead of the original version. We sing over the song five or six times, and I dodge questions between rehearsals: "What is wonderwall?" someone asks. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe if we do some drugs we could find out.

Finally, class ends and I walk downstairs, ready to be finished for the day. Rehearsals went well and, although we are supposed to perform in front of the entire summer school tomorrow (not really as daunting as it seems, there are only around 40 kids total), I feel confident that we will do well. I chat with Connie for a minute and meet another teacher, Maynard, who is from the Philippines and speaks with a soft, soothing tenor voice. He seems friendly and experienced, and I feel he might be someone I could hang out with outside of school. I leave school around 4 o'clock, and the day is already feeling much cooler from the clouds and the setting sun. I walk home in a good mood, humming the tune to "Champagne Supernova" by Oasis in my head.

At home at last, I pass the rest of the evening reading and writing, and forgo dinner to save money. I also do my first load of laundry in my new apartment, which is a little confusing considering that ALL of the buttons on the small wash machine are in Chinese. I end up just smashing the controls until the machine starts filling up with water, then throw in what clothes will fit and closely monitor everything for the next 30 minutes to make sure nothing explodes and my clothes aren't destroyed. Everything seems to work out okay; my clothes smell better than before and don't seem to have holes in them. Success. I (miraculously) find a musty old box full of bent wire hangers out on my patio area, and use them to hang up my freshly washed t-shirts in my closet. My jeans I hang over a wooden rod that is suspended overhead on the patio, looking disapprovingly at them, knowing they will be stiff and uncomfortable in the morning. "Oh well", I think, "one more luxury you can learn to live without." I've gotten pretty good at roughing it.

Exploring Part II: The Gate To The Past And The Loss Of Humanity

2009-10-02T09:36:00.000-07:00

I turn a corner, my eyes running along the street and eventually landing on East Gate, Hsinchu's most famous landmark and the unofficial heart of the city. I walk toward the giant stone structure, stopping to stand on the other side of the four-lane road that encircles the monument. Along the road, cars orbit clockwise and then tear from the landmark's gravity and carom off onto perpendicular streets, while along the outer circles of the sidewalk people move in all directions and without pattern or predictability. The entire spectacle reminds me of a solar system, or the structure of an atom, but without the laws of physics to govern the actions of the objects within the structure. There is only free will and change, and all of this spins madly around the sad, lonely relic of the past, its permanence a testament to both its integrity and its uselessness. "The world is moving much too fast for something so eternal. Buildings and people and beliefs and ideas must be born and die so that new ones can take their place. This world has no place for history" the people and cars say, failing to look up and see the beautiful sky darkening above the East Gate. "Remember" say the stone walls, but no one is listening.

I explore for a few hours, finding many shops that are of interest but nothing that carries any merchandise I cannot live without. The nice thing about having no money is that you begin to reevaluate what you truly need, and in the end, you realize that you can survive with almost nothing. Somewhere to sleep, somewhere to bathe. One meal a day. One pair of jeans, a couple t-shirts, a pair of shoes. A passport. These are the only things I truly need; everything else is a luxury that I can bypass at the moment. It seems that when the choice is present to "buy" or "not to buy", or deciding which thing to buy over some other thing to buy, an added element of stress is introduced into one's life. By completely removing the option of consumerism, I am no longer burdened by these choices and life becomes much simpler. That being said, I still believe that a pair of athletic shorts would improve the quality of my life, so these are fast becoming a part of my canon of "things I need to survive".

Eventually, I stumble upon a Nike outlet store not dissimilar to the one I saw at the RT Mart the day before, its entrance almost obscured by the sidewalk merchandise being flaunted by stores on either side. I go in, look around and am rather disappointed by the selection; after all, if I am going to be wearing these shorts every day, I want to feel comfortable - this means function AND fashion. I keep searching and soon find several more small outlet stores, each one much like the first in size and selection. (Note: One thing that is interesting about shoe stores in Taiwan is that ALL of the display shoes are wrapped in shiny plastic wrap to keep them looking new). After going in and out of several of these stores, I finally find one that has a pair of black Nike basketball shorts in my size. I don't bother trying them on, and pay almost $700 NT which I think is a little expensive by outlet standards, but the shorts seem pretty nice so I am not too concerned about spending a little extra. I'm sure I will get my money's worth from them. As I leave the outlet store with my small brown merchandise bag in hand I realize that I am very hungry and, having not eaten since lunch time, think that I cannot wait until I get home (because I have to FIND home first) before I eat. Once again, my familiar problem of not knowing any Chinese and thus not being able to place an food order plagues and limits my decision making, but I settle on a small shop called Pizza50 which is located right on the circle drive and stands in the shadow of the hulking, historic Gate. As I approach the window to order, I mentally justify my choice of restaurant - which most certainly is NOT a place specializing in local cuisine - by reminding myself how much I miss pizza and how hungry I am. We do not have Pizza50 in the States; therefore, it still counts as a cultural experience. Thankfully, the menu is subtitled in English, and although they have an expansive variety of pastas, wings, and other items one might find at a typical chain pizzeria-esqu place, I choose the "Hawaiian", which is topped with ham and pineapple. The teenager working the counter figures out what I want after I point and gesture in the shape of a large pizza with my hands (my options being an 20 cm [8 inch] pizza or smaller pizza-bagel) and my total comes to $180 NT, or about $5 US. Reasonable. I take a seat at one of the rusty patio-furnitute tables on the sidewalk and watch the cars pass, blurs of taillights and exhaust fumes.

The teenaged worker brings out my pizza about ten minutes later, and it is smaller than I expect it to be. I begin eating and notice several things immediately; first, there is no marinara sauce, or any sauce whatsoever, on my pizza. The cheese has been baked directly onto the crispy, thin crust, and thus the pizza is missing, in my opinion, one of the key elements of "pizza-ness" (to use Platonic terminology); second, there is CORN in the cheese. I'm not sure if this is a characteristic of my particular choice of pizza or of all Taiwanese pizza in general, but I am decidedly against it. I eat it anyway, not seeing a reason to waste perfectly good pizza corn, and the entire pizza is gone in less than five minutes. I am torn in my opinion of Pizza50, but my fullness and my relatively low starting expectations help to quell my disappointment in the lack of quality and, of course, the corn.

At this moment (I blame the corn), my stomach tells me that I must make way for the new addition to my digestive system. My stomach also makes it clear that this task cannot wait, it must be done NOW. Stupid, pushy stomach. Luckily, just as I am about to start panicking (as Hsinchu does not have an abundance of publicly accessible restroom facilities) I see a sign hanging from the corner of the Pizza50 building, brandishing a Pizza50 logo and an arrow that points down the alley along the side of the building. I follow the arrow and discover a small indoor dining room cleverly hidden in the dark avenue, inside the air-conditioning is burning and the tables and floors are clean. The room smells like disinfectant. I find a small hallway in the back of the room and make my way to the bathroom, my stomach beginning to knot in discomfort.

As I enter the bathroom, I am at a loss. There is no toilet. The only thing in the room, besides a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, is a white porcelain bowl recessed into the ground with a small lever positioned behind it, a package of folded toilet tissues sitting on the sea-foam green tile floor at arm's length away. Well, hell. Now I remember reading about this in my research prior to leaving the States: Taiwan's infrastructure was not constructed with internal plumbing in mind, and therefore many public facilities, especially in older buildings, implement the "squatter toilet" for public use. I take a second to work out the logistics and positioning, and then... I will save anyone reading the unpleasantries. Suffice to say, it is a new and unforgettable experience. The luxuries we have become accustomed to at home do much to add a level of comfort to our lives, but also allows us to forget that, in essence, we are all nothing more than animals operating first on life's most basic levels. Money, clothing, fame, and power mean nothing when one is hovering six inches above a hole in the ground in the most degrading position known to man. It is truly a humbling experience. The squatter toilet is the great equalizer.

(Don't worry, my apartment has an ACTUAL toilet).

As I leave the bathroom and walk back out into the city street, I feel a clash between expectation and experience. The only other time I have had to "squat" to use the restroom has been on camping trips, and the closeness to nature allows one to ease more comfortably into undomesticated behavior, the trees and the feeling of seclusion easing the dissonance between the body's natural desires and the years of societal indoctrination regarding how a civilized person "ought to" behave. However, here there is no distance between civilization, with its norms and rules, and the natural and unapologetic acts that are so distinctly human. I feel a slight tinge of guilt, as if I had violated some unspoken statute and succumbed to the animalistic instincts that we are taught, from birth, to repress and to be ashamed of. I have desecrated the city. I look up to see the East Gate looking down on me, its illuminated face warmly watching me. It tells me not to worry, that it remembers when there were no buildings, no restaurants, no internal plumbing. It tells me it remembers a time when human beings embraced their humanity, their human-ess, instead of drowning themselves in technology, in materialism, in progress. Look how far we have come, but at what cost? Have we sacrificed what it means to be human, or enhanced it? The old Gate doesn't know the answer, so I start walking on.

I pretend to know the way home, but I am not fooling anyone. It is completely dark now, and as I walk my skin is showered in a endless multitude of colored lights, their reflections dancing on wide, wetted eyes. I try to remember the path that David and I went the other day, but cannot recall the specific street we took, so I settle for a general course of direction. All of the small shops begin to look the same, seemingly familiar but too analogous to give me any confidence in my bearings. I walk for a half-mile or so away from the busy commercial area around the East Gate, the sound from the people and cars dying away as the streets become less traveled, the lights becoming less generous. YES! Up ahead I see the Windance Center, letting me know I am on the right path. Thank God. It is getting late and, although I know crime is almost non-existant in Hsinchu, I still don't want to be slogging through the streets in the dead of night.

I keep walking for what seems like hours. I'm not exactly sure where I have gone wrong, but the street I am on does not lead me to my doorstep. In fact, it seems to be leading me out of town, but I have walked too far to turn around now. I continue on, fingers crossed, until I begin to pass some familiar sights. FInally, I run into my old friend Jinguo Rd, and I am ecstatic to have found my way back to my way back home. I walk the last mile or so home with a light heart, proud of myself for having navigated the city without using or map or once asking for directions, though I doubt it would have done much good anyway. At home, I immediately take off my clothes and get in the shower, washing the sweat from my body and the dirt and blood from my aching feet. I estimate that I have walked somewhere between four and six miles, and the toll is already being felt on my inactive muscles. After the shower, I put on my new shorts which fit perfectly and lay on my back on my "bed". The mesh of the shorts feels cool and soft against my legs, and I am grateful I now have a third option between khaki shorts and nudity. I close my eyes and fall asleep with all the lights still on, my hair still wet from the shower.

Exploring Part I: Not All Who Wander Are Lost

2009-09-29T08:20:00.000-07:00

As I ride the elevator down to street level, it occurs to me that I really have no idea where I am going. I have brought $1000 NT with me in the hope that I find the downtown area and can buy some athletic shorts, but I will not be overly disappointed if I don't. I suppose my primary objective is just to walk around the neighborhood and try to get some sense of direction, or at least mentally pinpoint my residence in the city in relation to everything else. As of now I only know the location of my school, which is somewhere East of my apartment, but other than that, I am completely lost. It might have been wise to draw a map - or at least LOOK at one - before embarking on my journey. However, I do not yet have the internet, and because I did not have the presence of mind to print out a map of the city before I left the school, I have no choice but to go without, wandering aimless and directionlessly around the unfamiliar streets. Reaching the ground floor, I decide that I prefer it this way; ignorance makes my discoveries seem more authentic, and makes my campaign seem less cautious and thus more deserving of admiration. "Besides", I reason, "if somehow I get lost and something terrible happens to me, it will make a GREAT story later...I mean, assuming I live to tell it".

My walk to school has me take a right out of my building, walking down Zi You and across the bridge, over the train tracks, and in the direction of the RT Mart. Not wanting to retread familiar steps, I now turn LEFT, turning my back on the sights that are starting to become unnoticed as my memory now expects their existence and is thus fading their importance into the background of my sensory perception. I walk about a hundred yards, past a hair salon, several shops, and a large corporate bank. Here, Zi You Road ends at a "T" with Jinguo Rd (pronounced "Jing" as in "Jingle Bells" and "gwa" as in guava, the fruit), and I stand at the corner trying to see far down in either direction, wondering which path will lead me somewhere interesting. The sun is weakening slightly from its afternoon supremacy, but its light is still fierce as it reflects off of the metal buildings and catches my eyes, causing me to squint hard as I examine my options. Judging by the traffic and the number of businesses lining the street, I deduce that Jinguo is a major thoroughfare, which seems promising. Maybe this will take me somewhere that has shorts. At last, I decide to go left, which is done arbitrarily but with conviction. Hey, when you don't know where you're going, there are no wrong directions.

I walk down Jinguo, which is difficult because there is absolutely no sidewalk for the first fifteen minutes of my hike, relegating me to either the street or the gutter. I pass many large stores and nice looking restaurants, all with glass picture windows and colorful signs, some in English, most in Chinese. Eventually I come to a familiar sight: The Golden Arches. And only about a ten minute walk from my house, as well. Although it is across the four lanes of busy traffic, I can clearly see the writing on the window says "Open 24 Hours", which means that I must always have food stocked in my apartment so that I resist the urge of making a 4 a.m. McDonalds run when my self-control is at its lowest due to alcohol consumption. I continue walking, trying to forget that I ever saw its generic, soulless corporate facade. No one should ever eat at McDonalds. Ever.

I continue walking. And walking. And walking. Eventually, the road gives way to a narrow roadside park, which (thankfully) has a sidewalk running through it. The park has trees and playgrounds and exercise equipment, and although it is only about as wide as the four-lane road it parallels, it extends for several blocks and gives refuge from the concrete, glass, and asphalt. Walking through the park, I see a small collection of restaurants to my left, the sparse grass of the park coming between their quaint storefronts and the roar of the busy Jinguo traffic. I go to investigate, and discover that there are three separate restaurants which all seem to be Italian themed. Out front they have signs or boards announcing the specials, and I see familiar dishes like "pasta con broccoli" and "meatballs marinara". Wow. Looks like I sound Hsinchu's version of Little Italy. I make a mental note to try these restaurants sometime in the future (because I will undoubtedly get tired of Asian food at some point in the next twelve months here) and keep moving through the park, toward an unknown goal.

After a few more blocks, I take a short break. Although I know I have been walking for less than an hour, the heat and the sun have left me sticky and thirsty, but I will refrain from buying something to drink until I feel I can no longer live without it. I stand in the shade of an old, gnarled tree with wispy branches and watch four old men sit around a small card table and drink tea. They do not appear to have anywhere to be, and they smile and laugh and I imagine that they do this every single day. They do not wonder what else they could be doing or what other places they could be. They are living fully in this single moment in time, their wrinkled hands slowly bringing their brown mugs to their thin lips, their trousers rolled to show leather sandals that have seen years of sun and rain, miles and miles. I stand silently and watch them, and secretly want to know everything they know; I want their wisdom, their contentment, their happiness. But I know they have earned this place in the sun drinking tea at a flimsy card table. They have already lived and seen and loved and told. I could not join them even if I wanted to, because this is not the place for me. I move on, their laughter following me like a song.

I reach a major intersection and decide that I should change direction. The stores are becoming less impressive on Jinguo now, and I assume this is either because the road is heading somewhere more residential or out of town completely. Both cases sound less than desirable, so I turn left at the intersection, failing to see the name of the busy road that is leading me toward my new destination. In my head, I say "Jinguo Jinguo Jinguo" over and over, knowing that if I get lost, at LEAST I know how to get home from Jinguo. This new road takes me past several more shops, restaurants, and a large park. Seeing nothing of interest on this road, I turn left once again, heading down a crowded street that seems to be lined with miniature casinos. As I walk past these brightly advertised establishments, I vaguely remember something David said about these places - something about gambling being illegal, so these venues allow you to buy tokens and play various slot machines and card games. This, to me, seems even LESS productive than gambling for money, where at least you have a CHANCE of winning some money back. I keep walking, the shadows of the buildings becoming longer and providing some relief from the heat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am not certain how many times I turn left or right, or for how many miles I walk. The sun is low now, and the stores and restaurants have begun to turn on their lights. The bright colors from their neon signs mixed with the cooling air sends a shock to my tired body and rejuvenates me, pushing me forward. Suddenly, I think I see a sign I recognize in my memory, an advertisement from the other day when David and I walked down to the center of the city. No, maybe not. Wait! Another sign! And a building! I KNOW I have seen that building before! The stores are becoming more dense, the people seem to be hurried. It feel like I am getting close to something now. This could be....

A River Runs Through It

2009-09-25T10:08:00.000-07:00

The next day, Wednesday, my third day of teaching, I wake up feeling surprisingly well-rested and alert. I don't feel like I slept all that well the previous night, possibly due to some combination of sweating from every pore like my skin was a sieve and sleeping on a sheet-less collection of hard, coiled pieces of metal. But although conditions were identical to last night - sweltering heat, rock hard sleeping surface, noisy street sounds - my reflection in the morning's mirror looks bright-eyed, my muscles feeling relaxed and not at all sore or lethargic. "Probably just so exhausted that I had no CHOICE but to coma-sleep" I think, knowing it is much too soon for my body to be adjusting to the unfamiliar and rather uncomfortable arrangements. This, if possible, will take at least two or three weeks, and I am inclined to believe that last night was a fluke and I am in for more rough nights to come.

I walk to school once again, the scenery unchanged from the day before save for subtle difference that would elude most people, but because this world is still new, my senses are like sponges soaking up every color, sound, and smell, making secret observations about the shopkeepers' attire, the length of a streetlight, the depth of the shadows. It takes me 20 minutes to reach the the fruit stand, and by the time I do the moisture is soaking through the chest and back of my t-shirt and the fronts of my pant legs. Again I select my breakfast of one yellow apple (today I looked a little more thoroughly; no red or green, just yellow) and one ripe banana. The price is different today, and although my fruit was not weighed yesterday nor today, the check-out lady with deep lines traveling across her forehead and cheeks tells me my total is "er-ba" (sounds exactly how it looks: err-bah, except "er" is pronounced by inflecting down and "ba" is spoken with a high, strong tone...almost like a yell), which means nothing to me until I look at the digital price indicator, which tells me that "er-ba" is $28 NT. I hand the lady three $10 coins and take my fruit without a bag, wondering why my total was $5 NT cheaper than yesterday. I have no way to ask the fruit-stand workers, so I leave the question to hang in the balmy air, then let it fall and break into equal parts trivial and futile. I walk down the road while a million other questions, about everything and nothing, swim through the periphery of my thoughts, my consciousness sitting lazily and barefooted on the dock, catching the biggest or prettiest for my brain to measure, photograph, and throw back. I wonder if these questions will always exist, if they will continue to persist and come to sit with me in the quiet afternoons or long walks through the endless summer days? Or will they someday disappear, my wisdom answering those that are within my grasp and shooing the others away, replacing their nagging with the rhythmic creak of a rocking chair? The deepest parts of me hope that they don't.

This day continues to playfully mimic its predecessors though I arrive at school later than I did on Tuesday, right around 9:00 a.m. I can see a faint outline of a routine starting to form as I exchange casual greetings with the Chinese staff, Connie, and Kara; normally, the threat of sameness would unnerve me and, eventually, my whispering thirst for adventure would begin to call loudly for a radical change to be made. However, it seems that enough radical steps have already been taken, and my fickle nature is content to cling to the comforts that come with predictability...at least for now. Walking past Kara, I see that she is busily working on some elaborate poster-sized teaching aid with creative fonts and full-color, eye-catching pictures. Once again, I hope that I am not expected to be creating such intricate visual accompaniment for my lessons. I suppose someone will let me know if I'm slacking; I have a little bit of leeway, I AM the new guy, after all. I sit on a desk and listen to the friendly bantering between Kara and Connie, watching the clock as the seconds tick by, thinking about the chronology of my lesson. I have decided that my teaching style will be similar to an effective workout, wherein the routine is changed often to prevent boredom and create "muscle confusion". In my classroom the students will be bombarded with knowledge from all sides, never knowing where the next hit is coming from, keeping them on their toes and mentally sharp. It sounds good on paper; I wonder how it will work in practice? Probably just result in total chaos. I have no contingency plan for this.

At 9:30 I go up to the room, taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor. I have become a familiar face to the kids now, and I whistle the theme from "The Andy Griffith Show" as I enter. Ian laughs like an idiot, and Howie (who normally looks meek and terrified) gets up and runs in a circle, tripping over Yuka and wiping out on his face. Luckily, he is unfazed, and the lesson commences. Once again, same as before, I begin with calisthenics, then good mornings, then speaking exercises. I teach basically the exact same lesson as yesterday, only with more energy and in a different order. The children seem to respond to my enthusiasm, which inspires me to act even MORE goofy and over-the top. At one point, as I am pretending to throw up a handful of colored yarn balls on Cynthia (which the kids think is HYSTERICAL), I look up to see Yvonne laughing at me. I smile, grateful that she is entertained and not disgusted by my teaching techniques or by the fact that I am fake-vomiting on a four-year old. I may just win her over yet. More "A! A! A!", more small plastic animals. The two hours goes by quickly with little downtime, and most of the kids are laughing and squealing by the time I am supposed to leave for lunch. Yuka and Jeffrey even come up and grab my legs as I am walking out, and I have to tickle them so they let me go. I am thrilled they feel comfortable enough to touch me now. Once their walls have crumbled, the armies of knowledge will have free reign over their tiny, moldable minds. Yes, I will use war metaphors often to describe teaching. The fight for the mind is nothing short of what it claims to be.

I go downstairs, talk with Connie a bit about how everything is going. Today I feel more energetic and am excited about the progress I am making with the kids, and this must be evident in my zealousness, for as I talk loudly her eyes get big and she leans back in her chair, as if she is being physical pushed away by my intensity. She offers warm words of encouragement, which I appreciate and take to heart. I also ask her about getting internet in my apartment, because even though I know my days are going to start becoming more fun-fllled and my free time is going to rapidly shrivel up to only evenings and weekends, I still like the feeling of being connected and the superabundance of information and entertainment that the internet provides. She assures me that she will ask Mia, who I have probably met in the past couple days but can't yet place a face to the name, to call the cable company and set up an appointment for me. "Just write down your address and bring it to the elementary tomorrow. We can take care of it then." Happy that I am becoming more permanent and proud of myself for my initiative (which I have been known to lack in the past), I reward myself by heading upstairs and stealing lunch from the hard-working lunch lady. I find a bowl and fill it with white rice, then cover the rice with some kind of broth and add several pieces of what appears to be chicken on top of this. This chicken pieces, however, include a large circular bone in the center, the bone showing the marrow from where it was cut on either end. As i head back downstairs, I wonder momentarily what part of the chicken this is from, then decide it is best if I don't know. I eat quickly and in silence, holding the small bowl close to my chin, my lack of profieciency with the chopsticks forcing me to spoon the rice into my mouth from point blank. I try the chicken, and it is slimy and fatty, but I eat it anyway for the protein. When I am finished, my lap is covered in fallen rice in spite of my best efforts, and I take my bowl back to the kitchen, wash it, and tell the lunch lady "thank you" in english as I leave. She either doesn't hear me or doesn't understand, for she makes no acknowledgment of my courtesy.

I walk back home, arms swingly lazily by my sides, the afternoon sun sucking up my energy and replacing it with a salty heat that squints my eyes and bakes the skin on my face and neck. I stop by the 7-11 and buy a giant bottle of water, drinking it as I walk the rest of the way to my apartment, not caring as the jolting movements from my walking causes some water to drip down onto my sweat-soaked shirt. Home at last, I strip down and jump in the shower, then sit in my underwear on the black vinyl couch, feeling the air close in around me and begin to draw the perspiration to the surface. Suddenly, I am extremely tired, and almost let sleep take me into its embrace of compacency before shaking myself back to life. "NO!" I mentally shout at the apathy and fatigue that is threatening to rip the consciousness from my body and rob me of my afternoon. "I have only been here a WEEK. I still have too much to see to be sleeping away all of my days!". With this I rise, put on shorts, a dry t-shirt, and flip-flops, and hastily leave the feeling of listlessness behind, disappointed, cursing itself for failing to recruit another convert. I have saved the day from the bloody jaws of incuriosity. It is time to go exploring.

RT Mart: The King of Pop and Chocolate Flavored Beef

2009-09-20T02:24:00.000-07:00

I enter the RT Mart - which the foreign people I have met pronounce "ArdyMart" - and slow my walk to a near stop, shuffling along and taking in all the sights that I didn't have time for last time I was here with Connie and David. I am in no hurry, so I figure I will spend some time tracing through the isles, making mental lists of desired future purchases, noting the differences in products and packaging from what I am accustomed to seeing back home. The first discrepancy between the RT Mart and a traditional grocery or one-stop-shop in the States is the layout; I have just walked into the entrance of the store, but I am not actually in the RT yet. This area is large and open with white floors and high ceilings, and functions as a welcoming zone before one actually begins shopping. On my right is a Nike Factory Outlet store, inside its employees wearing bright orange baseball-style jerseys and looking bored and ready to leave. Further down on my right are more small shops, each on specializing in everything from women's clothing to women's underwear to massage equipment to bedroom furniture. Directly to my left is a very tiny shop where three middle-aged Taiwanese women huddle around three closely crammed barber chairs and work furiously to cut the hair of three impatient looking men. The sign above the glass barbershop windows says "100" in big white letters, leading me to believe that a haircut here is only $100 NT. Not bad; $3 US for a haircut. However, the prospect of going to this place is a little risky for a number of reasons, the first being that I can't speak Chinese and thus can't tell them HOW I would like my hair to look after they get finished hacking away at it, the second being that almost every Taiwanese man I have seen has had a goofy-looking haircut (I'm not sure if this is a testament to their culture, their type of hair, or the terrible quality of barbershops on the island), and the third being that, I mean come on, how good can the quality of service really be for $3 US? Luckily, I don't need a haircut just yet, so I can put off deciding just where to go and how to avoid getting butchered without knowing proper phrases like "not too short" and "don't make me look like Jackie Chan". I'll cross that bridge when the shagginess becomes unbearable

Looking past the barbershop I see that a path branches off from the entryway and slopes downward and to the left, leading past a Kentucky Fried Chicken and two more clothing stores before disappearing around the corner. A sign informs me first in Chinese, then under it in English, that this is the food court area. Although I am curious to see what other kinds of restaurants are hiding down in the food court, I decide that it will probably be cheaper to buy something in the RT Mart, so I decline exploring (for now) and instead walk straight ahead, toward where I believe the real entrance to the store will be. Thankfully, my guess is correct and I avoid looking like I have no idea how a grocery store works. I walk through the store merchandise detectors and past a security guard and what appears to be some kind of manager, judging by his shined shoes and tie. He smiles at me and I smile back, but have no kind words to offer so just keep walking into the plethora of cheap Asian goods, their brightly colored packaging and strange characters begging for my attention.

The first thing I notice upon entering the RT Mart is a large CD rack on my left covered with an enormous poster of Michael Jackson. A crowd has gathered around a television suspended from the ceiling, and as I get closer I can see the low-qulaity screen is playing a video of Michael Jackson singing "Billy Jean" live in concert. Apparently, even before Michael Jackson had died he was big over here - now he is EVERYWHERE. I walk past the mob and toward the rest of the electronics, noticing the large tables covered in piles with everything from Ramen to baby clothes that line the walkway on my right. Signs hanging above the piles or stacks denote their prices with big yellow letters, and I assume that these items are on some kind of clearance or special. Arriving in the electronics department, I skim quickly over the cameras, not really looking at prices, and then head for the fans. Because my apartment does not have air conditioning and, with my budget being fairly tight I am tempted to forgo the luxury to keep my electric bills low, a fan seems to be a commodity that I cannot live without. The least expensive fans are about $200 NT, but none of these look like they will hold together for more than a few weeks, especially not with me running them all hours of the day and night. Unfortunately, the nicer and more study-looking fans start at around $500 NT, which (even at $15 US) feels a little out of my price range. I resolve to hold out for a few more days, and continue to examine the other small appliances.

One thing that I also desperately need is some way to prepare food, seeing as how my apartment failed to come equipped with either a stove, microwave, or oven. (Most apartments, and even houses in Taiwan do not have ovens - this is why bakeries are so popular here). I peruse through various crock-pots and steamers, eventually coming to the portable electric ranges. These single-burner stovetops would be perfect for everything I wanted to make which, giving my limited cooking ability, is basically just chicken, eggs, hamburgers, and anything that involves boiling water. I look at the prices and find a decent looking one that lists for $2,200 NT, or about $70 US. DONE. This, along with some cooking utensils, a pot and a pan, and something to eat on and with are added to my mental list of things to buy with my October paycheck. I'm not exactly sure what I am going to do about food until then, or if I'll even have enough money to eat at all in September, but I'm not worried. Somehow, these things always manage to work themselves out, even if you end up losing fifteen pounds and eating only the free Nature Valley granola bars at the ski resort to keep from starving to death. (This, unfortunately, is not in any way an exaggeration. By the end of my stay in Colorado last winter I was living off of 75 cents a day and had dropped from 182 pounds to 160-something. When I finally left to come home, I deemed my return "The End of an Error". In retrospect, however, I consider the experience one of best times of my life - funny how I don't remember things like poverty and hunger pains in my memories. I only remember the beauty of the mountains and the rush of the snow beneath my board...the feeling of total freedom. Ultimate escapism).

I move on past the small appliances and stumble upon the "home" section of the store. Here I find everything I would need if I owned a home, and nothing I will need because I do not. This is one of the things I have always found liberating about living a relatively non-materialistic existence; it seems to me that, the more stuff you have, the more stuff you need. Logic would deduce that, by having more things, one would move closer to the goal of having everything they required to live and therefore their list of needed items would be smaller. The reality of this materialistic lifestyle, however, is counterintuitive to reason - by owning more possessions, one must begin to buy more and more things to maintain these possessions until eventually they are no longer satisfying their own needs, but instead satisfying the needs of their possessions, of these THINGS that have cluttered their life and robbed them of their independence. Life is no longer self-serving. They exist to maintain the materials around them but in the process forget to maintain themselves, forget to LIVE. This is why I have always chosen to invest in people and experiences rather than things. To invest in things is to lose oneself in a maelstrom, to get caught in the cyclical spiral of materialism that drags one down until they are no longer ABLE to invest in anything else. I have almost nothing to my name, yet I am no less happy despite all I can call my own fitting in a duffle bag, a backpack, and a few cardboard boxes in my Grandma's basement. I have navigated through the waters without the fancy possessions that the world demands I own to prove my life is meaningful, and have avoided the swirling dangers that threaten to trap me, to enslave ALL of us into a life filled with soulless objects that cannot love and cannot give us true happiness or memories. I am now sailing on the open sea, the sun on my face and the waters calm and beautiful...

Damnit. I have stumbled into the bedding items, which is something I actually DO need. They do not have mattresses here, but do have a wide selection of padded mattress toppers and fold-up cushions. This might be worth considering, but at this point I am still leaning towards an actual mattress over a thin mattress substitute. I also find the pillows, which are pillowy (and fairly inexpensive), and the sheets, which are hideous. RT Mart has neglected to carry any sheets that do not have gaudy floral print or some kind of cartoon characters on them. "Hmmm, so much for my apartment looking cool" I think to myself. Although I have never cared too much what my living quarters have looked like - my friends and past girlfriends can all attest to this - having my own apartment for the first time inspires me to personalize it and try and make it as homey as possible. This is not to say that I want a lot of stuff, I just want the stuff I HAVE to be cool, and preferably match. Apparently, though, this is too much to ask. "Surely they have something resembling a Bed Bath and Beyond in Taiwan" I hope, and choose to delay any sheet buying until a more favorable selection presents itself.

I wander up and down more isles, finding the sports and recreation sections. They have an extensive collection of badminton rackets and lots of basketball and baseball stuff. No soccer balls and no footballs, though, which are the only two sports I can play with any amount of grace or proficiency. Looks like I will not be impressing anyone with my athletic prowess any time soon. The lack of soccer apparel shocks me a little, as I was previously under the impression that soccer (or football everywhere but America) was the most popular sport in every country EXCEPT America. This is not the case on this Asian island nation, as my Lonely Planet (courtesy of my dear sister) informs me that baseball is actually the most popular sport here, followed closely by basketball, then tennis. I am awful at all three, and thus move past the sports section with little hesitation.

My next stop is in the cleaning isle, where absolutely nothing is in English and I therefore have no idea which of the brightly colored bottles contains which cleaning solutions. Although my apartment is not yet dirty, Connie and David have warned me that dust and dirt builds up very fast, so I need to clean at least once a week to avoid this unthinkable and awful outcome. Personally, I have never been big on cleaning, and at the moment I choose to risk the possibility that I may have a massive allergy attack from dust build-up. The next isle down from the cleaning supplies holds the detergents. I have only brought about eight pairs of underwear with me and am getting dangerously close to having to recycle, so the decision is made to make detergent my first purchase at the RT Mart. I scan over the bottles, the only one in English being TIDE brand which, at $400 NT a bottle, is ridiculously expensive. I eventually settle on one of the cheapest selections, a large green bottle that costs $130 NT and resembles the color and font of an ERA brand bottle from back home, though completely in Chinese. I assume this is what it is, and head for a new isle, happy with my choice.

As I walk out of the cleaning section, I come to the "personal care" section, which has things like soap, make-up, shampoo, razors, deodorant, and feminine products. This section seems to divide the non-food part of the store from the food part of the store, as I can see further down the shelves are lined with edible products. I look around a bit, comparing prices and seeing if they have anything that looks even vaguely familiar. To my surprise, the RT Mart carries almost every product that I am used to using, and this comforts me a little knowing that I will not have to experiment with finding a new shampoo or deodorant. (It took me YEARS to find a deodorant that actually works. That's right, I am a sweaty guy - easy ladies, not everyone at once). Also, they have a MASSIVE selection of male soap, face wash, and moisturizer, more so than I have seen at even the Super Centers stateside. I guess Taiwanese men are more vain than I had previously thought. I should fit in wonderfully here!

Finally, onto the food. At this point I am far past hungry, and EVERYTHING looks phenomenal. I cruise up and down the walkways, desperately searching for something that I will not have to prepare and can eat almost immediately. Also, although I really want to try something new and foreign, I find myself seeking out only those products that have english writing on the boxes. I justify this to myself by thinking that, due to my hunger AND lack of funds, if I select something risky and I do not like it I will have suffered a failure nearly too heartbreaking to overcome. In the cookie isle I am tempted by the Oreos and the crackers, but decide against eating cookies for dinner. I skip the ramen and tea isles - yes, they have an entire isle devoted to tea - and eventually end up in the pre-packaged food section, which has everything from candy to beef jerky. For some reason, beef jerky sounds like exactly what I want, so I look over all the packages, trying to find one that I KNOW will be beef, or jerky, or both. Ah HA! I see a bright package full of shredded meat, completely in Chinese except for the words "BEEF" on the front and a picture of a cartoon cow. Perfect. It is also one of the least expensive beef jerky items at $110, and even though I know it is not the most nutritious of purchases, I try to justify it by looking at the protein content in the nutrition facts on the back. Of course, I have forgotten that they are all in Chinese, so I assume that this beef jerky has a LOT of protein. Looks like, unless I learn to read Chinese, I won't be counting any calories in Taiwan. Shucks.

Now clutching detergent in one hand and beef jerky in the other, I emerge from the rows of isles into a large open area that contains the produce on one side and the frozen or refrigerated goods on the other. I walk around aimlessly, looking at the fruits and vegetables, none of which look appealing, and at the dairy products, all of which look confusing. I find the meat sections and marvel at the strange items under the clear plastic wrapping. Thankfully, I discover the chicken breasts which, although I cannot cook until I get a electric range, has been one of my favorite foods for years and I am grateful that RT Mart carries them. I come to a large spread of what appears to be fried foods, all of them glistening under the heat lamps, the man behind the counter staring at me attentively. I look over each item, and see something that resembles a large crab cake. In my current state of abdominal vacancy I know that fried foods are disgusting yet filling, so I shift my items into one hand and point at the crab cake thing with the other, holding up one finger and saying "one" in english, as if this will do any good. The man is perceptive and understands, picking up my item with tongs and placing it in a bag, then printing out a price sticker and placing it on the bad before giving it to me. I say "xiexie" politely, and look at the price as I walk away; $85 NT. Eh, it's a little steep, but I am proud of myself for both trying something new as well as the successful communication with the fried food clerk. I believe it will be worth it.

At this point, my hands are growing tired from holding all of my items, so I elect to bypass the bakery which is located against the far wall. I make my way to the checkout counters that are off to my right, but see a nice yellow box with a picture of a cake filled with custard on the front. The sign above the box says "79", obviously denoting that these items are on clearance. "Well, if they are on sale...." my starving sweet tooth begs persuasively, so I impulsively grab the desserts and head to the checkout. The line is long but the checkout girl is efficient, and I watch each customer's actions before me to see if there is any protocol I must be aware of before my turn is up. I notice that everyone seems to have some sort of "shoppers card", and I vaguely remember Connie having one when I was here with them a few days ago. Suddenly, I am gripped with panic! What if I NEED a card to buy my things?! What if this is like Sam's Club, but crueler, because instead of denying you entrance they allow you to THINK you are going to get to buy your items, then shut you down at the last minute?! It is finally my turn, and I turn and face the lady with a look of apology and terror. She says something in Chinese, and holds her hands in the shape of a rectangle. I hold my breath and shake my head "no", but to my relief she hits a button on the register and begins to scan my few items. I watch the digital numbers add up, the total coming to just under $400. Because sales tax is already figured into the prices of all items, one can figure out EXACTLY how much they will have to pay before coming to check out, so I am not surprised by this number. I hand the checkout girl 4 pink $100's, and she gives me back my change and receipt, but no bag. Hm? Perhaps she thinks I do not need a bag, perhaps she thinks I am just going to my scooter outside instead of walking a mile down the street to my apartment. I don't want to bother her, and I have no idea how to ask for a bag, so I gather my things in my arms and walk back towards the entrance, NOT looking forward to the long walk home.

Before I leave I decide to explore the food court and eat my crab cake thing before the grease congeals and it becomes inedible. I stroll down the walkway and into the food court, which is extensive but otherwise not out of the ordinary. The right-hand wall is lined with small food kiosks, and the middle of the floor is filled with tables and chairs, most of which are empty. I sit down by myself and take my crab cake out of the bag, smelling it first, then taking a bite. It is not exactly like I expected; instead of being bread-like and crumbly, it is chewy and spongy, but still tastes okay so I eat it quickly. I move on to the custard treats, eating three before I realize that they are not very good. I am so hungry I don't even care at this point. After my mini gorge session I gather my things and walk back up towards the door and out into the night air, adjusting my grip on my items as I go.

Walking home I realize that I am still very hungry, so I open the beef jerky and try it. To my surprise, the jerky seems to be covered in something that tastes and resembles baking chocolate. I can't decide if I like this at first, but after eating a few pieces my stomach begins to tell me that beef and chocolate are not a desirable combination. I eat one more custard cake to clear the taste of the choco-jerky from my mouth, and walk the rest of the way home nursing an upset stomach, feeling guilty and a little disappointed that I have splurged on items that have taken away my hunger at the cost of my comfort. "Next time will be different" I think optimistically, and make it home safely, leaving the sound and smell of the city far below.

McAwesome And The Adventures Of The Taiwandering Hunger Artist

2009-09-18T05:07:00.000-07:00

I gather my thoughts, which have become fractured with echoes of piano lullabies in A Minor, and leave shortly after Connie. My responsibilities as a teacher do not yet extend past 12:00 noon, which is both a blessing and a curse. The positive of this situation is that I do not feel completely overwhelmed, not only due to the unfamiliarity with teaching but also in regard to the amount of hours I am working. I imagine that being thrust abruptly into one's first 40 hour-a-week job can be shocking; although one learns to swim faster by jumping in over their head, in this circumstance I am perfectly happy to ease myself in, catching my shorts breaths as the ice chills run up the back of my legs, letting myself adjust to the dark and unknown waters. The negative side of this, of course, is that I am only getting paid for three hours each day, and with money problems looming on my financial horizon, my brain is already crunching the numbers to see if how close I'm going to cut it. "Lets see" I talk out loud to myself, which is something I have discovered I always do when I'm stressed about money or time and am trying to find a way to make my ends meet (this happens fairly often in my life), "I make $400 NT an hour (which is roughly $12.00 US), and I have worked six hours thus far. My total earnings are....(this takes much longer to process than it should)...$2,400 NT." Congratulations - Call MENSA, we got a real prodigy here. I have also gotten into the habit of converting everything into US Dollars, mostly because it's fun to see how inexpensive everything is compared to the prices back home. The conversion is fairly simple once you get the hang of it: $100 NT = $3 US, $1000 NT = $30 US, etc. So once again, taking far too long for my brain full of words, poetry, metaphors, and songs to compute, I struggle to figure I have made close to $75 US. Not great, but not horrible for two days work.

[My salary, should anyone want to know, is approximately $60,000 NT a month, or a little under $2000 US. Although my annual salary of $22,000 US is much lower than what a new teacher in the United States would make, which according to a 2006 survey was between $35 and $40,000, the cost of living allows foreign teachers to exist very comfortably (unless you are trying to pay everyone back who got you to Taiwan in the first place!) here, which is why these jobs are perfect for the directionless, debt-ridden, or unemployable (due to lack of experience) - I happen to fit into all three of these categories. In comparison with other professionals in Taiwan, foreign teachers are one of the higher paid occupations, with first-year engineers making about $15,000 US a year, and beginning domestic teachers making about $12,000 US annually. Doctors still have the upper hand, though. While residents make about as much as I do (about $60,000 NT monthly) which is consistent with the poor compensation for residents Stateside, a full-time family practice doctors will make, on average, $140,000 US a year. Once again, these figures must be viewed through the lens of the extremely low cost of living in Taiwan.]

My mind whirring with numbers, I walk down the sidewalk toward the main road, the heat from the sun pushing its way into the threads of my t-shirt and warming my shoulders through the fabric. The trek back home is uneventful and plays out like my morning commute in reverse, the only difference being the temperature, which seems to have risen at least ten degrees, as well as the relative inactivity on the streets and sidewalks. The noon-day lull is at its peak. Shop owners peer out through windows and garages as I pass, amazed at the foreigner who would brave the midday fire that stalks the blacktop, its pervasiveness challenging anyone who dares to venture out from the shadows or air-conditioned havens to face its febrile breath. By the time I arrive home sweat is pouring from my forehead and running into my eyes, the burning sensation accompanied by the taste of salt on my upper lip. I immediately take off my clothes and turn on the shower, letting the chilled water wash away the sticky summer that clings to the back of my neck and in the crooks of my arms and knees. I feel baptized, reborn. Out of the bathroom now, I lay naked on box spring bed, the humid air stealing the moisture from my skin, leaving refreshing chills in its place. I am comfortable. I am happy. I close my eyes and let my body fully relax under the weight of the heavy air that fills my apartment.

I wake up, completely unaware that I had fallen asleep. I feel a faint breeze from the open porch door, but other than that the air is stagnant, carrying sounds of passing vehicles from the street as offerings to celebrate my return to consciousness. I have not moved from the position I had laid down in earlier, on my back with arms and legs spread, palms facing the ceiling, vulnerable and unclothed. I am DaVinci's Vitruvian Man. Perhaps I died for a minute, but was pulled back from the gnarled clutches of Ender by some force beyond my comprehension and for a reason I will never understand. I don't remember any bright lights - should this upset me? Despite my complete lack of motion, however, my body has recommenced its efforts to keep my temperature cool at the cost of becoming disgustingly clammy. I sit up, beads of sweat running down my bare chest and collecting in the creases of my stomach, and check the time on my phone. 3:30 p.m. I have been asleep for three hours and was not even aware that I was tired. This kind of exhaustion is the worst, the kind that you cannot see coming and thus cannot combat. The battle was lost before the first punch was even out the door.

I stand up and go to my closet to find something to wear, but dread the feeling clothing gives when it clings to wet skin. I decide to rinse off, once again with cold water, which helps to clear the fuzz still lingering in my head from my unplanned nap. Quickly then, I towel off and dress before my skin powers up the perspiration factory, putting on khaki shorts and one of the only loose-fitting t-shirts that I packed. I desperately need a pair of athletic shorts, not only because they are comfortable and perfect for these times of inactivity and laziness, but also because I want to start running soon and need something to wear besides sweat pants, which would probably kill me after being outside for five minutes. I don't know why I chose to pack three pairs of sweatpants but neglected to bring even ONE pair of running shorts for my year-long excursion to a country in a sub-tropical climate. The inner-workings of my brain are a mystery. I resolve to buy some running shorts as soon as possible, and wonder where the best place to go to buy said clothing would be. I decide to go exploring tomorrow after class, hoping I can find something that won't kill my budget. At this point, though, shorts have transcended thrift and have reach "necessity" status. The Taiwanese humidity mocks my feeble attempts at frugality.

For the next few hours I sit at my computer and write, the sun dropping slowly and lowering the brightness of the sky as if adjusting a giant fader, setting the mood for lovers across the city and darkening my small studio until the shadows have replaced the last remaining colors clinging to their once-brilliant objects. I write until the computer screen is the only light I can see, my fingers painted with the unnatural and sickly-looking glow of its luminescence, the poised tips hovering above the keyboard trying to translate the jumble of expressions and details in my head into something coherent on the artificial piece of digital paper in front of me. Part of me yearns for the days of the typewriter, though I have never actually used one and can only guess at how terribly frustrating and time-consuming fixing errors must be. It just carries with it some romantic notion, some connection between the tangible product of one's work with the quality and substance reflected on the physical pages. It seems to my imagination that all great writers have scribbled by candlelight or punched typewriter keys loudly in lonely apartments or sequestered cabins, losing themselves in the pages of their work, smearing the ink with their fingers that shake from insomnia and caffein. The dehumanizing luminosity of a computer screen certainly robs the artist and the art of its sentimentality. I long for the good ol' days which were gone before I even arrived.

Around eight o'clock my eyes begin to burn and my back aches from my hunched position. Suddenly, I realize that I am starving, and my stomach is making it clear that forgoing dinner will not be an option tonight. But I am at a loss: Where am I going to eat? From what I have noticed in my preliminary surveys of the neighborhood, none of the close-by restaurants or food vendors have any menus or signs in English - most of them don't even have pictures, which, if I were desperate enough, could just point to the item I wanted and go "ehh, ehh!" like an infant. Because I do not know the Chinese name for ANYTHING, this puts these restaurants temporarily out of my access. My second option would be some form of American fast food, such as one of the many McDonalds or KFCs that can be found around Hsinchu. I am against this idea for three reasons, namely; a) going to McDonalds of KFC is decidedly NOT in any way a unique OR cultural experience, which was one of the biggest motivating factors for my coming here in the first place - to experience a culture completely different from anything I could find in the U.S. Thus I refuse to eat there; b) I don't like any of McDonald's food, save for their breakfast sandwiches and pretty much everything when I'm very inebriated. After I eat McDonalds, I feel like shit for about three days and can swear I hear my body whispering "why???? What have we done to deserve this???" And you know what? I can't give my body a straight answer, so I then have to pile guilt on top of my feelings of nausea; c) I have no clue where the closest McChain restaurant is, and in my current state of famished-ness, I don't feel that wandering aimless around the city looking for one is a great idea. The authorities might find me naked in a park somewhere, meandering around glassy-eyed mumbling "Quarter Pounder with cheese, no pickles....no pickles....no pickles...."

The only other place I can think to go is the 7-11 two blocks from my apartment, but convenience store food sounds even worse than McDonalds at the moment (or always). Therefore, I opt for secret option Number D, which is to try and find something at the RT Mart that doesn't require any kind of preparation, utensils, or fresh drinking water to consume. I am not exactly sure what foods would fall into this category. I'm know they'll probably have cookies and pre-packaged crackers and candy, but my body, having eaten only fruit, white rice, and ground beef in the last twenty-four hours, is craving something with nutritional value. I grab my wallet, making sure there is at least $500 in it, and head down to the street. The air is cool and the humidity has subsided substantially, leaving in its absence a clear, starless evening that smells of exhaust fumes and contracting pavement. The light breeze gives new life to my legs, which feel shaky as they pump the ground under my flip-flops, striding briskly down the sidewalks and alleyways, crossing over the bridge to the end of Zi You Road. Earlier this morning at this same intersection, I took a left, heading East in the direction of my school. Now, I turn right, walking in front of a large two-story pet store with big windows, none of which house dogs or cats, jumping over black and yellow striped parking curbs as I go. I continue walking down this road, which is wide and busy, until I reach the pedestrian and scooter entrance to the RT Mart parking lot (I love how these are often one in the same). Inside, a world of mediocre goods and low, low prices await me. I am so hungry at this point, I'd settle for a fish head. I stroll past the rows and rows of scooters, noting how busy the store seems for it being close to 9:00 p.m. Yellow lights swarm with insects and hum in different frequencies as I pass beneath them. I slip under the shelter of the corrugated metal walkway, and momentarily join a mass of people as we walk through the automatic sliding glass doors with a "WHOOSH" of cold, clean-smelling air. My stomach, having sensed that food is nearby, begins to whine and my mouth starts to water. I have violated the #1 rule of budget shopping: Never EVER go when you're hungry. I take my first steps into the RT Mart, looking forward to exploring on my first solo shopping trip in my new country. The pink $100 bills have already begun to burn tiny holes in my pockets....

"I Shall Seize Fate By The Throat; It Shall Certainly Not Bend And Crush Me Completely." - Ludwig Von Beethoven

2009-09-15T10:35:00.000-07:00

The second day of school starts off very much like this first, only it seems things have calmed down a little since the initial fears and worries of the staff were put to bed after no one was hospitalized, lost, or succumbed to dehydration from continuous crying for eight hours (this is not a lie...one child did not stop crying from the second she left her mother's arms in the morning until she was reunited with her in the late afternoon). However, I still feel a general sense of franticness in the air as I remove my flip-flops and walk past the front desk to the small office area where Connie and Cecile are already printing off hand-outs and organizing their lessons plans. I have no hand-outs and no lesson plan. Once again, I figure I'll just wing it and see where I end up. This has been the bedrock of my decision-making and life-living process for the last four or five years, and it seems to have served me well thus far. Sure, I am in debt and have almost no material possessions to my name, but I somehow managed to acquire a worthless college degree and have ended up halfway around the world by adhering to my haphazard ideology; I figure it can't be ALL bad.

Also in this office area are two more foreign teachers whom I have not met, a man and a woman. The man is large, at least 6' 3", with very fair skin and light blonde hair. He is dressed in a button-down oxford-style shirt tucked into slacks, and looks far more professional that any of the other teachers in the room, most of whom are wearing shorts and t-shirts. Connie, realizing we have not met, introduces the man to me. "This is Lars," she says, and I instantly picture the massive human being before me in a Scandinavian Viking costume, swinging a broadsword, severing limbs and heads. However, one look into his round, rosy face and gentle eyes tells me he probably does not own a broadsword, and has probably not severed anyone's head - at least not recently. "How goes it?" Lars asks, and his voice is soft and high, a thick South African (basically British) accent flowing over a generous smile. I smile back. "Goes it good," I say, and he chuckles, his smile widening underneath his blonde stubble of a beard.

"Hi, I'm Kara" the female teacher offers next, sensing it is her turn to be introduced. Kara is thin and athletic-looking, with high cheekbones and thin brown hair pulled back in a small ponytail. She looks to be about my age, and is dressed casually, wearing a pink t-shirt, army-green capris, sandals, and several colorful anklets and bracelets. As I return her greeting, I notice that she is not beautiful but pretty in a hippie, Northface catalogue sort of way, and from my initial impressions I bet she would be a great hiking/camping/rock climbing partner. She'd probably bitch less than ME. Her accent is distinctly American, and by her natural easiness of speech I can guess she is a Midwestern girl. After I introduce myself I ask where she is from, to which she replies "Minnesota". I knew it. We make small talk for a minute, but she seems preoccupied, so I let her get back to copying writing exercises for her K-3 Kindergartners (the 5-6 year olds). Everyone seems to be working diligently on something of great importance, but I have no idea what I should be doing so I just end up standing around, staring off into space. Even if I had some pressing lesson plans that desperately needed teaching aids, I have not the slightest clue where to begin to look for worksheets or flash cards in the rows of 3-ring binders that have taken up residence on the newly assembled shelfs, and no way to access the internet because the only two computers in the office area are already in use. I don't know if I could even WORK the copy machine, to be quite honest; all the buttons are in Chinese.

Thus, I am relegated to just wandering around for 45 minutes, getting in the way, apologizing, moving into someone ELSE'S way, apologizing some more. Boredom has caused me to relinquish my "Just Wing It" (new Nike slogan for slackers) mentality and begin to sketch some rough lesson plans in my head. By the time 9:30 rolls around, I am feeling slightly more prepared than I felt yesterday. I now have a plan of attack. I ride the elevator to the third floor, and cross the play area quickly, not wanting to get on Yvonne's bad side because of tardiness. I enter the classroom and quickly make my way to the front, feeling the six sets of tiny eyes burning into me. I imagine their tiny thoughts thinking, "Not THIS guy again!", and even though I know I will eventually win each of them over, I have a strong desire to do so immediately. The faster I make an impression and command their attention and affection, the faster I can influence them and teach them. I want to be loved today. No one is crying yet. Off to a good start.

My plan of attack goes something like this: For the first 10 minutes we do warm-ups, which consist of physical exercises to wake the kids up and get them excited to participate in the day's activities. We pretend to be airplanes and fly around the classroom, get on our hands and feet and crab-walk, jumped up and down in circles, and make funny faces at each other. At one point I just start shouting like a maniac, which frightens everyone until Ian starts screaming along with me. Soon, I have a deafening chorus of shrill shrieking four-year olds mimicking me, all of us screaming our heads off as Yvonne looks on with a face that says "Dear God. Worst teacher ever." After settling everyone down (which was much harder to do than I had anticipated it would be), I proceed to go through the morning's greeting, wishing the children a good morning in slow, drawn-out tones. I then bring each one up, one at a time, to say their greetings in front of the class. "Cynthia, say 'My name is Cynthia,'" I whisper to Cynthia as she stands next to me in front of her classmates. "My-nay-iss Cynthia!" she squeals, blurring all the words together. "Okay, now say 'Good morning everybody,'" I instruct, speaking painfully slow so she can process each word and sound. "Goomor-nee Ery-bodee!" she shouts with enthusiasm, obviously proud of herself. "GOOD JOB, CYNTHIA!" I exclaim as if Cynthia had just won an Olympic gold medal. I go through this process five more times, each time whispering the words in their ears, the children like actors who have forgotten their lines on stage. Everyone does well at this and is very proud of themselves, with the exception of Bernie, who just stares at me blankly when I whisper his line into his ear and mumbles a barely audible "Bernie?" "Well, at least he knows his name," I think. Progress is being made. Knowledge is being inflicted.

Stage two involves more of the letter "A", but with visual aids. First, I draw both versions of the letter and have the kids repeat its name. This time, I also have them say the sound of the letter, which I voice as "aa, aa, aa" as in the word "cat". (Yes, I am aware that the letter "A" also makes the "ah" sound...baby steps, people. Baby steps). For the next couple of minutes, all we do is chant "A, A, A....aaa, aaa, aaa" over and over. Finally, as the children's voices drop off one by one due to lack of interests or fascination by their own snot, I revive my long-lost artistic skills and begin feverishly sketching on the three foot tall dry-erase board, dropping to my knees as I do to avoid bending over to draw. The result of my work is exquisite: an apple, drawn basically as a red circle with a black stem and leaf coming out of the top. Suddenly, someone shouts "apple!!" from behind me. I whirl on my knees, beaming as I face the children. "THAT'S RIGHT!" I gush. "Very GOOOOD!" The next few minutes are spent repeating "A! APPLE! A! APPLE!" until everyone literally thinks the word for apple is "A apple". After "apple" is somewhat ingrained in their hit-or-miss memories, I draw a picture of an ant, which looks a lot like a snowman laying on its side with legs and antennae. The process is repeated: "A! ANT! A! ANT! aaa, aaa, aaa" until everyone seems to grasp that the letter "A" is loosely related to the drawing of an ant, which is also somehow related to the sound "aaaa". Two pictures seems like plenty for the day, and in truth, the only words that our curriculum requires my kids to know for the letter "A" are "apple" and "ant". I decide it's time to take a bathroom break, feeling much more encouraged by our headway than I felt yesterday.

The bathroom break, however, is an adventure all in its own. The children have been trained to respond to the word "washroom" by sprinting as fast as their stubby legs will carry them to the nearest lavatory, leaving a path of destruction and trampled bodies (should any one fall down...which they ALWAYS do) in their wake. However, in Asian culture, much more so than in American public schooling, manners are heavily stressed, and large sections of their Chinese teaching is set aside to learning only etiquette. Before my first class yesterday, Connie had told me that it is extremely important, especially to the parents who are paying large amounts of money for their children to attend our school, that everyone learn to be well-behaved in my class, and one of my responsibilities is to impart the skills needed to act at least somewhat civilized in the adult world. With this in mind, I precede the bathroom break by quieting everyone down, forcing them to sit still, then saying in a soothing, calm whisper, "Time to go to the washroom". Pandemonium ensues. Because they are sitting behind the boys, the girls are the first on their feet and out of the gate. However, their desire to pee and wash their hands is dwarfed by the raw power and speed of the four boys, who check Cynthia into the cabinets and shove poor Yuka underfoot, tripping over her mangled body in a life-and-death race to be the first to the door. Bernie is the clear-cut winner, but is immediately tackled by Ian and slammed into the wall, their tiny frames collapsing in a pile just as Howie brings up the rear, tripping over them and launching his face into the wooden door. Jesus! I quickly run to the scene of the multiple-child pile-up, screaming "EVERYBODY L-I-I-I-I-I-NE UP!" This, I come to realize, is the most important command in all of teaching. The boys drag themselves to their feet and the girls, dazed but unhurt, limp into what could only be considered a line by abstract artists doing far too many mind-expanding drugs. I shout once again, "Line UP!" and hold my hand out straight in front of me, hoping the ankle-biters will take to aligning their bodies with my out-stretched arm. However, instead of falling into position, they mimic my actions, holding their arms in front of them. I now have what appears to be the Asian Chapter of the Hitler Youth, with six Taiwanese kindergartners saluting me Third-Riecht style. I put my arm down and take the straightforward approach, physically moving their bodies into position and sternly instructing "line up! line up!" after each pawn has been set. Now we are ready to go the restroom.

Washroom time is uneventful, save for the hilarious spectacle of watching four-year old boys pee. I certainly don't remember doing this as a toddler, but as I watch the boys pull their shorts completely down to go to the bathroom, even in front of the girls, it makes me smile at their innocence and lack of insecurity or care concerning their bodies or their actions. They are not here to impress anyone. They do not worry what anyone will think of them. They are not aware of the Fall of Man, they have never tasted any forbidden fruit. They do not want to be God; they just want to play on the jungle gym. After the short break I corral my class back into the room, making sure they wash their hands before they return (there has been some rumblings of an N1H1 Swine Flu epidemic that has been going around) to appease the overly cautious Chinese teachers.

The rest of the day goes a little less smoothly, mostly because my mental lesson plan only went as far as the letter "A". We play with the soft colorful yarn balls some more, which the kids love, and I try and teach them to say "orange" correctly. For some reason they all want to say "orang-EEE". I don't know why. As I am putting away the balls I find a small plastic tub filled with miniature plastic animals. This is PERFECT! I make the children sit in a circle and dump the animals in the middle of them. Mistake. Immediately the hoarding begins, and soon the children are clawing at each other's piles, everyone trying to acquire the ONE elephant in the whole damn tub like its a Mickey Mantle rookie card. I take the elephant for myself, redistribute the piles evenly (and suppress the urge to give a lecture about communist socioeconomic theory - probably only HALF the students would understand it anyway) and try to teach the children the names of the various species. "Yes, giraffe!" I say as Howie holds up a giraffe. "Ooooh, a monkey!" I exclaim as Yuka shows me a monkey. Of course, Bernie finds the giant anteater, and I have to just say "squirrel!" to his look of sincere curiosity. Why the hell is a giant anteater in here?!?! When is THAT going to come up in their future English conversations?

Finally, the animals are put away and it is recess time. During recess time I sit on the ground against the wall and fill out their "communication books" as I watch the children play, resolving any disputes/quelling any tears that are a result of their insanity and lack of balance. I am required to complete my section of the communication books every day; this entails marking their progress by checking boxes in the categories of "speaking ability", "participation", "comprehension", and "manners", as well as writing a short note if desired and signing my name. Parents may also write notes to me voicing their praises or concerns about their little ones or my effectiveness as a teacher. This part makes me particularly nervous, but I'm sure that the parents have been informed of my status as a "new" teacher (in every sense of the word), and thus will give me a little time to get settled before writing malicious notes asking why their child is adorning swastikas and reading Mien Kampf. Recess finishes with only a few scattered tears, and the kids obediently file back into the classroom for the last 30 minutes of instruction.

This time is spent mostly reviewing which, because we have only learned "Good Morning", "My name is ____", and "A! Apple!", is rather redundant. I also attempt to start their first reading book, which is a small paper book that each child has a copy of. The front cover is red and has a picture of a Hippopotamus with the words "Hello" written in yellow over the top of it, but the children could care less. All they want to do is flip through the 12 or so pages as fast as they can, then throw their books on the ground. I manage to get a couple of them to pay attention to the first page or two, which reads "I see cat! Hello!" and "I see dog! Hello!", but their attention span is severed quickly and they eventually commence to poking one another in the eyes. Luckily, class time ends before any of them are permanently blinded, and I leave feeling exhausted and with only a shredded sense of accomplishment. "Better than yesterday," I think. As long as I feel improvement, I guess I can postpone excellence and delay writing my "Teacher of the Year Award" acceptance speech.

Back downstairs, I learn that I am allowed to eat the leftovers from the lunch prepared for the students, which is the best news I have ever heard. I take the elevator to the 4th floor where the small kitchen is located, and squeeze my way past the not-so-friendly lunch lady to where, I assume, the teachers' food has been laid out. Mmmmm, rice with seasoned ground beef and tofu. Its like a poor-man's hamburger helper, but I do not complain because I am starving and it is free. I find a bowl and some chopsticks and fill the five-year old sized container to the top, trying to hide my portion size from the glaring eyes of the lunch lady, lest she scold my gluttony and think me a greedy American. Then its back downstairs to the office area, where I enjoy my white rice and talk to Connie about the frustrations and comedy of the morning's events. "Oh, by the way," I ask as she is packing up her things to go meet David for a REAL lunch somewhere, "why do the ice-cream trucks run so late here. I heard one last night as I was going to sleep. It had to have been almost eleven." She thinks for a minute then laughs. "That wasn't an ice-cream truck, silly," she speaks to me like I'm one of her students, "that was a TRASH truck. In Taiwan, you cannot leave your trash on the street. You have to listen for the trash truck coming so you can run downstairs and put it out before they get to your block. That's why they play the music." Wow, I would have never guessed. As Connie is walking out the door, I ask her what song the trash trucks are playing. "I know it's familiar, I just can't quite place it," I say. "Oh, its Fur Elise by Beethoven," she says, and exits into the waiting heat of the Hsinchu afternoon.

Holden Caufield

2009-09-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

I wake up. The shower pulls me up from the bottom of the ocean, into the crisp cool air. I breathe deep and feel better, my capillaries taking the oxygen to my tissue, my body reacting slowly at first, then more noticeably. I finish my shower and shave without toweling off, letting the hot air work in tandem with my body heat to evaporate the moisture on my skin. Immediately I start sweating again, and I am beginning to learn that sweating is a fact of life in Taiwan. I try and kill some time by listening to music, then by reading, but I am too distracted by my upcoming day to really enjoy either. Finally, after what seems like hours of sitting around, I fix my hair with little effort (what do Kindergartners care?) and put on shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops, making sure to grab my wallet, phone, and keys. "Okay, I am ready." It is 7:00. Damn, I am going to be early. I turn off all the lights and close the door behind me, turning the deadbolt as I do. Today I will be walking to school for the first time.

As I ride the elevator down to the "lobby" (which is really just a reception desk and stairs leading towards heaven), I regret that I did not give Princess Peach a proper goodbye. She was such a good little scooter, and somehow managed to keep me alive for five whole days. Now I will no longer have the pleasure of her company, or feel her tiny, blender-sized engine struggling beneath my 175 lbs of bones and skin. Hopefully someday we will be reacquainted, and I will once again be able to tear around town, a blur of pink, black and white; a true statement of masculinity. I am also regretful because now, with no scooter, all I have to get around are my legs, which have become quite lazy due to the relative amount of inactivity they have enjoyed these last few days. "No more Mr. Nice Guy" I think to my legs as I exit the elevator and walk out into the daylight. "Time to earn your keep, you worthless excuse for appendages!" (If I said even HALF of what my brain thinks out loud, I would be committed by the end of the day).

The sun is bright today, but it is not the warm, friendly sun that sleeps in the blue summer sky and wakes the spirit and soul. No, this sun is harsh and blinding, transfusing its abrasive light throughout the entirety of the white sky. The world looks like a room covered completely in florescent bulbs, humming and dragging shadows out from their hiding places to be executed. I squint against the pale light and feel the heat hit me like a wall of water. (This is my body's cue to start sweating even more). Damn, I should've brought a change of clothes. I turn right on the sidewalk, and walk past the maternity store where mannequins are adorned with strange underwear and strollers are displayed in the windows. Next on my right is the pet store, where animals sleep behind think glass, wishing their homes were anywhere but here. In one of the windows I see a small, white, rodent-ish looking thing curled up in his food bowl. What IS that thing? I have never seen anything like it. Maybe I'll go in a check it out later. The very last window has a black dachshund who appears to be suffering from severe depression. He is not asleep, but unblinkingly stares into nowhere, his head on the ground, wishing to die.

I continue walking past a bank, the cracked, uneven sidewalk turning to neatly well-kept bricks beneath my feet. A 7-11 follows it, and inside I see people sitting at the counter by the window, reading the morning paper, drinking coffee or tea, eating breakfast. I decide to go in to kill time, and end up standing in front of the beverages, reluctantly skimming over the bottles, trying to decide which decision I will not immediately regret. I end up choosing a bottle that says "Milk Tea" in english, and paying $17 NT for the risk. I open it as I exit and take a drink, tasting first the sweet condensed milk, then the bitter finish of black tea. It reminds me of coffee with cream, but is very cold and makes the morning heat seem more bearable. Here, the sidewalks ends and I take the street, the morning commuters blasting past me on Zihyou Road, their exhaust hot against my exposed feet and ankles. I walk past a gas station, where attendants busily fill up scooters and cars for motorists - I am told that most gas stations in Hsinchu are full service, and tipping is not required or expected.

I pass a nice looking building with a decadent looking lobby, a giant sign above the door has a enormous picture of a foot on it. This must be a massage parlor or acupuncturist; it certainly isn't a pediatrist. I cross a busy street even though the angry looking red man on the crosswalk indicator is telling me not to, and come to a park. On the corner a man is selling some sort of fried dough from his blue street stand, and across the overgrown grass of the park I see a large gazebo where old women sit with large hats and gloves on, silent and stone-faced, repelling the heat like they have done for years and years and years. The street here is lined with trees, huge gnarled limbs and trunks give the impressive of ancientness. I like these trees, and stop for a minute to wonder if Hsinchu has any city ordinances against climbing trees in public parks. "Another day my friend" I think, and keep walking. I cross another street, past a hotel and some unmarked shops where ladies and children sit and eat breakfast with chopsticks. I glance to the other side of the street and see the tiny shop where David and I ate breakfast my first morning here. That seems like ages ago. Time has managed to stretch itself into weeks in the last five days. I am on my way to immortality.

Eventually I come to Connie and David's street, Minzu, which T's into Zihyou Road and, if taken down far enough, will end around the City Circle. Ahead of me looms the bridge which crosses the train tracks and, from where I stand, seems like an impassable obstacle. The bridge is close to a half mile long, and has four lanes of two-way traffic plus two scooter lanes on each side. From what I remember, a portion of the bridge has a sidewalk, but I can not see it or figure out how to get to it without first walking halfway across the bridge in the scooter lane, which is probably a popular way to commit suicide in Hsinchu. (Hypothetical: "Dave had a really bad day in the Market today...think he might walk the bridge later...poor guy"). I stand at the entrance to the crossing, carefully weighing my love of fully functional limbs with my urge to take unnecessary risks, and eventually opt for the small side street that runs parallel to the bridge but connects instead with the street running under the bridge. This street is narrow, and walled on one side by the rising bridge and on the other side by, well, a concrete wall. The only space left for pedestrians is a tiny sidewalk similar in width to the ledges one might find on the outside of hotels in spy movies. Therefore, whenever a car or truck comes - and they do often, usually not bothering to slow down despite the danger of sheering off their rearview mirrors on annoying objects such as PEOPLE - a lowly walker, such as myself, has no choice but to cling to the graffitied concrete wall, toes hanging over the side of the busted sidewalk, and watch as parts of the vehicle come inches from my chest or face. After a few of these encounters, I think I would've been better off taking the bridge.

Finally, I make it to the road that runs under the bridge (and with all body parts intact). On the other side of the road are buildings, and past these, the train tracks. Under the overpass I see a food stand which has attracted considerable attention, and to my right are stairs, which come as a relief. My gamble has paid off; these stairs lead to the bridge and to the sidewalk, which is my only hope for crossing the train tracks. The stairs are wide and look like they belong in a big city, the metal handrails chipped, the steps littered with small pieces of paper and trash. I climb both sets, counting 21 stairs in each set, and arrive on top of the bridge, safely on the sidewalk - thank God.

On the bridge, the temperature feels 20 degrees hotter. I am now fully exposed to the sun, there is no shade and no relief from the heat that attacks from the sky above and the street below. I walk quickly, but keep my eyes wide and take in everything I can. The view from the bridge, while not spectacular, is still quite a sight. From here I can see much of the city, and I smile as it unfolds before me like a pop-up story book. To my right, perhaps a mile away, is the Ambassador Hotel, dressed in browns and blacks, large and expensive looking. Ahead of me, three miles away, is the green mountain of 16 Peaks, stretching out in either direction. To my immediate left is a golf driving range, and beyond that the Southeast side of the city, with tall apartment buildings sprouting up among the urban residences. I look over the railing and see the train tracks, which is actually more of a train YARD. Ten or more tracks lay side by side, with hundreds of box-cars waiting to be filled and taken around the island. Construction crews are busily working, apparently construction some kind of depot. I walk the quarter mile of sidewalk quickly, and my eyes are like black holes, sucking in visible light and all the images that are possible because of it. Time slows down in my two black holes - I see the city in slow motion.

I am sweating heavily by the time I make it to the set of stairs at the opposite end of the sidewalk; now I have another dilemma. Should I risk taking the stairs down without fully knowing the conditions at their landing, or should sprint the last 300 yards to the base of the bridge, hoping that I am fast enough to make it to safety before the next wave of scooters and cars overtakes me and I am crushed to death 'neath a stampede of unrelenting rubber. My brain tells me to sprint, but my choice of footwear today (flip-flops) disagrees. The decision is made. Down the stairs I go, this time down four flights, down past the construction crews, down down down. On the wall next to the stairs someone has spray-painted the word "Love", and right next to it someone has answered "Fuck you". Ah, yes. The dichotomy of good and evil is alive and well in Hsinchu. Zoroastrianism. I think of the passage in The Catcher in the Rye when Holden Caufield says that he wants to scrub all the "fuck you's" off the city walls so the children won't have to see them. He wants everyone to be able to remain innocent forever. But he can't; we will all lose our innocence, we will all have to grow up and see the worst of the world. I want this so badly. I want to see the most horrible things in this world, as well as the most beautiful. Only then do I feel like I can decide if I believe this world is inherently Good with Evil in it, or if it inherently Evil smattered with Good. I think this is an important question and we must honestly ask ourselves, outside of doctrine and religion, what we truly believe. I don't know exactly why this is important to know, for it surely won't change my actions. I feel like God's face is in questions like this. I want to see Him and know truth. I want my piece of the fruit.

At the bottom of the stairs I see what I had hoped I would not see. Apparently, this is where a major trash-collecting center of Hisnchu is, and everywhere are men in light blue shirts talking, getting in big yellow trash trucks, or sitting on one of the many pieces of beat-up furniture that litter the area. I do not want to attract any unwanted attention so I walk quickly, head down, over the dirt ground and through the smell of day-old rotting food and garbage. No one seems to care about the white kid who looks nervous and out-of-place, and I am relieved when I reach the road and the smell begins to leave my nostrils. At this point, at the far end of the bridge, Zihyou road comes to 4-way intersection. I have to take the road to the left, and to do this I must cross the street. I wait for an opening, then jog briskly across the road, resuming my walk along the left side of the street, looking into oncoming traffic. I prefer this. At least if I am going to be smashed, I will see it coming.

I walk uphill and on the road because there are no sidewalks. I pass a small house where a man with no teeth sits surrounded by coconuts. I pass several mechanic shops, all filled with scooters and tools, all smell like gasoline and hard work. After a few hundred yards I come to an open-air fruit stand, where I decide to check out the local produce. Most of what I see I can not name. There are a large variety of large melons, and many smaller fruits that have strange textures and unfamiliar shapes. I finally find the apples and bananas, pick one of each, then go to the counter and wait for the young fruit-market lady to check me out. She rings me up, says something in Chinese that I do not understand, and I give her a $50 coin. She gives me back $17, bags my fruits, and nods as I walk out from under the tent and back down the street. I have just purchased breakfast. It costs me $33, or exactly $1.00 US. I am very pleased with myself, and think that I will probably stop by the fruit stand every day from now on.

The rest of the walk is mostly uneventful, though long, and scattered with oddities along the way. I walk past a "cafe", which is actually a giant tent with men sitting under it in folding chairs drinking tea or coffee or possibly something stronger. Above the tent are affixed oscillating sprinklers which spray water down on the tent and over the sides, giving the impression of raining. It is odd to me that the owner would waste so much money on water, but I suppose it keep his customers cool. I walk past a large hardware store on my left, the B&Q, which I am told is exactly like Home Depot, right down to the orange and white trademark colors. Finally, almost to the school, the sidewalk reappears and the neighborhood improves. The businesses become nicer and the stores look cleaner, more professional. I cross a street and turn left, only a few hundred yards away from the Kindergarten center. Several small eateries line the street, and one in particular, "Fresh", serves Western-style breakfast and the menu is in English. Another small coffee shop has five or six women sitting around talking while a lap-dog naps on the floor at their feet. Now at the entrance to the school, I look across the street and see a tall building with two walls made completely of glass, allowing one to see the elevators and offices inside. In the lobby of the office building a massive piece of corporate art flows up and through the center of the building, standing fifteen or twenty stories tall. It is beautiful in a cold, corporate sort of way. I take of my shoes and slide in through the sliding door. My second day.

The trip, I estimate, is about 2 miles and took me, with stops, about 40 minutes. I will walk this route home today, and twice every day until I either procure some form of transportation or get killed on the bridge...whichever comes first.

"Be Prepared...And Miserable" - The Boy Scout Motto

2009-09-08T05:05:00.000-07:00

I wake up. No, that statement implies that waking was MY idea. Rather, I am violently blasted awake by the bolts of liquid heat that stream in through the sliding glass door that is right beside me, blistering my skin and infiltrating my eyelids' best defenses. My lips are cracked and my throat is raw, I breathe in a ragged breath and, with all my effort, roll my heavy body over, away from the blinding-white streaks of light that seem to impale. The sweat has already started to roll down my forehead and I can feel pools of it collecting in the valleys on my body, trickling down from the summits of collarbones and hips. The spot on the mattress I have just vacated is soaked. I feel like hell. With my eyes still squeezed tight I fumble around for my phone, somehow find it laying beside me, and check to see what time it is. In the half-second before I open the phone I panic, thinking maybe I've slept in...

No such luck. It's 5:15 a.m.

I have no idea how this has happened. Am I still jet-lagged, still on Central Standard Time? (By the way, my new time zone is also "CST", but is instead Chinese Standard Time. Catchy, no?). I have NEVER been an early riser, and yet I keeping finding myself awake at this unGodly hour. (It seems to me that God would roll out of bed around 8:30, 9 o'clock. I think the Creator likes to hit the snooze button a few times before starting the day). Well, whatever the reason, I am awake now, past the point of slipping back to the dreamy joys of Never Land. I push myself out of bed, the bricks of exhaustion falling off my aching back one by one. To the bathroom, look in the mirror: I could be an extra in a zombie movie. Sleep lines give the impression of deep scars, swollen eyes and tongue, the beginning of a scraggly beard beginning to grow like moss on my neck and chin. I am a train wreck. Thank God I have no wife or girlfriend living with me, they would surely have left me after waking up next to this abomination. I turn on the shower. Cold. It feels amazing, and I stare at my feet as I shed the skin from half-sleep and hazy dreams and watch it circle down the drain. What exactly contributed to the sorry state of affairs that sneered back at me through the mirrored glass this morning? I will recount the events of the previous evening, maybe that will cast some light on the matter:

After I entered my new home, I took a shower and enjoyed the freedom that not actually having a designated shower area permits. My shower head is on a long hose, so during my shower I walked freely around my bathroom, admiring my scrawny physique in the mirror, putting one foot up on the toilet seat, brushing my teeth (I apologize for any of you assaulted by the visual images I have just described). I even showered with the door open because, honestly, why NOT? The mirror doesn't get all fogged up and, more importantly, who is going to object? After this I was feeling fresh and clean, and so to avoid profusely sweating and negating my freshness and clean-ness, I turned on the air-conditioner. Next I began finding homes for my limited possessions, putting my important documents in the desk drawer, putting some of my clothes in the large closet opposite the full-sized floor bed. After these tasks I realized that, damnit, I was sweating again. I went to the air conditioner and felt for the chill. Huh. Not really COLD air, more like just plain air in motion. After finding the remote for the A.C. unit, I finally figured out how to adjust the temperature, which I cranked down to 19 degrees Celsius. "That ought to do the trick," I thought. How wrong I was.

After realizing that my efforts with the remote yielded no significant difference in the temperature of the air, I came to a horrifying conclusion: I had no air conditioning. I was without the one thing, as David had said, that I simply MUST have in order to survive living in Taiwan. It was too late to call anyone. I was stuck in this apartment, or should I say giant convection oven, with no way to escape the heat and humidity that was licking at the windows and creeping under the cracks in the door. I sat down on my rock-hard sofa, and rationalized. "Don't be a baby" I said to myself. "You're not going to die. This is what all those miserable Boy Scout summer camps prepared you for." Yes, this would be just like camping, only without the perks of campfire cooking and mosquito bites. One of the number one rules of camping, however, is to stay hydrated, and I had no water. Back down the elevator I went, outside and down the street to 7-11 where I bought a half-gallon bottle of drinking water for $35 NT (about $1.00 US). Now I was set, and I returned to my abode and drank almost the entire bottle in one sitting, not realizing how thirsty I was until the first drops had touched my tongue.

Back upstairs, I now had another problem: boredom. I had no T.V., no internet, and nothing left of my possessions to put away. I had no food to prepare or to eat, and no beer to drink. For a while I sat in the half-light of dim florescent bulbs, sipping my water and staring into space, rolling over the events of the day. I sat down to write, but the motivation wasn't there, so I closed my laptop and accepted defeat. It was only 9:30, and I didn't feel all that tired. However, there was nothing else to do but sleep, so I stripped down to my boxers and flopped down on my bed on the floor.

It was at this time that I realized that I did not have a mattress. When inspecting the room during the showing days earlier, I had gingerly rested my foot upon the "mattress", which felt firm and sturdy. "Good," I thought, "I like a firm sleeping surface." This is true, I feel like I sleep better on hard rather than soft. This fact still did not detract from the shock of landing on my new bed and realizing that it was actually just a box spring. I bounced back up into the air as I hit the springs, the coils barely covered by a thin layer of padding and fabric. This, on top of the air-conditioning malfunction, was a major blow to my optimism and confidence in my choice of apartments. I lay there on my stomach, the metal digging into my ribs, and took stock of what I DIDN'T have; I did not have A.C., sheets, pillow, pillowcase, blanket, or mattress. Okay, so this is getting to be more and more like camping every second! As I felt the pity party about to begin, I gave myself a shake and reminded myself why I am here. I am not here to be comfortable, I am not some voluptuary. I am here to push myself, to go outside of my comfort zone and experience something new and (although maybe only felt in retrospect) amazing. I am here to bring home stories, songs, and scars, and to discover that the best memories are are often forged in the red fires and the deep blue hardships, not in the grays that cover the well-traveled path like winter shadows. I am here to watch myself grow into the man I have always wanted to be, and to know that this growth can only come through the experience of intense joy or pain; the road to wisdom and happiness does not run through mediocrity. I am here. And here - this naked box spring holding up my half-naked body under naked light-bulbs - is either everything I've ever wanted OR a terrible nightmare that has soaked into my reality like blood through a bandage. The choice was mine to make.

I crawled to my bag and grabbed my black zip-up hooded sweatshirt, the only cold-weather article of clothing I packed beside a light jacket. I folded it twice to make a thick cotton padding, then reached up and flipped the light switch by my desk. I lay my head down on my hoodie, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Lights from the shops began to waft in through the glass porch door, and I could hear the faint sound of an ice-cream truck as it ambled down the darkened alleys. Wait? An ice-cream truck? At this hour? All at once I felt extremely sleepy, and my brain ceased to pursue the query any further. I allowed my heavy eyes to close, and like a factory closing for the night, I began to feel my body shutting down. I could no longer feel the heat summoning perspiration on my face, or the scratchy box spring under my back, or the lumpy sweatshirt beneath my head. I was a cadaver on a table, a specimen, a paralyzed experiment. The last thing I remember hearing was the sirens carrying someone to the Hsinchu General Hospital two blocks away. I imagined myself in the back of the ambulance and faded into the rising crescendo as the doppler effect shifted the pitches and distance swallowed the sound like the night...

I'm Sorry Life Isn't Perfect, But I Promise We Won't Starve, In This Small, Dark Apartment With Big, Bright Hearts

2009-09-05T01:15:00.000-07:00

Today is the day that I will finally move into my new apartment. I say finally like I have been homeless for weeks, when in actuality it has only been a few days since I arrived here and taken up residence in Connie and David's spare room. Nonetheless, I am beginning to feel like I have outstayed my welcome. This feeling does not come because of anything Connie or David have done or said; they have been extremely hospitable and patient with me, treating me like a old friend that has been separated by time and distance, growing apart but still wanting to hang on to faded memories and "remember whens." I guess at heart I am independent to a fault, and often synthesize my own feelings of independence on those around me, believing that they feel exactly as I would in a given situation. I know that I would be growing impatient if a third wheel, a stranger, was taking up space in my girlfriend's and my apartment, and thus I now feel a sense of urgency to leave these incredibly generous people before I become a nuisance. Not only this, but I still feel as if I am on some bizarre vacation, and I crave some sense of permanence to really begin to feel like I am HERE. I need to unpack. I need to throw my dirty clothes on the floor. I need to LIVE here, not just BE here.

The landlady has agreed to meet me at the elementary school where there will be plenty of Chinese speakers around to review the contract and make sure everything looks okay, and where Connie can translate should there be any questions or last-minute changes. Before this, however, I need change the rest of my currency to NT, as I have been carrying around $700 in unusable green United States Dollars for the last five days. In Taiwan, many transactions are done in cash, and it is not uncommon or drug dealer-esque for large sums of money to change hands for house payments, cars, etc. Once I get my Alien Resident Card, I am told that I can open up a bank account here, but for now carrying around large wads of cash seems to be the most convenient method for financial interactions.

David is not sure which bank will change currency, so he decides we should go to the Bank of Taiwan, which he says "sounds the most official." After resting for a few more minutes, I collect my money and passport and David and I head towards the bank, David on his scooter and me trailing on Connie's. We arrive at the bank which, true to David's assumption, looks very official, with large marble walls and impressive glass doors. Inside, a friendly security guard stops us to ask, in broken english, what we need. I take the seven hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet and wave them in the air, saying "NT" as I do. He gets the picture and, smiling, shows us over to the counter where the last of my US currency will be changed to blue, pink, and orange monopoly money. I hand the lady my passport and my money through the small slot in the thick plexiglass divider, and wait as she counts it and processes my request. I am curious as to why they need my passport to complete this transaction, but I am quickly learning that a passport is necessary to do almost EVERYTHING here, and it is thus my most valuable possession. (I have also learned that the U.S. passport will open more doors than any other, save for the Euro passport, which is envied by all). It is strange how what we value can change depending on where we are in the world or in our lives. I would have never thought a tiny blue book would be the object I kept most closely guarded.

The lady hands me my money, passport, and receipt back through the glass with a curt "xiexie". I count it, but am not good enough at math to figure out the conversion so it really does me no good at all. My net worth has now been converted to $23,005 NT, with about $100 US still in my bank account from back home. Damn. As we walk back outside, I start to feel the subtle tickle of anxiety in my throat, the feeling I get when I worry that I am not going to be able to make ends meet. I have grown accustomed to this tickle in the last year of my life, but still dread it all the same. "Well," I think, trying not to worry prematurely, "Lets see how far this goes." Back on the scooters, back to the apartment, back to the air conditioning and waiting for 5:00 to come so I can meet the landlord.

At 4:30 I shake off the laziness that has accumulated on top of me and prepare for my trip to school. Princess Peace was very low on gas by the time we got back to the apartment earlier this afternoon, and I voice this concern to David. First he says that it will be fine, that scooters can run on fumes for days. Then, sensing the trouble he will be in if I DID run out of gas between the apartment and school, he retracts his confidence in the scooter's ability to survive without fuel and offers to let me take his bike. I am a little hesitant at doing this, seeing as how David's bike is almost brand new and very expensive (he told me earlier that it costs just as much as he paid for his scooter), but says it will be fine so I wheel the Giant road bike out into the hall and down the elevator, promising to take care of it as I go. The ride is a little awkward because David is a few inches taller than me and the seat is much too high, making it hard for me to reach the peddles at their lowest point, but I manage to keep from crashing into other vehicles or falling over as my legs churn and I merge into the sea of cars and scooters. Traffic is heavy due to 5:00 rush hour, but I have been somewhat desensitized by the density and sporadic driving styles of the motorists here, so the experience isn't nearly as unnerving as it would have been if I had tried it four days early. How far I've come in such a short time! I make it to school in a little over five minutes, sweating but otherwise unharmed. A bicycle might very well be my preferred method of transportation once I save up enough money to afford one. Though I have never considered myself a cyclist and haven't owned a bike since I was 16, I think that the exercise would be good for me and the environmental friendliness of a bicycle is an added bonus. Why contribute to global warming if it is not necessary? I will definitely look into this bicycle thing later on.

At the elementary school I wait patiently for the landlady, who is 15 minutes late. She eventually arrives with Maggie the real-estate lady, and she is sweet and small and reminds me of my Grandma Mullich. We make our introductions through Connie, and the landlady tells Connie that I am very handsome and asks how old I am. Everyone laughs at this, and I am glad that my landlord isn't imposing or rude. Maggie takes out the contract and makes a few little notes, then gives it to one of the Chinese teachers to read over and make sure there are no loopholes I need to be aware of. After the Chinese teacher gives her stamp of approval, she writes something on the contract saying that, because I am technically still "illegal" here, the school will vouch for me until I get my ARC and can legally rent a house in Taiwan. Next, I sign my name in the places where Maggie points, and my scribbly cursive letters look gaudy and out of place among the neat and geometric Chinese characters. Connie asks if I have the money, and I shell out the $14,000 NT for the first month's rent and the deposit, plus another $2000 NT for Maggie's finders fee, which I feel she has more than earned. I am handed the keys, and the whole transaction feels very straightforward and final, like something out of a movie. The paperwork now finished, Maggie and the landlady (who I find out does not have an english name) want to meet me at the apartment for one last walkthrough, so we wait for Connie to finish up and then make out way, via bicycle, back towards Connie and David's.

We peddle past the street that Connie lives on and down Zihyou Road another half mile, seeing the landlady and Maggie standing at the entrance to the building on our left. We pull in and chain up our bikes, then follow them into the elevator and up to the seventh floor, just as we had done days earlier. Then in through the metal security door and the big red front door, both of which Maggie shows me how to unlock, and into my new home. It is hot inside so we turn on the air conditioner which begins blowing air right away. A good sign. We check the refrigerator and the hot water, and Maggie shows me how to work the washing machine. Everything seems to be in good working order, and I am glad that we don't have to deal with any problems so soon, although it is inevitable that some will arise between now and the end of my year-long contract here. At least the landlady seems good-natured and will probably be easy-going should any repairs or modifications need repairing or modifying. Maggie excuses herself for a minute to take a phone call, and I continue to explore while we wait for her to return. Suddenly, a loud bird call blasts from above my head. "SHIT!" I think to myself as I duck for cover, "I knew this place was too good to be true! They have a BIRD infestation!" I look up to where the sound had come from and see a small white box on the wall near the ceiling. Is there a bird trapped in that box? Are there birds in the WALLS??? I give Connie a bewildered look, and she returns with an "are you serious?" face and laughs, walks toward the door and lets in Maggie, who has just rung the doorbell. The DOORBELL. Of course, why WOULDN'T Taiwanese people have doorbells that sound like realistic birds invading your home? I am embarrassed and try to justify my reaction with something about how real the doorbell sounded, but the damage has already been done. I am a dork.

After we look around for a few minutes, I tell Connie that things seem to be up to my less-than-high standards and that we can all go. She translates this to the landlady and Maggie, who both smile in agreement, and we go back downstairs. Outside, we grin and wave at them as they drive off on Maggie's scooter, and unchain our bicycles. It has gotten dark by now so I switch on the small red taillight attached to David's bicycle and follow Connie back to their apartment, just a few blocks away. Once there, we haul our bikes up the elevator to the apartment, where David is waiting and ready for dinner. An invitation is offered, but I am already considering my future money situation and so decline, saying that I have to pack my bags to get ready to leave. They seem disappointed but understanding, and leave me alone to shower and pack up my things. Upon there return, we make small talk about dinner and I drink the smoothie they have brought me (they are awesome), and then I begin to say my goodbyes. I thank Connie for everything and say that I will see her tomorrow at school, and tell David that we should hang out sometime. It feels strange to leave. I suppose when you are immersed in a place that is completely foreign, one tends to cling to things that are familiar and form bonds faster than they would otherwise. I put on my backpack and wheel my 50 pound duffel bag into the hall, saying one last goodbye as I close the door. There are no hugs and no tears, yet I feel like I am leaving friends that I have known for a long time.

Outside, I shoulder my bag and begin the half-mile trek down the street. I only stop to rest twice, and although I receive several sideways glances from people on scooters and other pedestrians, I make the journey without incident and in about fifteen minutes. I haul my enormous bag into the elevator, push the number "7", and feel the barely perceptible feeling of being lifted high into the air. At my floor, I place the appropriate keys in the appropriate locks, then open the big red door and step into the dark room. The window from the porch is letting in light from the city, casting shadows on the walls and on the floors. This is it. My first night on my own, in my new apartment. The first time I have ever lived alone. The first time that I have ever lived in a foreign country. As I hit the light and close the door behind me, a song comes into my head and plays one line as the soundtrack for this night. The song is by Jimmy Buffett, and the line which repeats over the faint sound of the city below is: "You can have the rest of everything I own, because I have found me a home."

The First Day of School: Part II

2009-09-03T10:42:00.000-07:00

I am now behind enemy lines. I have just stepped foot in foreign land, on a hostile alien planet. I am in slow motion, careful not to make an sudden movements that might disturb the tiny natives that sit indian-style at my feet. Every step is watched, every action is noticed by their little eyes, prying, trying to figure out why I have abruptly invaded their territory. I smile, but can think of nothing to say to ease the tension that is molasses thick, covering the insides of my mouth. I creep toward the front of the class, the natives swivel to face me, their eyes wide with anticipation and fear. I sit down on a piano stool (which serves as my chair since all the other furniture is made for gnomes), on display, and look over at my Chinese teacher Yvonne. She is also staring at me with big eyes as if to say, "Well?" No help there. I suddenly realize that I have absolutely no idea what to say or what to do. I have never felt so unprepared for anything in my life. Will the children even understand me at all? I look down and see that a couple of them are close to tears. Uh oh. Better say something quick!

"GOOD MORNING!!!" I shout very slowly into their tiny frozen faces, plastering on an enormous smile and opening my eyes as wide as they can go. Silence. A small boy on the right begins to sob loudly, and teacher Yvonne rushes to him, speaking Chinese quickly and in comforting tones as she crouches next to him. "Better step it up, man" I think to myself. If there's one thing I've learned from all my years as a camp counselor and snowboard instructor, it's that crying is extremely contagious at this age. I try again: "Goooooood Morrrrnnnnnniiiiinnnnng!!" I say with less authority, but still drawing the words out and elongating every sound, "My name is Teacher Tommy." (This is what I am to be called by EVERYONE - students, staff, parents - for the next year of my life. I like it, it comes with the respect of the title "teacher" while eliminating the formality of "Mr.") At this introduction, something snaps in the children's brains. I see that they have been somewhat pre-programmed, and two or three mumble out a barely audible "Hello Teacher Tommy" in heavily accented English. They SPEAK! "Okay!" I think, excited by this breakthrough, "now we are getting somewhere!" I say it again and again: "Good morning everybody!", and with each repetition the students' confidence increases. Eventually, all of them are wishing me a hello and a "good morning", though to the untrained ear it probably sounds like munchkin gibberish. I am proud of them and of myself. We are communicating, not just as adult to child but as English speaker to Chinese speaker. We are bridging TWO fantastically large chasms, and in my amazement at this act it occurs to me how often we, as Americans, take this ability to communicate for granted. Almost everyone that surrounds us everyday speaks our language and also shares the title of "adult", yet how many times do we allow the communication to breakdown over the void, never allowing our words to touch another human life and thus alienating us from everyone around us?

After good mornings and hellos, everyone seems to be getting a little more comfortable, myself included. A couple of the children have thawed enough to start moving around a little and conversing with their classmates, while Yvonne has finally calmed down the crying boy to just a sniffle. I use this opportunity to attempt to learn the students' names. This is done by looking at the role sheet and saying each child's name loudly, then looking around at their expressions for a spark of recognition. Although there are ten names on the role sheet for my class, only six little ones are present, so I learn their names quickly: Howie, Bernie, Cynthia, Yuka, Jeffrey (the crier), and Ian. Apparently the children were all given English names which sound like their Chinese names by their parents before coming to school, which is nice because I honestly did not want the responsibility of naming other actual human beings - I have enough trouble naming pets and plants. As I am establishing names, addressing each child individually and saying "Good morning Yuka! My name is Teacher Tommy!" and so on, my mind is racing about what activity we are going to do next. I have nothing planned. I glance at the clock and see that introductions have only taken six minutes, and I still have another two hours to go. "How the hell am I going to fill two hours with a bunch of four year olds?" I scream in my own head. Luckily, out of the corner of my eye I spot a large tub of soft yarn balls in a variety of colors. Perfect.

The next forty-five minutes is spent in some combination of learning colors, numbers, and basically playing fetch with the children using the colored balls. They LOVE fetch, and scream with delight as I throw six different colored balls to the other end of the classroom for them to run and get. Each child then brings back a ball and has to identify the color, which they are fairly adept at, but still have some problems with orange and purple. The game works out well until the children learn that if they bring back the SAME COLOR ball each time they do not have to learn any new colors and will still receive verbal praise. I throw the balls and watch them run to "their" colored ball and pick it up, or even find a different color and hand it to its rightful owner. The purpose of the game has been defeated, and I do not know how to convey how that they need to get a different colored ball each time. The game, therefore, dissolves into just throwing the balls at each other, me trying to nail the children in their disproportionately large heads as they run around squealing and falling down. Great fun is had by all until I peg little Howie in the eye and he starts crying. Yvonne gives me a look like "this is NOT educational," so I, ashamed, decide its time for a break. Luckily, it is recess time.

Recess is held just outside the classroom door in the jungle gym area, and I lead the kids through the simple, colorful maze of three-foot tall walls to the Little Tykes playground equipment and instruct them to take off their shoes. Then, for the next 15 minutes, I witness their underdeveloped motor skills fail again and again as they wipe out, slam into walls, crash into each other, fall off the jungle gym, and trip over their own feet. It is hysterical, and I try hard not to laugh every time I witness a spill or a collision that evokes tears in its victims. It's like watching a demolition derby comprised of Oompa Loompas. Finally, after 15 minutes of brutality, I yell "Line up!" which is echoed by Yvonne yelling "Line up!" in Chinese. The children do not complain or whine as I know I would have done at their age, but instead quietly dismount the jungle gym, put on their shoes, and form a line. Wow, these children are TRAINED! Back into the classroom we go, the little ones sweaty and breathing heavily from their intense and painful workout.

For the last 40 minutes of class I decide that we will learn about the letters "A", "B", "C", and "D". I have the children sit in front of me, and begin drawing giant letters on the whiteboard on the wall, including both capital and lowercase versions of each letter. After I am finished, I turn and point at the first letter, the letter "A". "What is this letter?" I ask. Some of the kids are staring at me blankly. Others are looking around the room at random objects. Bernie appears to be asleep. Again I ask, "This let-ter?" Once again, the sweet sound of confusion, which sounds a lot like silence. Okay, this is not going to work. I need a more basic approach. Suddenly, I point wildly at the letter and just start shouting "A!!! A!!! A!!!!" The children spring to life, they have no idea what is happening. Finally, after saying "A!!!" for what seems a ridiculously long time, some of the children start to join in. Before long I have a rousing chorus of "A! A! A!" ringing through the classroom. We finally stop and I erase the "B", "C", and "D". "A" is good enough for today.

After a few more chants of our beloved first vowel, I direct the kids to sit at the table, which is sea-foam green and comes up to my knee. They do, and I pass out their Alphabet Coloring Books which have pictures of letters accompanied by pictures of corresponding objects, such as "A" next to a picture of an apple. I also pass out a box of crayons, then stand in front of the children and tell them to open their books to the first page, where they will find the letter "A" as in "apple" and "ant". The children, completely oblivious to what I have told them, open their books to whatever page they like and begin coloring intensely whatever letter or picture they find there. Many get through half the alphabet in a matter of minutes, using one color to scribble randomly across the entire page before moving on to deface the next. They are like locusts, with no respect or regard to lines or realism; just consuming picture after picture as quickly as possible. Horrified, I snatch up their books before they can completely destroy the coloring pages that were supposed to last them all semester. From this I have learned two things: First, you cannot tell a Kindergartner to remain on one page when there is a whole book in front of them just waiting to be conquered, and second, that "coloring" is less like art and more like vomiting colors onto paper. It doesn't matter what it looks like, just so the page contains enough scribbles to prove that a tiny hand clutching a crayon has been there.

WIth the coloring debacle behind us, class is almost over. I tell the children to put away the crayons and to return to their seats on the floor, which they do obediently. Some of the kids, now becoming very comfortable, have begun to act out, running around and pushing others. I'm not quite sure how to deal with this. How stern is too stern? I don't want to be the bad guy, so I decide on saying the offenders name in a disappointed tone. This does absolutely nothing, and it appears that they have not even heard me. I glare at them and speak louder, more forcefully. Still nothing. Finally, I yell in my best authoritative parenting voice "IAN!" That does the trick, and everyone falls silent under the boom of my resonating vocals. No one bursts into tears at this, so it appears that yelling is not something these children are unfamiliar with. At least I know what works. As class ends, I tell the kids to say "Goodbye Teacher Tommy," which most of them do, and then bid them and Yvonne farewell and escape into the play area. What a day! It is only 11:40 and I have only been teaching for two hours, but it feels like an eternity has passed. I make a mental note to be more prepared for tomorrow, and take the emergency exit stairs down three flights to the lobby.

"How'd it go?" Connie asks as I walk into the office area to clock out. I must look a little shell-shocked, because she laughs and says that the first day is always rough until you figure out how to teach, what works and what doesn't, etc. I feel a little better at this, but am still disappointed in the day. I guess I imagined that the curriculum would be extremely structured and my time would be budgeted, but this is the exact opposite. I had no idea that I was going to have to construct the methods for learning; I assumed these would already be in place, and I would just implement them. I have almost total freedom, which to most teachers would be liberating, but as of now I do not consider myself a teacher, so this freedom is paralyzing. In fact, at this point I'm feeling a little like a fraud, and the pressure to find a way to teach these children effectively is pushing in from all sides and making it hard to think positively. Maybe I have made a mistake. This isn't exactly what I thought it was going to be. Maybe I shouldn't be here.

As I ride Connie's scooter back to their apartment through the hottest hour of the day, I give myself a pep talk. "You know that NOTHING ever works out the way you think its going to" I tell myself. "'Bumps in the road' is a misnomer...the road is ALL bumps!". I recommit myself to taking everything one day at a time, and not thinking about my overall effectiveness as a teacher or how it will affect my kids, either immediately or in the future. "Just focus on tomorrow, that's all you can do. You're a smart kid, you will get the hang of this. Everything is going to be fine." By the time I get back to Connie and David's I feel much better, and am already anticipating the events of the upcoming evening. David buzzes me in and I ride the elevator to the seventh floor, enter the apartment, and collapse in one of the big, black armchairs. It is only 12:15. What a day!

The First Day of School: Part I

2009-09-01T07:29:00.000-07:00

Monday morning, August 17th, my first day of school. I dreamed a lot last night, which means I probably didn't sleep very well. Perhaps I am little more nervous than I thought. I roll off the futon (which has remained in "couch" mode for my entire stay) and slip quietly into the bathroom to shower, shave, and make myself look presentable. Back in the guest room I put on jeans, a soft gray t-shirt and my Chucks, even though I know it's going to be hot as hell today. Connie has informed me that the school is very casual, so I don't try to dress up much. After I am clothed and I have collected all the things I think I will need for the day, I slowly creep into the living room, but to my surprise Connie is standing by the front door, ready to leave. "You can take my scooter today" she says softly and hands me her helmet, "I'll ride my bike". Down the elevator and out into the morning heat we go, my brain still trying to catch up with my body. It is 8:15 a.m.

After making sure I know where to go (and I'm about 80% sure that I actually do), Connie takes off on her bicycle towards the bridge. I take my time putting on my helmet and kick-starting Princess Peach, then I am off, blasting over the bridge that crosses the railroad tracks and passing Connie on the way, giving her a "whoo-hoo!" as a I do. The day is still young but no longer new, and in this space between morning and afternoon she is like a clumsy teenager who is trapped between childhood and everything after. She has not yet shaken off the haze of the morning's mist, and everything looks slightly faded and washed out. I look across the city from the apex of the bridge, and feel the touch of the sun as it claws its way to the top of the sky. Through the busy stoplights I fly, past the busy shops where busy people have already started their days. Finally, I arrive at the school, very proud of myself for navigating the 5 minute drive successfully.

I feel the need to clarify: Miro International School is actually two school in two separate locations. The location where I have spent most of my time up to this point and where I now park the scooter is the elementary school. Eventually I will be teaching some combination of 1st, 2nd and 3rd grades here, but their classes don't begin for another two weeks, so until then I will have my afternoons free. The location where I will be teaching today is the kindergarten campus, which is on the same block as the elementary but on the opposite end. I have only been to this campus once, the day after I arrived in Taiwan, and am very unfamiliar with everything except where it is. I walk down the sidewalk toward the "kindy", trying to settle my nerves, and stop in front of a colorful entryway with big glass floor-to-ceiling windows. The letters above the door are metallic and all in Chinese, but the familiar Miro logo beside the characters assures me that this is the place. I remove my shoes before entering and walk sock-footed through the large glass doors. I have arrived. My first day on the job.

One more thing I have failed to mention previously: this is actually opening day for the kindergarten center, and the building and everything in it is brand new. This fact is extremely evident as I make my way past the front desk, turn right to where the other teachers are gathered, and almost fall over of the many boxes that litter the floors and desk tops. Teacher paraphernalia is everywhere, from toys to paper-cutters to copy machines. Books wait patiently to be shelved, shelves wait to be assembled. I carefully plan my path, then athletically weave around a water-cooler to arrive at where my colleagues seem to be discussing something of great importance. This is obviously NOT their first day.

I don't want to seem like a rookie so I play it cool, waiting for a break in conversation and introducing myself casually. I meet Joel, who is ALSO from Texas, and has been teaching in Taiwan for the past two years, but has studied in both India and Japan. He is currently pursuing his master's degree in english at the University (I don't find out which one), and his quiet, hippyish demeanor puts me a little at ease. The other teacher present, Cecile, is from South Africa and therefore speaks with what a Westerner would consider a "British" accent. (Apparently you should NEVER tell a South African, Australia, or New Zealander they sound British unless you want to unmake friends quickly. Luckily I did not make this mistake.) Cecile is a little older and seems much more intense than Joel. I don't find out how long she's been teaching abroad, but she exudes the confidence and jadedness of a veteran. I notice that they are holding things in their hands; coloring pages, assignment sheets, flash cards. I was not aware that I would need these things, and no one has told me anything about this. In fact, I really have no idea WHAT I'm going to be teaching, how old the kids are, or how many of them are in my class - I know absolutely nothing. Connie enters the school just as I feel a small wave of panic hit me. "Good," I think, "Connie will get me squared away."

But Connie, much to my dismay, is swamped with her OWN responsibilities. She is the acting liaison between the all Chinese speaking staff and the (mostly) all English speaking foreign teachers. She thus acts as both teacher and administrator, as translator and peace-maker. I instantly gain a great deal of respect for her, and stand silently by as I watch her hurry around the office trying to take care of little last minute things. Finally, seeing that I have no clue what is going on, she finds a couple minutes to show me the basics, like how to clock in and where my "teacher box" is located. In my teacher box I find the curriculum, student list, and other important documents. Okay, things are coming together a little bit now. Connie tells me that my Chinese Teacher's name is Yvonne and she will be in the classroom at all times to help me in case I get stuck. I am relieved by this until Connie follows with "she is also new so she probably won't know what to do either" and my relief is washed away, terror taking its place. As Connie hurries away she mentions that my classroom is right next to hers, which is good, but which also means that for the next 52 weeks I will be teaching the K-1's. K-1 is the youngest class, the babies, the four to five year-olds. Many of them have never been to school, ever. "Expect lots of crying today!" Connie laughs as she disappears around a corner. Sweet Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?

Now it is 8:50 a.m., and class does not begin until 9:30. I study my syllabus for a minute; seems pretty standard, things like "Letters A and B" and "Good Morning" and "Hello!". I think I can do this. This leaves me with a half an hour to kill, but I don't dare leave the school in case Connie has some urgent last-minute life-saving advice for me such as "whatEVER you do, don't look the children directly in the eye or they will attack you in swarms," or something like that (one can never be too presumptuous about cultural differences). I stand around for a bit, but feel stupid not doing anything while people are sprinting all around me trying to get everything ready. I decide to familiarize myself with the first floor, and think that the jungle gym is the best place to start.

As I explore, I discover the first floor is not very complicated. The glass front doors open into a lobby which one can follow back to the elevators, stairs, and restrooms. To the right of the lobby is the front desk and the office area (where I began), and to the left, a massive jungle gym complete with ball pit, treehouse, and spongy safety floors. It is clear that Miro spared no expense here. One wall of the jungle gym play area is entirely glass, from floor to ceiling, and looks out onto the sidewalk and busy street beyond. The other walls are painted with bright blues and greens, and have pictures of whales and other sea creatures on them. It is incredible, and I am sure that my own kindergarten experience was not nearly this extravagant. The lavishness of the play area brings to my mind the fact that the parents of these children are spending LOTS of money to send their kids here, and they probably expect results. Suddenly, I am nervous once again, and I feel the pressure of my new commitments weighing down on me. It is not a load I am unable or unwilling to bear, it is just...unexpected. I guess I imagined this would be a little less formal, a little less like a real job. But now, only minutes away from my first day of actually teaching, I am beginning to understand that this is actually a real job, something not to be taken lightly. I am proud and scared - I do not want to fail these kids.

As I walk back to the elevators and push the "3" button, I realize that I am happy I have been put in this situation. It is not quite what I imagined, but it is what I secretly hoped would happen to me on this adventure. To be put in situations where I am forced to push myself, to do more than the bare minimum, to work hard for something I believe in; in these situations I grow, I define myself, I am most proud of myself. And this, possibly, is part of the reason why I am here in the first place, to venture to the edge of myself and find out how far I go, to discover how much I can take. How else can we know anything about ourselves but by these types of experiences? It is a sad fact that we often only show our best when we are forced to, when our backs are against the wall. I am forcing myself now, but it is welcomed and I embrace it whole-heartedly.

Out of the elevator on onto the third floor where, to no surprise, an equally colorful environment greets me. To my right a three foot tall maze, its walls decorated in bright colors and portraying stylized world landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty. The maze empties out into another jungle gym, this one less expansive but still impressive all the same. The ceiling is baby blue and the whole room smells like fresh paint. I walk toward the door that I was told is mine, past the bathroom on the left with the miniature urinals and tiny stalls, and grip the doorknob. Time to show 'em what you got, kid. I open the door and stare at the six sets of wide, tear-stained eyes looking back at me in horror and curiosity. This is it. Here goes nothing...

Where Worlds Collide

2009-08-30T03:20:00.000-07:00

(Retraction: In my previous post I said the landlady was to meet us on Sunday, but this is incorrect. She had agreed to meet us on MONDAY. Sorry, my memory messes up the chronology of events sometimes...)

We arrive at the mall in typical scooter fashion of going the wrong way down a one-way street, the mall security guard directing traffic just staring at us as if to say, "Okay, you got me. I have no real authority here." Luckily we just miss the oncoming cars and scooters which had been newly loosed from their red-lighted prison by ramping our scooters up on to the cobblestone sidewalk. Now we can do some real damage! I look for a small child or an old woman to hit, wondering which one will earn me more points, but to my dismay, the sidewalk actually doubles as a scooter parking zone and we have arrived. This is not quite what I expected. Before me stands a large white building about ten stories tall, but other than its height not terribly imposing in width or length. A large sign near the stop of the building proclaims its name, F.E. 21, and I fail to ask what the initials stand for. This is definitely not the sprawling ode to commercialism that I am used to, and David explains that most malls in Taiwan are nothing like what one would find in the States. "Malls here are more like one massive department store which carries everything," he tells me. "It may be a little more convenient, but they usually only carry the pricier stuff so we usually don't shop at them." As we turn from the cobblestone walk and step through the sliding doors, an icy blast from the overworked air conditioner crystalizes the sweat on the backs of my arms. A chill runs from my shoulders to the small of my back, and I think the thermostat must be set at about 60 degrees. It feels incredible and I allow the synthesized cool to cover me like liquid.

The first floor looks very similar to the make-up section in every department store I have ever been in: white floors, bright lights, pretty girls beckoning customers to allow them to "make them up", the smell of one thousand perfumes blending into an aroma that is sexy, stifling, and comforting all at once. This is not where we want to be. We walk past some Taiwanese makeup associates who are taller than me (which is surprising), and down the escalator to the basement floor. In the basement we find the grocery stores, delis and bakeries, but more specifically, Jason's Grocery Store. Jason's, it is explained as we enter into the small but busy store, is the ONLY place in Hsinchu to find most American grocery products. Thus, my hosts reason, "it will probably be your favorite store." Need ranch dressing? Only at Jason's. Tortilla chips and salsa? Jason's. Cheese? Most other stores only have the processed American cheese slices, but JASON'S has at least FIVE kinds of cheeses! Be still my heart! We walk the isles for a while and David tells me that if you find something you like here, buy ALL of it. "Once we found Cinnamon Life cereal here, so we bought every box they had" he laughs. "You just can't FIND that in Taiwan!" The only downside to Jason's is the price. While most food in Taiwan is inexpensive, Jason's is considered a specialty store and most of the products are imported. Therefore, many of the products actually cost MORE than they would back home. A jar of pickles costs $6 US. Mayonnaise is $7. Cheese is ridiculously expensive, even by American standards. I make a silent vow to only come to Jason's once every few weeks when I have a desperate craving, but secretly know that I will probably be here every few days, scouring the shelves for "foreign" treasures.

After Jason's we take the escalator back up. And up. And up. We pass eight floors of clothing, women's children's, men's. On the ninth floor we find the food court, which is busy and loud with the sound of laughing or screaming children. They have about a dozen eateries, but none that I recognize. No Sabarro's Pizza here. At the back of the food court we take an elevator up to the eleventh floor where, to my surprise, the movie theatre is located. The movie theater is much like any from back home, only this one is extremely busy. Children run around me and teens lean against the walls in groups, ultra-cool. The line for the ticket counter is long and snakes back and forth across the room like the wait for an amusement park ride. Movie posters hang close together, and show a combination of domestic and American films, many of which I recognize, some I do not. As we walk to examine the prices at the ticket counter, Connie explains to me some of the differences between the American and Taiwanese film experience. "In Taiwan, one purchases a specific seat, like at a baseball game. Thats why it's important to get here early, because if you don't all the good seats are already sold." Interesting. She continues, "A lot of times we get movies before their U.S. release dates, but movies also come later sometimes. It just depends. Also, because all American films are subtitled, its hard to watch comedies because people will read faster than the actual dialogue and laugh before the punch-line hits. It's a little distracting." I smile at this, imaging sitting in a room full of Asian psychics. Now beside the ticket counter, I start looking over prices. Everything is in Mandarin, but I notice that there is big green box on the sign that has a picture of a ticket, a soda, popcorn, and a hotdog and the numbers "350" at the bottom. "I guess that's the special" says Connie, "all of that stuff for $350 NT." I am awed by this, because $350 NT is about $10 US and, at some theaters in the States, one can't even buy just a ticket for $10, much less a soda, popcorn, and a hotdog. As we exit the theater lobby and re-board the elevator, I make plans to visit this theater often in the future. Hell, for $10 US I'll even go by myself.

Having exhausted all that the mall has to offer, we take the elevator down to the first floor and back outside. The air feels heavier than when we entered, and I debate if it's relative to the frigid air inside or because a storm is looming in the distance. The sky above us is getting slightly darker, but we don't seem to be in any immediate danger of getting soaked and the clouds have actually cooled the temperature to being almost bearable. Connie notices this and suggests we go to a place called 18 Peaks, which I am told is a park in town. This sounds nice, so we set out for the park, this time going the CORRECT way down the one way street, and melding into the busy Sunday traffic.

18 Peaks, I soon discover, is much more than just a park; it is an entire nature AREA, complete with miles of hiking trails and beautiful scenic views. As we arrive, we park our scooters just outsides of the entry gate and I am amazed. The ride from the mall to the park took maybe five minutes, and we are technically still IN the city. However, it looks as if we have journeyed hours into the thick uninhabited forests of Taiwan, and we are surrounded my massive trees and everything is green and alive. I breathe in and the air feels clean, and I can no longer hear the hum of the cars and scooters as they race around the city. We have been transported into another world. We begin slowly hiking up the slight grade on the paved trail, passing families and being passed by women power-walking. The trail is well maintained and is cut into the side of the mountain, and on my right the forest stretches high above and the trees hang over the trail while on my left the mountain drops off suddenly and the ground is lost beneath a thick covering of foliage. We walk along, noticing the sculptures made out of vines and leaves and watching the insect hanging in the air by invisible threads. The sound of unseen birds echos off the bluffs, and rock speakers play soft violin and sitar music that floats and dances around us. Ahead, a break in the trees to our left reveals a stunning view of the city and shows us just how close we are to the buildings. It seems strange and out of place, like looking at a picture hanging on a wall. Hsinchu stretches for miles beneath our feet yet seems so far away. Suddenly, a clap of thunder breaks in the distance, but closer than we expect it to be. "I think we better get going" says David, and we hike the quarter-mile back to the scooters and head out, fleeing the impending storm. Within minutes we are back on the crowded city streets, and I am unable to understand how the beauty of nature and the concrete world of man can be juxtaposed so forcefully yet so seamlessly. It is a collision that astounds me, but it is effortless and extraordinary.

18 Peaks

The rain never comes, but the atmosphere is cool and wet when we get back to Connie and David's place. We decide to take it easy for a while and spend the rest of the afternoon dozing and watching funny videos on YouTube and reruns of Friends. Dinnertime eventually comes and I am grateful, as hunger has been nagging at me for a couple of hours now. David decides that he is in the mood for a hamburger and asks me if that's all right. He is far too considerate, and although a part of me wants to eat ONLY local cuisine, I remind myself that I am going to be here a year and will have plenty of time to try everything the locals have to offer. Besides, a burger sounds amazing right now. We head downtown, and arrive at a restaurant directly across from the small park where David and I had walked days earlier. The restaurant is called Squares, and has a narrow dining room with a random assortment of decorations on the walls, from models of classic cars to an old-time sewing machine. We are taken to a wooden booth in the back where a small teenage waitress brings us small glasses of water. The menu is not extensive but is familiar; they have hamburgers, cheeseburgers, bar-b-que burgers, chicken sandwiches, and various other American food (all in English). I am a little excited, simply because I really LOVE hamburgers and now know where to find one should I ever find myself in desperate want of one. I order the bar-b-que burger and fries, and after the waitress leaves laugh because the ketchup bottle is in Chinese with the words "premium tomato paste" written in English at the bottom of the label. Sounds delicious, the Taiwanese sure know how to market a product. The burgers arrive, and they are good, not great, but I appreciate the effort and know that I will return in the future. We leave feeling satisfied, and as we make our way back to my hosts' apartment the night air is soothing against my skin.

Back at Connie and David's, I am suddenly very sleepy and excuse myself early. Tomorrow is a big day. First day of school. Meeting with the landlady and moving in to my new apartment. First night on my own. My head is swimming. I have no idea what to expect regarding my class or my kids, but I release the anxiety in deep breaths and know that everything will go well. I feel my toes relax, my fingers easing their tension, my face becoming placid. I drift off thinking about nothing at all, just listening to the sound of my own breathing. Tomorrow is a big day.

...The Haze Clears From Your Eyes On A Sunday...

2009-08-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

The following morning, A Sunday, I wake at 5:45 a.m. The small trapezoid-shaped window glows with an intense white light and looks like the door to Heaven. I squint, my eyebrows lowering in the middle, my forehead creasing, and go to touch the lighted pane. Go to talk to God. But the Creator does not wish me a good morning in any audible tones, and in the white sky I begin to see shades of grey and blue lightly brushed into the canvas. The sun, already awake for almost an hour, is tugging at my shirt sleeve like a puppy wanting to play. "Not now, sun. Seven more minutes." But the small cluttered guest room is heating like an oven, and the sticky feeling of morning, of dead skin, keeps me from returning to sleep. Instead I write for hours until I hear Connie stirring at around 9:00. I wait in "my" room to give her a few minutes alone to go through her necessary wake-up routine, then slowly slide open the opaque glass door leading to the living room. "Up so early?" she says. I just smile.

Today is (hopefully) the last day of my search for an apartment, and the time between now and the 11:00 appointment is killed by online conversations while the Taiwanese version of "Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader" serves as background noise and eases the space between the sparse conversation. I like Connie and David (who has since come out of hibernation), and it seems we have already settled into the level of comfort that allows for these gaps in conversation and does not feel awkward or strained. 11:00 finally rolls around, and the air-conditioner and light switches are "closed" (which is the literal translation in Chinese) as we exit. Out into the whiteness, out into the traffic, out into the World.

Princess Peach is quickly becoming my loyal companion, and although she can't go more than 40 m.p.h., pulls ridiculously bad to the left and is pink, I am considering making Connie an offer for her when I start making money. So far we have escaped every perilous situation we seem to find ourselves in, and I am beginning to think we make a good team. If she were a horse, I would give her a carrot. But then again, if she were a horse, I would be dead by now.

Equestrian nonsense aside, we eventually arrive at the 4th (and final) appointment to look at apartments. The sun in running its hands down my neck and into my collar as I hop off Peach, old-West style, and survey my surroundings. "Have I been here before?" I ask, fairly certain that I am wrong. "Yeah, last night," David laughs. "The Flower Market is right over there...where we ate Sizzling Platter" he says with a nod of his head. I see that he is correct; we took this road to get to dinner last night, but the darkness of the night makes it seem like a shadow in my memory, a ghost that I am not sure was ever there. We walk up to the correct number where a young man with hair standing straight up is waiting, also dressed in the exact same manner as the former real-estate agents. Apparently there is either only one real-estate company in town, or this particular firm has cornered the "Hell-hole that only a foreigner would live in" market. He is leaning against his black motorcycle which I am very impressed with, but which David doesn't think is all that great, and he and Connie make small talk in Mandarin until the landlord pulls up in a dark blue compact car.

The landlord unlocks the front door, talking Chinese as he does, and we enter into a very clean and tiled foyer-esque area which looks like it could serve as a waiting room. The stairs do not have a railing as we ascend to the second floor, walk down the hallway which is enclosed but still feels like a motel, and finally reach the door at the end of the curved and narrow path. The landlord opens the off-white door and we step inside, hesitantly, as if entering a tomb. I am actually fairly impressed by this apartment. The walls are white, the ceiling is white, the flooring tiles are white and clean. The living room is a 6 ft x 6 ft box, complete with couch, T.V., mini-fridge and sink (which would constitute my kitchen). Not a lot of space, but nice. The bedroom is actually a SEPARATE room (Whoa! Two rooms?! I could get lost with all this space!) with a full sized bed, desk, and tiny bathroom. It is also very tidy and everything smells fresh, like someone just mopped with bleach. The landlord follows me around, pointing to the amenities and saying their name is Chinese, as if helping me to learn the language. I appreciate this and smile every time he does, knowing I would probably do the exact same thing. Just outside the front door, he shows me the small room which houses the apartment's own personal washing machine, which is a convenience I may not be able to live without, considering how much I've been sweating these past three days. After a few minutes we exit, and the landlord says he has ANOTHER place for us to see, also listed at $7000 NT. However, although this second place is on the first floor which is nice, it is almost identical to the first apartment but lacks a certain...(for lack of a better word)...feng-shui. I rule the second apartment out within seconds of entering. As we make our way to the front door to leave, we thank the landlord and the quiet, fluffy-haired real-estate agent for their time. Connie and David can see that I've already made up my mind, and as soon as we are out of ear-shot, they say "You liked the third one, didn't you?" I smile a big smile in agreement and say something about how it just felt better. I don't know why, but the big red door just made the last apartment feel like...a home. Maybe not my home necessarily, but less like a hospital, hotel room or prison cell. I still don't know what a place would have to look like, smell like, or be like for it to feel like MY home. Maybe no place ever will. Or maybe, like Zack Braff says in "Garden State," after we leave the houses of our childhood we won't feel home again until we eventually make a new home, one for ourselves and our own families. Until then, we are all homeless, just a bunch of 20-somethings trying desperately to fit in and make the best of what we have until what we have is what we've always wanted. This idea of homelessness is both disconcerting and comforting, and it is something I have come to peace with in the last few years. It is the ultimate rite of passage. We ALL must go through it.

As soon as we reach the scooters, Connie is on the phone with Maggie the plain but attractive real-estate lady, telling her that I have decided to go with the apartment she showed us yesterday. Connie's voice rises enthusiastically several times during the conversation, and I listen intently as if my attentiveness will make Chinese easier to understand. When she is finished, she enthusiastically tells me the good news: Maggie has explained to the landlady that a poor American boy wants to rent her apartment, and she has agreed to drop the rent to $6000 NT a month plus utilities, which is an unbelievable $182 US. As if that weren't exciting enough, she has also agreed to forgo the usual practice of requiring the first THREE months rent + deposit (equal to one month's rent) upfront, instead breaking it up between the first two months. Therefore, instead of paying $28,000 NT right away (which I don't really have), I will now be able to pay $14000 each month for the first two months (which I still may not have, but I will worry about this when I get there). The landlady has agreed to meet with us tomorrow to go over the lease, and Connie has instructed her to meet at the school after classes tomorrow . As long as everything goes well, I should be sleeping in my very own apartment before the end of my 5th day in Taiwan.

As we straddle our respective scoots, Connie and David offer that they are, once again, hungry. This is becoming a recurring theme with them, and I can see their affinity for food rippling out through the entire Taiwanese culture. The Taiwanese people LOVE to eat. For some reason I am having a hard time embracing this ideology; perhaps it is because I'm being especially frugal, or maybe it's because, despite my adventurer's spirit, some of the food is still a little...questionable. But no, it is something more than this. In America, eating is always a means to an end: A means to socialize, a means to do business, a means to celebrate, a means to sustain. It is background music. In Taiwanese culture, food IS the end. Sure, other activities may occur during the eating process, but it is eating itself which is always most important. The Taiwanese view a meal as an event in itself, and thus can enjoy it to its fullest. I feel like the popularity of themed restaurants with all the shit on the walls and the fast food culture has divorced Americans from the joy of food for its own sake. So many distractions. Are they to distract us from discovering the truth, that the food isn't all that good and thus not worth our complete focus? Or are we too consumed in the complexities of our intricate social obligations to allow this simplification, to allow the stripping away of everything besides the basic appeal to our senses and our souls?

The venue for lunch has been selected, and we drive the scooters to a small restaurant where the grill and kitchen are outside almost on the sidewalk and the dining area sits behind the kitchen and through a large glass door. It is small, maybe only six tables, but cool inside. The humidity has increased considerably since the morning, and the air is beginning to taste like rain. I am thankful for the escape from the swampy, graying afternoon. We sit down, and as I try to pick out recognizable characters from the large permanent menu on the wall (I can almost tell what "beef" and "chicken" are now). David is already ordering on the small white ordering card. "Im just going to get a bunch of guotie (pronounced "gwo-teah" like "yeah") and shuijiao (pronounced "shway-gee-ow") for all of us." David then informs me that the english versions for these are "boiled dumplings" which are sticky pastries usually stuffed with pork or beef, and "pot stickers", which are the fried version of the aforementioned dumplings. Sounds good, and they are. They almost remind me of Italian food, but like everything else here, they have a distinct Asian flavor that is in all the local food but which I have not yet been able to identify. Once again, lunch comes out to about $100 NT a person, or about $3 US, and we all leave very full, our stomachs telling our brains that it is time for a nap in order to digest all the fried food. But the afternoon is far from over, and we must fill every minute of the last free day before both Connie and I begin the new school year. Under the cloudy sky we ride, and I imagine our scooters cutting visible wakes in the dense air behind us as we head for the F.E. 21 Mall in downtown Hsinchu to do some serious (window) shopping.

Mr. Miagi and Stinky Tofu

2009-08-24T10:06:00.000-07:00

...back to the Story...

It is late Saturday afternoon, and Connie, David and I have just finished looking at apartments. I stare towards the sun, which is dragging its way through sky, falling in slow motion as if caught in the wet viscosity of the air, Gravity pulling it down to the bottom of everything. The sun is lower than I am used to, but my body has begun to make the appropriate adjustments, my brain already beginning to compensate for the time difference and the lack of daylight savings. I estimate it is around 4:00 p.m., which is a dismal time in Taiwan; too early to eat and too hot to do anything else. But seeing as how I'm still "fresh off the boat," Connie and David are more than happy to indulge my child-like thirst to see EVERYTHING as soon as possible. I still don't think the reality of how long I will be here as set in yet. This still feels like a vacation.

So we blast, scooter-style, back across town to an area known as the Flower Market. I have never been a huge fan of angiosperms, so I wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of walking around a giant nursery, but I figured "what the hell. There's got to be a REASON why it's famous. Maybe there will be some Venus Flytraps or something cool there". As we fly down the wide three-lane road (which one would think would feel safer but, because of the traffic, is actually MUCH more nerve-wrecking than the smaller one-laners), I pull my wrist down and Princess Peach responds to the turn of the throttle. It is a good feeling, and I'm starting to feel confident and collected. I allow myself to look around cautiously, taking in the billboards, storefronts, streets signs. I still have no clue where I am in relation to where I've been or where I am heading next, but I suppress the anxiety that comes with losing one's bearings and accept being lost for the time being. "I've got all of the time in the world to figure out where I am," I think, and the double entendre echoes in my head in a profound and far-off way. Just then a bus comes flying out from a side-street, narrowly missing my rear tire and shattering the confidence I had worked so hard to build. I white-knuckle it the rest of the way to our destination.

The Flower Market, I soon find out, is poorly named. Sure, there is a small section that does indeed have flowers. However, this is just a tiny fraction of what one can purchase at said market, and the streets are packed with scooters as we amble down an adjacent alley, park our murder-mobiles, and enter into the sea of people. Immediately, I am accosted by a blitzkrieg of smells, bombing my senses and pulling me in several different directions at once. I can smell donuts, fried chicken, seafood, fresh fruit, and permeating all of these is the thick, sticky smell of grease and oil. I try to push this olfactory assault from my attention in order to create a visual map of my surroundings. I observe that the Flower Market is arranged similar to a carnival midway, with stands selling various goods running along both sides of a large path. The entire market seems to circle an enormous blue building which Connie says is a public track/swimming facility, though she says she's never been inside. "Which way first?" Connie asks me. An arbitrary question, so I choose "right". Right it is.

The first thing we encounter is, of course, the flowers. We walk quickly past the extensive display of plants hanging and grounded, and I note with some disappointment that almost NONE of the plants are actually blooming. Some flower market! There is, however, a very attractive tent selling Bonsai trees and, as I think back fondly to my childhood and watching Karate Kid II, I remember Mr. Miagi's obsession with Bonsai trees. I make up my mind to own one of these small twisty trees before I leave the country. After we pass the nursery the market begins to look more and more like a carnival. Here is a short list of some of the attractions therein:

Food stands - These sold everything from chicken to pig to squid to fruit to french fries. Yes, Dad, even traditional "fish head soup" could be found here. Also, almost everything in the Flower Market is deep fried or cooked in a ridiculous amount of oil. At one point David leans in and says that Taiwanese people do two things right: bake and deep-fry. Doesn't sound all that dissimilar from back home. I try a few new things, although much of what is offered looks a little daunting (like whole squid tentacles, pig ears, or chicken's head...yes, a fried chicken's head). I had read in my guidebook that the "stinky tofu" is a delicacy not to be missed in Taiwan, so for $60 NT I purchase a stinky tofu kabob, which is actually very good (although apparently it can get MUCH more stinky than what I tried). I also try, for the first time, a "dragons eye" which is a small fruit about the size of a grape. The dragon's eye looks like a kiwi on the outside, and the inside is sweet and jelly-like. However, I am not expecting the large seed in the middle and bite down hard, sending shock waves of pain into my molars. "Watch out for the pits" Connie warns. Too late. Later, Connie buys what they call "fish balls", which are just deep fried fish on a stick. They are very good, and I am beginning to see what David said about the Taiwanese and their ability to deep-fry.

Stinky Tofu

Smootie Stands - Although I don't get to try any, these stands can be found all over Hsinchu and, I assume, Taiwan. The stand is full of fresh fruit, which you select by hand, and is then blended and mixed with cream or condensed milk to make the freshest smoothie ever. The price is determined by which fruit(s) one chooses. The smoothies look refreshing and incredible, but for now I'll conserve my funds. I still have many days until pay-day.

Gelato Stand - I only see one of these, although apparently gelato is popular here and most is made by locals and with fresh picked fruit from their gardens at home. This particular stand is attracting a lot of attention because they were using DRY ICE to cool the dessert! "I thought dry ice was expensive!" I say to Connie and David, "that CAN'T be cost effective!" The gelato stand is booming as the Dry Ice changes from solid to gas and "smoke" pours out onto the sidewalk. Little children run around in it and we feel the coolness on our sandaled feet as we watch the gelato maker work. He reminds me of a magician, and his magic is the happiness on everyones' faces as they eat his dessert in the hot sun.

Games - Similar to the midway, games can be found all along the Flower Market. However, most of them are for children and include things like catching minnows with a net, throwing balls at small targets, or trying to ring bottles for prizes. The only difference between these and traditional American midway games are the size of the attractions (these being miniaturized) and the person manning the booth is not screaming at every passerby to "COME, WIN A PRIZE! WIN A PRIZZZZZZE FOR THE LADY!!!!". It almost takes some of the fun out of it all.

Puppy Stands - These stands are where puppies are sold and, although very cute, is also very sad. Puppies are crammed five or six to a small metal crate big enough for one, and they are given no water or food despite being in the sweltering heat. I even see a "basket o' puppies" which is a small woven basket which contains four sleeping puppies, all piled on top of each other. At first I think they are dead, and I am mortified that they would keep the dead puppies out in the open like this. But then, much to my relief, the basket starts to move and the puppies are resurrected, whining and trying to escape their wicker prison. I want to buy them all, but I have no place to keep them, so I keep walking and try and imagine that they will all go to good homes.

T-Shirt Stands - Here, one can buy t-shirts for less than $100 NT ($3.00 US a shirt). Usually, these shirts have a bunch of random english words like "champion, crazy, respect, skateboard" just thrown across them in no particular order. Either that, or they will have weird pictures, like a Transformers "Decepticon" logo next to a cartoon monkey. None of these shirts make any sense, but for $3 a shirt, I suppose you could just wear them once and throw them away.

There are other stands that are some variation of these, but in general, this is what I encounter at the Flower Market. I like it, the whole place feels festive and drips with humanity. Families are everywhere. It reminds me that I am just like everyone here, and they are just like me. As we complete the circle (which takes about an hour), I am feeling more and more at ease in my new environment and around my Asian city-mates. We all head back to Connie and David's apartment to regroup, get hydrated, and wait until the fried food that has settled in our stomachs makes room for dinner. As we wait and watch bad cable television, I call AT&T from Connie's Skype and get the friendly man from El Paso to unlock my cell phone so I can use the extra IF card that David has to make local calls on my cell phone. The friendly man from Texas finally gives me the code, and I slide the IF Sim card in and replace my battery. I now have a cell phone in Asia, cell phone number (09) 5407-0445. I am slowly assimilating, piece by piece, like a puzzle. It seems like anytime we move, the puzzle of our lives gets dashed to the floor and we have to get down on our knees, once more, and slowly put all the pieces back together. Sometimes it is difficult and we can't seem to get everything to fit, the edges are too different. But eventually, the pieces come together and the picture is of the new life we made. Mine is coming into focus now. It is a beautiful picture.

Dinnertime arrives and I am still not hungry, but I can see that David and Connie are and I don't want to miss out on anything so I act like I am. We take the scooters back to the Flower Market; however, THIS section of the Flower Market is not anything like the Flower Market from earlier. THIS section is constructed under a freeway overpass, and thus feels seedy and "underground," like a massive homeless circus from some vivid fever-induced dream. The market is packed and we make our way through the masses passing similar stands to what I witnessed earlier. The cars and trucks rumble overhead and the lights from the stands throw shadows on the nearby buildings as we take a seat at a picnic table in front of a "Sizzling Platter" stand. At the Sizzling Platter, similar (it seems) to almost everywhere, I am to choose my meat and the hotness level of my food. I choose Salisbury Steak, just out of curiosity, and medium hot. Just as at the Teppannaki place, we have the option of unlimited corn soup and tea, which I have sparingly, trying to pique my appetite. When our Sizzling Platter finally arrives, I am instructed to hold my napkin in front of my chest and face, like a shield. I am confused by this until I see that our food is brought out on a huge metal skillet, just like a fajita plate, and is throwing scalding grease everywhere. After the Platter has calmed itself and ceases to sputter and spit, I dig in using actual UTENSILS! (The first time I have used a fork since I have been in Taiwan). It is good, and is like an Asian spaghetti topped with a tough steak and covered in a red pepper sauce. I finish everything but the gristle and we leave feeling overfed and sleepy.

Back at Connie and David's, I write in the dark spare room as the fan blows air on my face and dries my eyes. Today was another extraordinary day, and by tomorrow I will (hopefully) have my own apartment. One more puzzle piece. I drift to sleep thinking of my childhood and spaghetti, of carnivals and Mr. Miagi. Outside, the city breathes deep and is glad that I am here. So am I, city. So am I.

The WHY and the HOW

2009-08-22T03:47:00.000-07:00

"Downtime - BAD. Leads to introspection - BAD" - Henry Rollins

As disruptive as it might be to the narrative, I want to skip ahead to present day, which is Saturday (a full week after when my last post takes place). I promise I will get back to the story soon enough, but I feel like deviating a little bit. I hope thats all right.

Saturdays have historically been days for reflection for me; reflecting on the dreams that only come in the late morning after sleeping in, reflecting on the hazy events from the night before, reflecting on where I am in relation to where I want to be. On this Saturday, as I am walking down busy Zihyou Rd and across the bridge that leads to RT Mart, my head is swimming with responses to questions that have been put to me since I left, the most obvious one being: "Why do this? Why travel literally halfway around the world to teach tiny Asian children engrish? Why?"

This is an important question, and I'm glad that people ask it of me. I believe that today we do not ask enough questions of our families, friends and fellow man. We worry that by asking questions we come across as nosy, but in truth, one of the primary roles we have as friends and family is to help one another grow, to help each other along on this long journey we call life. And the primary way we help people grow is by challenging them, by forcing them to evaluate themselves and their actions. This is not to say that we should impose our own tools and measures for evaluation upon those around us; the questions should be more "why do you believe or think this way?" and less "why don't you believe and think the same as me?" By asking these questions of those we love, we are holding them up to the light, shining truth in the cracks, letting the sun nurture their souls. Often this can be painful at first, especially to someone who's eyes are not used to the brightness that your questioning will bring about. But to live in the dark is to miss out on everything beautiful and colorful and good, and eventually these questions will be welcomed. Acceptance is Love, but asking the tough questions is a form of Love that leads to growth. We spend a lifetime trying to find the balance between accepting and challenging those we care about most.

So, the question has been posed: "why?" I could say something about seeing the world, or how I wanted to get out of my comfortable life, or how I love teaching; these are all true. But to say that these things are the reason I am here would only be a partial truth. In reality, and as I said at the beginning of this narrative, I am still not sure what I hope to find out here in this big world. Or what I hope finds me. This is a journey, a story, a song. But, even now, I am realizing that I am not any different from everyone else. All of us are on our journey, and we are all adventurers in some way or another. Every time you take a new way home from work, smile at a stranger, order something strange on a menu - every time you step outside of what's comfortable and allow life to carry you away - you are an adventurer. So the difference between myself and anyone else is just degrees, just little increments that we use to separate, when really we are all connected. The question, thus, is no longer "why?" because that same question could be asked of all of us every single day. The question now becomes: "How?"

(I believe that time is directly contingent on our exposure to new experiences. When met with a similar routine, similar faces and similar actions, our day-to-days can become month-to-months quickly, and time moves faster than we expect it to. However, when placed in a new environment or confronted with something alien, one's brain needs time to process all of the new stimuli, needs time to adjust and familiarize so it can speed time back up again. Perhaps this is as close as we can get to the Holy Grail; by constantly immersing ourselves in a life that's shockingly new our brain is forced to slow everything down, thus pulling out days into weeks and allowing us to taste each minute, savor each hour. Maybe that is why I have moved around so much this last year. I want to live forever.)

But this is all beside the point. Because my days are so much longer here I have a lot of time process my thoughts and sort out my beliefs. This leads me back to the "how?", by which I mean this: It is not so much the "why" that is important, because knowing the reason for an experience doesn't say anything at all. We choose many experiences in this life. I chose to come to Taiwan, while you might choose to talk to the lonely old widow outside of the supermarket, and your words will bring him peace. True, our choices can make a difference. However, outside of the realm of choice lies the unknown, and every day we are exposed to thousands of experiences that we have no control over at all. These experiences can be positive or negative. They can make you five minutes late for an appointment or change the way you see the world for the rest of your life. The "how?" is concerned with the way we handle all of life's experiences, chosen or not. Ultimately, HOW we deal with an experience says more about us as people than WHY we are experiencing something in the first place. You cannot ask "why" someone you love dies, or sometimes even "why" you chose coke instead of pepsi - sometimes there are no answers. However, by asking "how?", we can begin to define ourselves as individuals and as people.

Pertaining to the "how?", I believe we are all split into two categories. Or rather, we choose one of two options each time we are faced with an experience. Of course, there is room for gray here as there is with everything in this life, but in general, one of two reactions occur:

The first reaction is to close, or too retreat within oneself for something to hold on to. People who close to experiences believe that they are in control, and that nothing is beyond some sense of understanding or manipulation. New or unplanned experiences are therefore terrifying, and leaves this person scrambling to get a hold on things, to try and quantify and explain and manage. They are excited when expected or predetermined experiences occur, but become extremely upset when something goes awry. However, what the closed person does not realize is that control is an illusion, and although we can make little plans and lead our little lives, we are nothing more than tiny wooden ships in a magnificent ocean. The sun may smile or the wind may roar. None of us has any control over these things.

The second reaction is to open. To open means to accept this life for what it is, and to keep paddling but and allow the waves to take you because, no matter what you do, they are going to anyway. An open person allows themselves to be changed, allows life to come inside and shape them. This reaction understands that we have little control, and therefore because we cannot control the ocean, the only thing we can control is our reaction to it. And this is the entire point of the "how?". How we react to everything around us. How we take life determines how our lives will be. How we deal with the beautiful sunsets and the unnamed hurricanes determines what kind of people we will become, how we are remembered by everyone that meets us along this bumpy road. Ultimately, our legacy is not determined by anything other than the times we choose to smile and the times we choose to scowl in reaction to everything life throws our way.

As you can see, even by my naming of the reactions, I am biased. Life seems too short to allow things to tear you from happiness, and relinquishing control is the first step to understanding that we are nothing more than who we choose to be. So, to return to the original question of "why?" Why am I smiling even though I am in a strange country away from my friends and family? Why am I happy despite sweating profusely in my tiny one room apartment? Why am I optimistic about a future that is so unclear and thus terrifying? Because I choose to be, and this is the only thing I truly have control over.

Hell Holes and Studios: The American Searches For A Home OR You'd Be A Grouch Too If You Lived in a Trash Can (and other lessons from Sesame Street)

2009-08-21T05:18:00.000-07:00

Once again, we return to Miro International School, which has now become ground zero for operation "Get Tommy Taiwanized". The campaign is spearheaded by both Connie and David, who have been nothing but incredible throughout this entire experience. One day I may find a way to repay them for the kindness, hospitality, and love they have shown me in the last three days. Or maybe it doesn't quite work that way. Maybe instead, someone will stumble into the small circle of my self-centered life, confused, hungry, and alone, and I will then get to show this new person what has been given to me: the love that I have saved, tucked away in the small, hidden places of my heart. It's funny, this simple idea is so basic, it transcends religious lines and connects us to everything we know to be good; love everyone, and love will find you in return.

A new recruit has been added to the mission of finding an apartment, a tiny Taiwanese girl named Yayako who is very pretty and weighs around 80 lbs. I can't tell how old she is; she may be 18 or possibly 30, but just as in America is it impolite to ask a woman her age, so I keep mum. We head back to the office, which is actually about three feet from the lobby and separated from the public eye by a half wall. The office area is hot despite the two oscillating fans working tirelessly to kill the humidity that creeps in every time the large glass front door slides open, and I feel for them as the slowly shake their heads back and forth in discouragement. David I take a seat at one of the computers and he quickly begins typing in a web address. He seems a little impatient, I wonder if there is something else he'd rather be doing than helping this unprepared newbie get his shit together? I immediately switch to apologetic mode as he begins asking me about the specifics I would prefer. Roommate? Preferably not. I have never lived by myself before and welcome the new experience. Also, although some of my past roommates have been amazing, the last few places I lived came fully equipped with jerks-offs (ask me about the Jamaican who slashed my tires), so I think I'll play it safe this time around. Cable? Not necessary. I usually only watch T.V. for sports, but they don't really have sports over here, so I can opt out. Air Conditioning? Please, unless you prefer me to show up everywhere completely soaked, dehydrated, and fetid. The Kindergartners would simply adore me, I'd be like one of the Garbage Pail Kids (ten points if you REMEMBER the Garbage Pail Kids). Price Range? Well, since I am going to be rather destitute until I get paid (this is not an uncommon theme in my life), I tell David as cheap as possible while still maintaining a degree of living slightly above homelessness. We settle on something in the range of 5000 NT to 8000 NT, which comes out to between $150 US and $240 US. He enters my criteria into the website which is entirely in Mandarin - once again, where would I be without David? - and we wait for the results as the girls talk in Chinese and giggle in the background. I assume by their mannerism that they are talking about boys. Then I remember we are no longer thirteen years old.

The search yields a surprisingly high number of apartments, almost all of them studios and all similar in size and description to prison cells (window bars included). David and I begin the arduous task of weeding out those that are simply out of the question, either because they are too far away from the school, too small (room size in Taiwan is measured in "ping", where one ping is a little bigger than a king-sized mattress), or because they don't come with an air-conditioner. By David's reaction to those apartments that don't list an air-conditioner in the amenities, this is a death sentence in Taiwan. One MUST have an air-conditioner. When we come across one that fits our narrow criteria, we call over Yayako to call and set up an appointment, and she smiles and giggles as David reads the number for her to call in Mandarin. She speaks quickly to the landlords/real estate agents, writing down things on the back of a third grade workbook page. We go through this process several times, and within the hour have three appointments to go determine if any of the selections live up to my high standards of Western living. The first appointment comes sooner than expected, so we hurry outside, sending Yayako a quick "thank you" on our way out the door, and board our scooters. By now the terror of riding on the scooter has worn in, and my shrieking inner voice of self-preservation has grown hoarse and can only whisper a faint plea for survival's sake, which is quickly drowned out by the whine of the tiny scooter engine. I am still wide-eyed and white-knuckeled all the way to the first apartment, but I'm allowing myself to smile a little this time, painfully twisting my contorted facial expression of fear into a sort of horrified grin. Any Taiwanese person who happened to see me me en route now believes that all Westerners are hideous creatures and should be avoided. My role as a diplomat is already off to a great start.

The first apartment is located in the shadow of the Ambassador Hotel, which at five stars is the nicest hotel in Hsinchu and also the tallest building in the city. We park our scooters in the small alley that seems cool despite the mid-day heat, and patiently wait for our contact to arrive. A minute later two Taiwanese men ride up on one scooter, both dressed in white short sleeve button-down shirts, black slacks, and shined black shoes. They seem to be in a hurry, and Connie makes unknown inquiries in Chinese as we are rushed down the alley to a small concrete stairway leading up to a large gated door. Presently, a man in a blue polo shirt comes to the door, smiling and nodding enthusiastically. He wipes the sweat from his balding forehead and beckons us to follow. We walk down a short hallway and up a small set of stairs, exposed wiring slithering through holes in the drywall. The building smells like paint and hot air. Down another short hallway and we arrive at a small door which opens into a small room. The walls glow white under the single florescent bulb, and the hardwood floors creak quietly under my Chucks. The room was advertised as five ping, and looks to be about an 12 ft x 12 ft square. A full sized bed occupies much of the area, and also a desk and a flat-panel television, which I must admit, is a selling point. In the corner sits a bright red armchair that seems completely out of place, and begs for my eyes' attention. The bathroom is little more than a coffin with the shower, toilet and sink all within 3 feet of each other. This is the first time I have been exposed to this kind of bathroom arrangement, wherein there exists no partition to separate the shower from the rest of the bathroom. Water, therefore, completely floods the bathroom floor after every bathing and exits through a drain located in the center of the room. Connie tells me this is very popular in Taiwan, and even some nicer homes will have their bathrooms arranged this way. Bath mats are out of the question. So much for making my bathroom cute and color-coordinating all my accessories. (I will later find out that they don't even HAVE a Bed, Bath and Beyond here! This truly IS the third world!).

Because there is not much to see the apartment viewing is over in a matter of minutes. We are taken up five more flights of stairs to the top floor where the single washer (for the entire building) is kept. Apparently this floor is where the steam and sweltering heat are kept as well. In a matter of seconds we are literally dripping, and I allow my face to convey my obvious discomfort. The landlord in the blue polo takes note and herds us back downstairs and out the door into the alley. Even though it is still in the 90's the slight breeze coming from the nearby ocean flirts with my skin and makes everything feel cool. We thank the landlord, glancing at our cell phones and realize that we are late for our next appointment which is, of course, across town. Back on the scooters, throwing caution to the wind as we dart amongst cars, running red lights, speeding along while the angels try and keep up.

The next apartment starts out promising; It has an amazing location, about a five minute walk from my school and on the same street as the Teppanaki place David, Connie and I ate at the day before. As we try and find a place to park our scooters, David tells me that the street, Jiangong, is where one of the Hsinchu night markets is located. Night markets are popular in Taiwan, and usually have a variety of street vendors, open-air fruits stands, busy restaurants, and surprisingly loud Taiwanese men selling knock-off purses and watches. Also, there is a temple close by, which means that during celebrations the streets will be filled with parades and fireworks. I am very excited by this until Connie says "good luck getting to sleep", which makes me think of something someone once told me: "Don't live where you party, because eventually you'll want to STOP partying and if you can't escape it by going home, then you're screwed", or something along those lines but far more eloquent. I begin reconsidering my former enthusiasm. It WILL be loud all the time. Also, if I DO choose to fill out my organ donor card and purchase a scooter, then it will be a bitch finding parking all the time. By the time we find the front door, I've almost made up my mind to turn it down. However, the sign on the glass says "Hotel" in english. Huh!? "Most hotels are okay", I think to myself, "maybe this won't be so bad". Wrong again.

We are greeted in the hotel lobby by another young Taiwanese man wearing an identical outfit to the two real estate agents from the last apartment and an older gentleman who is gruff, and wearing a button down shirt which is allowing his chest hair to blossom out from his collar. He reminds me of a Russian mob boss or something, if that makes any sense. As we board the mirrored elevator the old Taiwanese Russian is talking A LOT, and Connie is shaking her head at me with an expression that says "Oh my GOD" on her face. I suppress a grin and try to look interested in what he has to say. Finally on our floor, we stop to admire the water cooler. The old man seems to be very impressed by the water cooler. Then it's down the hall to the last door on the right. I can't help but notice that past my door at the end of the hall, there should be a wall. But there is not. Instead, I can see clearly through to the street and pieces of mellowing sky, my view only obstructed by a massive pile of old furniture and other junk which, I assume, is supposed to take the place of the wall. I wonder if bats are a problem here? The deadbolt clicks and we enter the room; my heart drops. It looks like scene from a movie where someone is doing far too much heroine to notice the general state of hellishness around him. The walls are a dingy yellow, the color of the walls in a two-pack-a-day smoker's house after 30 years of constant tar-ish assault. The smell is a mixture of urine, mold, and the indescribable but easily recognizable scent of general decay. On the floor, the tiling is broken and covered in dirt. The bed has rocket ship sheets on it. Fix-er Up-er. The one positive thing about the room is that the window has an excellent view of the street, where I can see the activity already picking up as people begin to get off work. Hardly enough to save this place. I give Connie and David the "no way" look and they return with a "thank God, because if you liked this place we would seriously reconsider hanging out with you" look, and Connie begins to make excuses to the Taiwanese Russian about how we must get to our other appointments. He is an avid storyteller, and keeps talking even as we enter the elevator and the mirrored door closes on his raspy voice. "What was he saying?" I ask Connie. "Something about fire or murder or something" she replies a little too calmly. Two down, one to go.

The third and final stop for the day is situated in between the first two prospects and is, conveniently, about two blocks from David and Connie's place. The traffic is picking up as we leave the Night Market area, but my confidence on the scooter is growing with each second that I am not pulverized by a bus. We make it to our appointment without incident, and meet a plain but attractive girl named Maggie who is to show us around. I'm not sure why, but I always feel more comfortable around women than I do around men in the same position, so I warmly embrace the change in gender of our real estate person. Also, Maggie speaks a little English, and she smiles more than I expect her to.

This apartment is located right next to a maternity store, and the entryway is narrow but made out of something substantial-looking, like granite or marble. We walk through the metal entry door which could keep out large bears or dinosaurs and nod at the glass-eyed Chinese woman manning the front desk. Security is good, but as I've come to find out, there is very little crime in Taiwan, and often people leave their houses unlocked for weeks during holiday and their keys in their scooters when they go shopping. The Taiwanese are a very trusting people. Up to the seventh floor the elevator hauls its passengers, squeaking out complaints along the way. I learn that seven in Chinese is "qi" pronounced "chee" in English. The seventh floor is small, only a landing really, with four doors placed around the walls. At #2 Maggie opens the large metal security door and then the blood-red door leading into the apartment.

As I enter, I already start to feel a warm sense of comfort that comes with familiarity, although to be sure I've never lived in a place like this. It is by far the largest of the three apartments, and feels roomy and open compared to the others. The "living room" has white tiles which extend out from the door and back to the "sleeping area" which is raised and covered in hard-wood flooring. There is a small kitchen-ish area with a mini-fridge, a sink and lots of cabinets to keep all of the kitchen-ware that I do not possess. On one wall, a red entertainment area is built with a desk closer to the bed, and across the room a black love seat hunches against the opposite wall. On the far wall a glass sliding door leads to a small enclosed patio, not big enough to entertain, but large enough to have a wash machine. The bathroom is similar to the other apartments, with no definite shower area, but is quite a bit larger than the other places, and with a large mirror. I glance at my face. It looks excited. I go and try out the couch, but discover that It is not actually a couch, but rather a giant block of wood dressed up to look like a couch. I go and try the naked bed, but realize quickly that it is just a box spring, and the mattress is M.I.A. The people who lived here previously must have had very cushiony clothing. In spite of the less-than-comfortable surfaces for sitting and sleeping, this place is my favorite. We talk to Maggie for a while about the cost ($7000 NT a month plus utilities - that's about $215 US) and other specifics. I tell her that I really like it and ask if she can talk the land-lady down because I'm so poor. She says, in broken English, that she will see what she can do. I offer a very appreciative "xiexie" and we make our way back out into the late-afternoon sun. I am all smiles as we bid Maggie farewell, saying we will call her after we look at one more place tomorrow. I ask David and Connie what they think, and they both say it is nice for the price, and not too far from school. I am glad they approve, and a little relieved that I have found somewhere I like so quickly. Hopefully, unless the place we have scheduled to look at tomorrow is amazing, we can finalize everything first thing in the morning and I will be on my own, out of David and Connie's way. With an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, I am in the mood to celebrate. "What now, gang?" I nearly shout. "How bout the Flower Market?" Connie says, and with that we are off to explore the famous Hsinchu Flower Market. This day cannot get any better.

Pig's Blood For Everyone!

2009-08-18T08:51:00.000-07:00

Now at the school, David and I rendezvous with Connie who is "starving" and, although apartment hunting is my #1 priority for the day, I decide eating is not the worst idea in the world. If only I knew what concoction lay in wait. "Where should we go?" they ask me, as if I could be like "Oh, you know that mexican joint down on 9th?...". I just stare blankly at them, which apparently is Chinese for "take the new kid to the weirdest food restaurant ever". Back on Princess Peach (which is what I've named Connie's scooter), I once again follow eight inches behind David as we weave through the moving labyrinth of autos and scooters and somehow, once again, cheat death. I think I'm actually getting the hang of scootering a little as I pull into a small space between two motorcycles that appear to have been used in Nazi Germany. This is not to say that I could've told you where we went or found my way back to the school if my life depended on it. David could have taken us in a giant circle and the restaurant could've been directly across the street from the school, I would not have known. The combination of repetitious Mandarin signs and my failure to look up or around myself for longer than two seconds has left me completely disoriented. That's okay, I'd rather be disoriented than dead any day.

The restaurant we have parked in front of is a chain called Hot Pot. Chain restaurants in Taiwan are not the same as in the U.S.; they often have similar decor on the walls and the furniture may be similar from location to location, but each individual restaurant still has a "mom and pop" feel to them, often because they are, in fact, family businesses. As we walk into the air-conditioning a small boy, probably no older than seven, is bussing tables. "No child labor laws in Taiwan?" I joke, but Connie doesn't think its funny that I'm degrading the country of her parents' birth. "Obviously there ARE child labor laws here" her sharpened glance says in biting tones, "this is his FAMILY'S restaurant". If only things worked like this in the States. Can you imagine Little Johnny Junior running around the deep fryers as his father prepares my Kentucky Fried Chicken? Burn wards would be all the rage.

All of the tables in Hot Pot look like they were imported from the nearest Kindergarten center, each standing about two feet tall and surrounded by even smaller benches that one is expected to perch upon. David finds a table in the back next to the soda machines and ice cream freezer, which I am told are both free, all you can eat/drink. (In Taiwanese dining, the drinks are almost always free with the purchase of a meal and are usually unlimited refills). Good job, David. We scan the order card, which shows about 15 options in Mandarin, so I wait to be informed of what each option is. As before, the choices are "what meat" and "how spicy", and after hearing my options I choose "seafood" and "medium spicy". I still have no idea what I am ordering, but I guess it has something to do with a pot, and I'm betting that this pot is also hot. David turns in our order card and almost immediately a dark-skinned Asian man sets three unlit burners on our table. Within a couple of minutes, the man returns carrying a large metal bowl, which he sets upon one of the burner after he lights it with a cigarette lighter. As he brings the other two bowls out one at a time, I peer hesitantly into the cookware which has been placed before me. It, in no way, resembles seafood, save for the partially submersed whole shrimp that is eyeing me with a beady black eye from his soupy grave. It looks like the dark-skinned Asian man just closed his eyes, grabbed whatever shit he had near him, and combined it into some sort of stew (adding the whole shrimp, of course, to make it "seafood-y"). I begin digging around in my Hot Pot, exploring the contents of which NONE look very familiar (except shrimpy), holding up various objects with my chopsticks for David and Connie to explain. Although I'm sure to leave something out, here is a list of everything included in my Hot Pot:

Broth - Traditional Chinese vegetable and/or meat broth mixed with spices to achieve the appropriate degree of hotness. Mine is actually very good.

Clear slimy noodles - I'm not sure what these are actually called, but they look like jellyfish tentacles and taste about how I would think jellyfish tentacles would taste.

Cabbage - Boiled, a staple in almost every Taiwanese dish.

Crunchy greens - I don't know what kind of vegetables these were, but they were crunchy.

Mushrooms

Carrot Shavings

Egg - Poached

Tofu - Also a staple in most Taiwanese cuisine. In this particular dish the tofu is cut into cubes too large to fit into my mouth, and are saturated with broth so that when I bite into the pieces, the near-boiling liquid gushes onto my tongue and the roof of my mouth, thus killing every taste bud for the next two weeks. I have to admit (through tears of pain), it's still pretty good, although has a rather bland taste.

Pig's Blood - At first I thought this was some sort of disgusting nickname for something far more edible (like deviled eggs...we all KNOW that they are not actually EVIL), but soon find out that this ingredient in my Hot Pot is EXACTLY what its claims to be. As I grasp the gelatinous cube of dark red between my chopsticks, Connie tells me that many traditional Chinese dishes use pig's blood because it does not spoil and is an excellent source of protein. David looks disgusted and says it tastes "iron-y". I don't know why the prospect of eating straight blood is so appalling; Westerners eat steak all the time in which the bloody meat is visible. I guess it's because in the States we call these "juices", and if we were to instead call it "cow's blood", I suppose fewer people would be clamoring for rare T-bones at Texas Roadhouse. I try and act tough, casually shrugging my shoulder and tossing the jello-esque hunk of congealed blood into my mouth, my teeth gnashing out its juices. It is awful. The metallic taste David is referring to lingers on my tongue as I quickly drink my pear-flavored tea to try and drown it out. I force a smile and suppress my gag reflex. "Not bad", I say, obviously lying. In truth, pig's blood is not the worst thing I have ever eaten, but the combination of texture, taste, and the knowledge that I am literally eating blood makes downing it nearly impossible. At least I can say I tried something that we don't have back home...

Rice Blood - This is pig's blood mixed with sticky white rice which, after close examination, looks like a chocolate Rice Crispy treat. The deviation from the gelatin-y texture alone makes this variation of the previously mentioned hemoglobinous atrocity almost bearable. However, as I go to swallow the tinny taste returns to my gun-shy taste buds and they recoil once more, screaming "WHY?! WHY!?!?!". I guess I'm not cut out for Vampirism after all. Time to find a new hobby...

Mussels - I don't discover these until the very end of the meal, somehow they have eluded my probing chopsticks until just before I push the remainder of my Hot Pot aside. I am so excited for something with a familiar taste that I drop one of the two onto the floor. Damnit. The second one reminded me as to why I don't really like mussels all that much.

One Shrimp - This is a whole shrimp which, due to our proximity to the ocean (about 5 miles, give or take) was probably caught sometime in the last 48 hours. Also, he seems to have been growing out his antennae for "Locks of Love" because I cannot pick up anything in my bowl without inadvertently snaring one of his red feelers in my chopsticks and discovering, as I'm bringing my food to my mouth, my small crustacean friend dangling on for dear life. Finally, tired of thwarting his escape attempts, I shell the poor fella and see that, by the looks of his very full digestive "vein", he was well fed in his previous environment. Gross. After cleaning up his mess, the effort is not quite worth the reward, though I admit, he is very fresh.

Squid Tentacles - This was the winner of the "guess what the hell THIS is" contest which is held at our table when I produce the thin, flat, brownish piece of meat from my Hot Pot. I immediately guessed some sort of cat intestines. David offered that he believed it to be part of a chicken's foot. Connie (the logical one of the group), asserted that neither cats nor chickens live in the sea and, because I had ordered the seafood Hot Pot, it was probably some multi-armed chewy creature. Whatever it was, it had a distinctly fishy flavor and felt a little like gnawing on a pencil eraser.

My Hot Pot looked similar to this, but with about 10 times as much stuff in it

Through the course of the meal, Connie informs me on various other facts about Hot Pot. According to her, it is traditionally a Chinese meal eaten during the winter months and is especially popular during celebrations such as the Chinese New Year. During these celebrations, a massive Pot would be placed in the center of the table and all family members would throw in whatever random meat/vegetable/other they could find, boil the ingredients, and choke down whatever creation that arose as a result of their haphazard cooking practices. I can see how this would be popular for large gatherings, as even though I have only eaten about two-thirds of my Hot Pot, I am almost too full to sample the ice creams (which are actually more comparable to gelato). I do anyway, but am a little taken aback by the flavor options: Green Tea, Taro (made from a root that looks like a potato with a distinctive lavender coloring) and Mango (the obvious frontrunner). I try all three, and all three taste a little like flavored children's vitamins; not awful, but not something you would want to eat in large quantities. One more shot of pear Tea and we're off to find a place for me to live, the bitter taste of blood still dancing across my tortured taste buds.

Life, Death, and Scooter Punx

2009-08-16T16:42:00.000-07:00

Day number two begins late, as the Saturday calls for sleeping in all around. Connie has still left relatively early to help prepare the school for the new year, but David and I don't roll out of bed until almost 11:00. Last night I figured out how to work the air-conditioning unit in my guest room, and this new skill has exponentially increased the comfort of my sleep as my well my ability to hibernate through the early sunrise (which occurs at about 5:00 a.m. - no daylight savings time) and the subsequent heating of the air in my tiny guest room to sauna-like temperatures. I lay around for a few minutes to shake off my overdose of sleep, then slowly get dressed and ready myself for the day. Why the deliberate stalling? Well, today Connie has graciously agreed to ride her bicycle to work, thus leaving her girlie 50cc scooter all to me. Jesus. I feel like Sean Penn in "Dead Man Walking" as I move in slow-motion to delay the inevitable loss of life that is sure to follow once I climb on the back of Connie's one passenger pink death machine. Helmet? YEAH! Like that's going to help when my shattered body is wedged between a double-decker bus and I light post! Downstairs we go, out into the intolerable heat (its even hotter today than yesterday), and to the row of scooters where my fate calmly resides. "Well, this is it", I say to the scooter, "just please kill me quickly. I don't want to burden my family with quadriplegia or something equally as awful". David is already on his scooter with the engine running. Funny, I always thought I'd die in a tornado or a tragic skiing accident. I guess it just goes to show you, you never really know....

Out of the gate and into the flow of traffic, the scooter accelerates faster than I expect as I push the throttle and mentally pry my eyelids open. The last time I rode a scooter was during spring break 2006, which was not nearly as scary because A) I was slightly inebriated and thus fearless and B) I was not contending with 7000 other scooters all with a complete disregard for traffic laws, not to mention cars being driven almost exclusively by Asian women (forgive my stereotyping) and pedestrians that all seem to be on some suicide mission to fling their bodies directly in the path of every aforementioned motorized vehicle that comes their way. On top of all this, many of the roads have no logical order to them and appear to weave in and out of each other randomly switching directional signs, speed limits (all in kilometers), and often turning into freeways, sidewalks, school playgrounds, etc. The scene, therefore, feels like an M.C. Escher drawing meets Excite Bike; I don't even think the TAIWANESE know what they're doing or where they are going half the time, but they are going there at about 45 m.p.h. with no airbags and while making a distinctively whiny "RRRRRREHHHHH!!!" sound.

Suffice to say, I am alive to tell the tale, so one can assume that on this day I did not actually die. However, I will try and describe some of the things that are commonplace while driving a scooter around Hsinchu, thus giving the reader a taste of the experience, as well as giving my family time to arrange burial services and tell me they love me one more time:

1. Lanes, in general, seem to viewed as completely arbitrary by scooterists. (I can't believe this is actually a word, but my computer did not correct it - amazing). This is not true for cars, which generally try and stay within one lane unless they are turning, stopping, driving, or parking. Thus, because the scooters are not hindered by this lane annoyance, they actually weave in and out of cars to get into better positions. At stoplights, scooters will fly up BETWEEN the stopped cars, sometimes even sliding between bumpers, to get to the front of the line. Going across the double yellow line into oncoming traffic is encouraged while doing this. I'm not kidding. The reason for this is because at every stoplight, after the solid white line that cars are required to stop behind, is the "Scooter Box" - an area designed specifically for scooters to stop in and wait for the light to change. Scooters LOVE to be in the front, and Taiwanese traffic laws seem happy to appease them.

2. Red lights are optional. There is no such thing as a "No Right On Red" or even a "No LEFT On Red". If the coast is clear, you can bet some scooterized (not a word, unfortunately) maniac is going to be busting ass across the intersection, obviously with no respect for the fragility of life. Also, the stoplights in Hsinchu have a giant digital countdown, conveniently letting those waiting at the traffic light know how much longer they will have to wait until they can launch their respective vehicles back into harm's way. Loving to get a jump start, scooter drivers usually take off when the giant digital countdown is at about "6", meaning that the traffic lights for the cross street is still green for another SIX SECONDS! So, for these six seconds, each intersection looks like a scene from a Star Wars aerial space battle, with scooters and cars swerving in every direction to avoid colliding. Apparently all Asians are born with Jedi reflexes.

3. The faster the better. Scooter drivers love to go as fast as possible, all the time, no matter what the circumstances. Red light? Speed up to beat the cross traffic. Crosswalk full of pedestrian? Viewed by scooterists as "power boost zones". Most scooters can go at least 50 m.p.h., while some go up to 80 or 90 m.p.h. In Taiwan, you are not a man unless you can make your over-sized Rascal blast down the crowded street doing 60 m.p.h. while missing various stationary objects by fractions of an inch. How the streets do not run red with rivers of blood is beyond my comprehension.

So yes, as I follow David I participate in ALL of these activities, using tunnel vision to keep my eyes affixed, horrified, to David's scooter, keeping unwaveringly on his six. My jaw aches from having my teeth clenched, my knuckles glowing white against the black rubber handles, my fingers blistering from maintaining a Cliffhanger grip on the throttle and the brakes. I learn quickly, as I suppose one must when thrust into a life-and-death situation (this is only truly humorous in retrospect). I learn that hesitation is dangerous, that accelerating through small gaps is essential to keep from getting run over. I learn that driving in a straight line is as important as not breathing underwater, because often, without warning, another scooter will fly up beside you, literally INCHES from your scooter. I learn that EVERYONE has the right of way, so the skilled scooter driver must exude confidence that THEIR right of way is actually the right right of way. I learn that screaming like a girl is not an effective way of dealing with stress.

We finally reach our destination, which seems as if it is 20 miles from the apartment. In actuality, it is about two miles, and the trip only takes about five minutes. I now know that time slows down the closer one is to their own death. As we park our scooters outside of the Miro School, I am beyond relieved and actually do the "pat myself down to make sure all my parts are intact" thing like in the cartoons. But what's this other emotion that is creeping up into my consciousness? Could it be...disappointment? Am I actually UPSET that the ride is over? I have never figured myself for an adrenaline junkie, but something about the harrowing experience was extremely enjoyable. I just may want to do this again someday. As we stow our helmets, David tells me about the "Scooter Punx", which are a bunch of guys who trick out their scooters and ride around looking for fights, like an Asian, metrosexual version of Hell's Angels. I start to wonder if someday, when I become less terrified and get a little more proficient on my motorized manslaughter machine, I could join the gang. I'll break out my skinny jeans, start carrying a blade....

I want to save the day, get the girl and ride of into the Hsinchu sunset to the sound of 50cc of pure pink scooterized power: "RRRRREEHHHHHH!!!" I am a hopeless romantic.