McAwesome And The Adventures Of The Taiwandering Hunger Artist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...