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...

Where Worlds Collide

(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...

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

...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

"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.