When life gives you cheap beer, chug it and go to Roxy 99

Alas and alack, the universe did not heed my pleas, and I have now relocated to bunk bed number 5.  Okay, it's not as bad as all that.  Yes, I am now sleeping on a bunk bed.  And yes, we are now a gang of four occupying this two bedroom Taiwanese flat, where before we were only two.  But this provides a rustic, youthful flair to my great Taiwanese adventure.  Rustic in a youth-hostel/college-dormitory kind of way.  I've decided adorn my side of the room with patchouli scented wall hangings and twinkle lights.  I've also started listening to Tori Amos again.  Can evenings of Jello shots be far behind?


Actually my living situation is not the only throwback to my 20's that I've been experiencing.  TPR folk young and old have been hitting the clubs these past two weeks.  And I do not mean fancy clubs (okay, side note: I got my first club rejection here in Taipei.  Apparently frumpy dresses and crocs are not what the bouncers are looking for.  If my Chinese translation is correct, I believe we were told, "No heels, no service".  And to that I say, the bouncers at Luxy can rot in hell.)  We have instead been frequenting the illustrious Roxy 99.  To all you New Yorkers out there, Roxy 99 is like the Pyramid Club, except with more sketchy expats and fewer people dressed head to toe in wet leather.  For those of you not familiar with the Pyramid Club, let me paint the scene:  The subterranean venue has the requisite level of dinge and is of course engulfed in a permanent layer of smoke.  Drinks are cheap, but why buy there when you can pre-game at the Seven-11 around the corner?  (I'm really not kidding.  Please see below.)

The music is an odd mix of current hits, euro-trash, and old suburban white girl music. Yes, I did rock out to "Smells Like Teen Spirit", and I'm not ashamed to admit it.  But mainly it's just an excellent place to dance and have fun.  That is, if you can ignore the vomitous explosion that occurs around 2:30am when all the petite Asian girls reach peak drunkeness.  Also, it's a good idea to plan on at least three showers the following day.  For example, I last went to Roxy 99 on Saturday.  When the breeze catches my hair I can smell its foul odor still. 

My first trip to Roxy 99 was pre-pre-gamed by an "open mic night" at the Red Room.   I put that in quotes because it's not a traditional open mic, in that its creators don't delight in snobbery and exclusion like the creators of some open mics in certain major metropolitan areas that I can think of.  I'm not saying that everything I saw was to my taste.  But the atmosphere was incredible and eclectic.  Classical Chinese instrumental music got up next to modern dance and folk.  Also, ukuleles!  And whistlers!  And public displays of bartending!  And a particularly great British poet!  There were good people, plentiful red wine, and a receptive audience for Kurt Weill (all that was missing was Maria!) 



How about some memorable meals?  First, let us examine the noble soup dumpling.  Now, I've been to Joe's Shanghai in Flushing.  And I enjoy Joe's Shanghai.  But Din Tai Fung grabs Joe's Shanghai by the throat and drop kicks it all the way to Jersey.  And it does so with this guy:

There is just no comparison.  The wrappers are delicate and fine, the meat strikes the ultimate balance of savory and sweet.  We mix our own sauce.  There is plenty of la.  And if the dumplings aren't enough there's always smoky fried rice or drunken chicken - cold chicken in rice wine!  Of course!  It's suddenly all so clear!  Oh how we feasted.

The last meal to be discussed in this post falls under the category of "places I've gone with other people in Taipei which I'll never be able to find again on my own, at which I ate things I'll never know how to properly order."  It's a pretty big category.  I believe the intention of the night was grilled meat on a stick, but we ended up with this:

If only my fuzzy pictures could do this meal justice.  It was sort of like Chinese food candy land.  To the left we have the land of three-cup chicken: one cup "awesome", one cup "oh dear sweet lord this is good", and one cup, "my taste buds will never be the same again."  Also some onions, garlic, chili, and basil.  Above three-cup chicken land we meet Lady Kung Pao and her Mao-Po tofu brigade.  If I were a chef-judge on Chopped I would look tenderly into my bowl and declare the Kung Pao chicken "unctuous" and well-suited to the bite of the spicy tofu.  Follow the tofu down savory lane and over to the right and we reach what I like to call, "the random goose dish".  This dish ended up on our table because I saw a cooked goose sitting on the counter and demanded slices of it.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I kept repeating "give me goose" in a low-pitched growl while holding a sharpened chopstick up to the throat of our Chinese-speaking dining companion.  She did comply, and the goose was extraordinary.  It was cold and covered with a clear sauce reminiscent of drunken chicken.  Shall we call it, "completely hammered goose"?  Yes, I think we shall.  Below the goose we find the valley of fried delights, which consisted of fried oysters (yes!) ... and fried dragon balls (um, okay!  you're still delicious!  Tastes like chicken!) 

Work kicked into high gear last week, so I wasn't able to take in any major Taipei sights (other than Roxy 99, which deserves its own vomit-covered landmark plaque).  This week my goal is to make it to Elephant Mountain.  My understanding is that this is best hiked in the evening, as we all must make the choice between dying from sweat-induced dehydration or mosquito-transmitted Dengue fever at some point in our lives.  Also, I shall attend my second evening of Chinese school.  My first lesson involved lots of cursing while futilely trying to draw Chinese characters, and pizza.  I learned just enough to order a huge plate of fried dough for breakfast, but not enough to say, "please take me to the nearest hospital" while keeling over from immediate heart disease. 

That's all for now.  Next time I'll tell you all about Indian music videos - they're scarier than you think.  Until then, please enjoy this pictorial representation of my were-asian nature:

Rainy Taipei night with Venus

The eating continues on apace.  Every night there’s some new restaurant or savory delight to explore.  Most of our plans here tend to revolve around eating.  I have already impressed my cohorts with my immense appetite, and the strange vocalizations that occur when I eat something particularly satisfying.  (What can I say, I’m a hummer!  Love me as I am.)  The community here is fantastic.  Everyone at the TPR office makes me feel completely welcome, and the random people I meet have been warm and open as well.  Take, for example, the Muddy Basin Ramblers concert I attended last week at the Taipei Artist Village Cafe.  Aside from enjoying a great performance by a band that brings to mind both the Tiger Lillies and Squirell Nut Zippers, I also met a lovely woman from Brazil who gave me the lowdown on the best places for art and music in the city; members of the Taipei Swing Dancing Club which meets every Saturday for free; the guitar player for the gypsy jazz band I stumbled upon in Shida who delcared, "we must together play Edith Piaf music". 

In other words, I fear I am acclimating at a break neck pace.  Why do I "fear" this, you ask?  Because I can see already how easy it would be to stay, to devote myself to this adventure full-time, to enjoy a constant stream of tasty street snacks and $200 a month rent.  Of course, this is most likely a honeymoon period, the warm glow of infatuation, which will swiftly vanish at the first sign of reality.  But let's just say I can understand how people come here for one summer and stay for 12 years.

If there's one thing that gives me pause when I contemplate relocation it is most certainly the weather.  It is hot here.  And humid.  And sticky.  And moist.  In general there is an overabundance of moisture that is heated to a steamy level of gross wafting through the air.  And until recently there was no relief to be found in the sudden thunderstorm.  Instead it would just be a new kind of temporary wet, with quick return to tropical ass.  And then, finally, it truly rained.  Monday was a typical Taipei day - a morning of teaching, an afternoon of sweaty sightseeing, and a proper gorging for dinner.  One of the peculiarities of the city is that there seems to be a dearth of dive bars.  There are fancy bars a plenty, and more restaurants than any one island could possibly need, but I had not found a cheap, easy-going local.  Monday night this all changed.  After excellent Thai food with coworkers we walked off the food coma and crammed ourselves into a tiny, orange bar on one of those alleys-off-the-lane-off-the-road-off-the-highway-down-the-wormhole (yes, I will in fact never be able to find this place again on my own).  We were greeted by a beer-happy Taiwanese man who apparently frequents the place so regularly he sometimes pours the drinks.  The bar was a thick plank of wood.  Original artwork and newspaper clippings adorned the walls and ceiling.  The miniscule open kitchen somehow managed to turn out hotdogs and sausages that rival night market meat candy.  And the music?  Fado. 

While at the bar enjoying the discovery of chilled red wine, it began to rain.  None of us really took notice.  And then it poured.  It was like a medieval bloodletting.  It was as if all the the tension, illness, and pain of the city was suddenly scoured and washed away.  We quickly realized that there would be no cabs available, so we settled in for the late night.  Bottles of wine were opened.  Fried, spicy street snacks were shared.  And, as happens on all good drunken, foreign nights, a Taiwanese photograher declared my friend to be Venus and asked if he could capture her essence. 

We eventually made it home, and spent most of the following day holed up in the apartment. It rained so much, the city closed down. But we, of course, did not. There were noodles and dumplings and wine to be had, so we hunkered down in the magical Da an hostel apartment and made the most of the day. Mind you, we are living like college students, so I found myself drinking wine out of a bowl.  It doesn't matter.  This summer will be one long improvisation.  With any luck, wine bowls will only be the beginning. 

A few of my coworkers.  We're a responsible bunch.  When monsoon-like rains come down we go to high flooding areas, but at least we do inversions after that.  Because, you know, we care about our health.  Hence the red wine.  (Okay, full disclosure - they contemplated rainy adventures.  I took a nap.  I'm old!)

I do not understand why white wine is in such short supply here, but if the Taiwanese people will chill the red I'll sure as hell drink it.  Also, these people have mastered the art of deep-frying.  I'm serious, Scotland.  You're out of the running. Take your mars bars and go home. 

The Chaing Kai-shek Memorial Hall.  An imposing structure that houses many impressive artifacts from the man's life, as well as informative signs.  For example, I now know all about his personal style of dress, the ways in which artists immortalized him in ivory etchings, and that the communist revolution either never happened, or just wasn't really important enough to mention.  Also, there's a creepy, smiling wax figure of him in his "office".  Yeah, I'll totally be back.

I've got two amazing meals and some excellent musical experiences to discuss.  I've also got a hell of a work week ahead. But I'll try not to fall behind.  In the meantime, stay spicy!

Spicy is as spicy does

Let me start out by saying that this post is being written under adverse conditions – I am currently shaking from the caffeine content of my Taiwanese iced coffee.  Which I ordered in CHINESE!  Yes, that’s right gentle readers, I can almost say a sentence in Chinese.  Up until now my Chinese vocabulary has consisted of “hello”, “thank you”, and “spicy”.  Mind you, I never actually said these correctly.  Half the time when I tried to say “hello” I really said “your mother was a hamster”, and “thank you” usually came out as “go and boil your bottoms, you sons of silly persons” (there’s a strange correlation between Mandarin and Monty Python.  Must investigate further).  In fact, my only reliable word was “spicy”.  Luckily it works in a variety of circumstances:

“What’s your name?”

“Spicy”

“Where do you live?”

“Um….Spicy”

“May I sell you into white slavery?”

“oooo…..Spicy!”

Unfortunately I found out yesterday that I am in fact mangling that word as well.  Instead of “spicy” I’ve been reliably saying “pull”.  All because I can’t tell the difference between la and la.  So perhaps instead of ordering iced coffee I actually ordered a trough of liquid crack.  It would explain the twitchy-ness.

But I will soldier on!  The blog post will be written!  I just make no promises as to its coherence.  So sit back and prepare yourselves for disjointed sentences about apartments, food, and jug bands.  Let’s start with the apartment.  Remember when I was frantically trying to find an NYC subletter?  And I took comfort in the fact that it would so incredibly easy to find an apartment in Taipei for around $3 a month?  I was, how shall I put this, completely out of my fucking mind.  It is not easy to find an apartment in Taipei.  No one wants to rent to some random, gigantic, hairy foreigner for three months.  And they all want deposits that amount to more than the total summer’s rent.  Also, it’s kind of cut-throat.  I had a line on a great place in Da An, my neighborhood of choice, but when I arrived to meet the rest of the roommates and hopefully pay the deposit there was another woman there.  And the roommates thought she was me.  And she didn’t correct them.  Because finding an apartment is so crazy that people resort to subletter impersonation.  What’s a girl to do?  I was seriously thinking of staying at a Hostel for summer – but then the Universe stepped in and said, “Gigantic, pasty, white foreign girl, I bequeath to you an apartment in a great part of the city for $200 a month.  And you shall go forth and drag along your coworker Linnea.”

I realize I’ve been referencing the Universe quite a bit these past few months.  Please do not think this speaks to some kind of religious conversion.  As I explained in my mission statement, this is not Eat, Pray, Love (also, I truly wonder now if the events of that book unfolded as depicted.  For example, the love part.  I’ve spent my time here sweating aggressively.  I mean, I am foul.  I offend myself.  I put stinky tofu to shame.  Elizabeth Gilbert was in Indonesia.  Does this woman not sweat?  Or did she quickly master the Asian art of sweating attractively?  Because somehow she snags Javier Bardem.  It’s suspicious.  I’m just saying.)  So anyway, I have not found Jesus, but I have come to treasure the power of coincidence.  For example, the apartment hunt: Had my hostel not been full on my first Friday here I never would have gone to the back-up hostel.  And had I not gone to the back-up hostel I never would have met Vanessa the Magical Hostel Owner who just happened to have an apartment available, not just for me, but for my coworker Linnea as well, for $200 a month, utilities included, with no deposit.  And this apartment is in Da An.  Next to a night market.  And down the road from afforementioned hostel, so we can stop over whenever we need, well, anything.  (The only drawback is that later this summer two more people will be moving in and Linnea and I will have to share a room, so we effectively will be living in a hostel-esque situation.  Universe, I expect you to arrange for an “unfortunate change of plans” for these future roommates.  I’ll be patiently waiting.)

So here I am, blogging from the coffee shop on the first floor of my building.  Not only does this coffee shop serve a high octane brew, it also features two Chihuahuas and gentle, Chinese Muzak.  With housing out of the way I’ve been able to devote myself to exploring the city as much as possible before I start working like a test-prep fiend.  Of course when I say “exploring” I really mean “consuming vast quantities of food”.  Because I hear that Javier Bardem likes his women sweaty and rotund. 

Some photos of my recent adventures:

The Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall, an example of classic Chinese architecture...from the 1970's.  Here we are instructed to feel "an awe-inspiring righteousness flooding in our chests and emerge out of a sentiment to model ourselves on martyrs and past sages spirits to share themselves with the life of all creatures, carrying forward the cause and forging ahead into the future, so as to set an immortal foundation for the countryand establish a peacrful world for all ages."  Did you guys get all that?

My feeble attempt at artistry while at the Taipei Botanic Garden.  This lotus represents my sweaty, inner serenity. Fuck you, Elizabeth gilbert.

The TPR people are seriously classy.  They take us to beautiful places like Watami, where the sushi makes me want to wear fancy hats and gloves and carry parasoles. 

This is Taipei - you will dip your hot pot items in raw egg and like it, dammit!  (Actually it's incredibly good.  The egg coating makes hot pot even more cozy and deliciously comforting, if such a thing is possible.)

Praying at the holy shrine of tourism.  The humid air was fragrant with orchids and incense.  This city is a sensory overload. 

Taipei's answer to the cornish pasty - pepper bake cake.  These savory pockets of pork goodness are placed on the walls of a drum-like oven and scraped out at the appropriate time.  This was so good, I shared it with my shirt.

Late-night drunk food from our neighborhood night market!  Soooooooo tasty.  And extra la, which lead directly to drunken hiccups.  Luckily Linnea is a heavy sleeper, so this did not wake her.  And apparently I am becoming a heavy sleeper as well, becuase the 6.0 magnitude earthquake this morning only slightly roused me from my slumber.  Ah, Taiwan.  I can't wait to experience your myriad of natural disasters.

On tap for next time - my musical stalking saga. Yes, I am the stalker.  And I will follow these Gypsy Jazz Band Swing Dancers until they love me!  Because I'm a huge, hairy, foreign paparazzi!

(If you crave more Taipei blogging, may I suggest my co-workers' pages?  They are both fabulous writers, and will give you an opportunity to uncover all the dirty lies I've posted here.  Their pages are: http://nihaocorinne.blogspot.tw/ and http://girlloosed.wordpress.com/ .  Enjoy!)

Just call me Sleepy McJetlaggington

I grew up in a housefold that didn’t really emphasize cooking.  This may, in fact, be why I am so devoted to food preparation – it represents a break with my past and, for me, a sign of independence.  But back to my idyllic childhood.  There may not have been much cooking going on, but we still had to eat, so we did what any decent Long Island family does – we ordered Chinese food.  A lot of Chinese food.  The fridge would be filled with a multitude of old take-out boxes with dates written on the flaps because really, who can tell the difference between two day old dumplings and three day old dumplings?  I am now faced with three months of Chinese food, and somehow it just feels right.  It feels familiar.  As does Taipei.  It’s kind of like a supersized version of New York’s Chinatown.  Yes, this would all be a delightfully easy transition if I spoke even a tiny, small, fragmented bit of Chinese.  Alas, I do not.  And I fear that, while the cuisine clearly resonates with me on a deep level, the language and I were not meant to be.  I mean, I don’t think I have even slightest affinity for it.  Every word that I’ve learned so far has slipped out of my brain, through my hands, and into the ether.  I find myself craving the cool confidence of German, which I speak at a barely intermediate level.  This is going to be damn interesting.

Nonetheless, I have done fairly well my first week here.  After my billion hour flight from New York, during which I was squished into a hobbit-seat I arrived at Taipei International, managed to get a hotel room, managed to get to the hotel room, and managed to sleep (this would be the last decent night of sleep for the week).  Sadly, the next day I also managed to get lost for 45 minutes while being two blocks away from said hotel, but clearly that’s just part of the joy and wonder of travel.  In my defense, the labeling of Taipei streets puts both Queens and Jersey to shame.  Taipei streets are like a choose-your-own-adventure torture flick.  You start out on a main thoroughfare, for example “Die Stupid White Girl Die” Road (I am, of course, translating from the Chinese).  DSWGD Road will have 4 sections.  Branching off DSWGD Road Sections 1-4 will be DSWGD Streets 1-50.  Each of these braches off into DSWGD Lanes 1-10,000, and finally we reach the last branch, DSWGD Alleys 1 – a gajllion.  Oh, and none of these paths are labeled.  And while trying to navigate this maze angry Taiwanese people on scooters are gleefully trying to run you down.  So, um, yeah.  That’s been fun.

When not wandering the alleys of Taipei weeping and begging for directions, I’ve been eating my weight in street food.  (By the way, remember that whole plan I had to return to NYC as a petite Asian woman?  Yeah, not gonna happen.  I will return the same gigantic, pasty, white girl that I was when I left.  Except with frizzier hair.)  Let me say it now:  I love the food here in a deep, passionate, slightly inappropriate way.  Every time I turn around someone is frying a dumpling or grilling some meat.  And all of it costs a dollar.  And oh my god the smells!  Taipei is pungent.  Half the time I determine what I’m going to eat next by simply following my nose to the source of the latest mouth-watering aroma.  What has satisfied my cravings so far?  Stir fried seafood noodles with a broth of such complexity that I almost expected it to explain the reason for existence on this planet.  A Taiwanese skewered “hotdog” that my roommate succinctly described as meat candy.  Some sort of braised, leafy vegetable in a gingery soy sauce, it’s astringency an excellent complement to a rich garlic chicken.  And more dumplings than you can shake a stick at. 

It’s not all gustatory sunshine and roses, of course.  There’s snake simmered in blood, venom, and semen.  And there’s stinky tofu, which can only be described as one of the most offensively filthy smells on this planet.  Truly, every time I walk past  that scent I want to smack it and tell it to get it’s hand off my ass because I am NOT that kind of girl, no matter what it’s heard to the contrary.   But mostly it’s like my personal culinary amusement park.  And while I’m already missing the artistic vitality of NYC, stumbling upon a Gypsy Jazz Band performing Edith Piaf’s La foule in a local park last night gives me hope that the universe will lead me to even more delightfully incongruous music just as soon as it’s able to. 

You know what the universe hasn’t been able to work out yet?  Getting me to take decent pictures.  I’m still an atrocious photographer.  But I promised you all photos, so here they are, for your viewing enjoyment.  Just remember, you’ve been warned. 

The answer to life, the universe, and everything is not 42.  It's stir-fried seafood noodles.

I tried to order a small bowl of pork stew on rice, but was forced to order garlic chicken, seasonal vegetables, and simmered tofu.  And one does not argue with Formosa Chang.  Luckily the whole feast came to about four dollars.

Grilled beef-on-a-stick makes drunk TPR coworkers very happy.

The entrance to Andi's culinary Shangri-la, aka, a Taipei night market.

Please note, there are no cakes here.

And that's all for now, folks.  I've got more eating to do, and the night market awaits.  Stay tuned for the next post which will detail how to work the Underground Taipei Youth Hostel Network to secure affordable summer housing.  It's surprisingly effective.  We should get on this in New York.

I would say "Bye" in Chinese, but I don't know how to, and it would only cosmically summon a bunch of Taiwanese people on scooters to gather and stare at me skeptically.  So let's just skip that.

Auf wiedersehen!