“Time doth flit; oh shit.”
~Dorothy Parker
Back in high school I had a teacher who was downright
obsessed with living an attentive life.
He railed against us sleep-walking teenagers, as we wasted our poor,
unexamined lives in a haze of mediocrity.
At the time I didn’t really understand his plight because to a 16 year
old EVERYTHING is vital, immediate, and most likely painful. Unexamined life? All I did was to examine my life, and usually
found it wanting. But I certainly never
found it to be fleeting. My days were
raw, my emotions exposed, and it seemed that I had set up shop in adolescence
indefinitely.
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| DV, savoring the now. |
These days I live the cliché – the passage of time somehow
does speed up as one ages. Now I comprehend
the desire to shake someone out of her dreamlike state. Of course, what I really want is to be the
shak-ee, not the shaker. Even with all
the turmoil and change of the past year I still feel like I’m letting the days
go by. I still don’t know how I got
here. And yet, here I am, in Taipei
again, and already mostly settled in.
I’m trying to savor more, to live in the chaos and contradiction, but I
still feel like I’m floating. A dumpling
here, a steamed bun there. I’m not sure
how much I’m really taking in. I felt
this way after my time here last summer, during my month of travel, and also
during my time back in New York. I want
things to stop for one moment, to slow down just enough for me to see the view
from my window. That doesn’t seem likely
to happen anytime soon. Also, this is
beginning to sound like the hackneyed whining of the newly 35. So please accept
these brief images from the past two months.
Most days I wake to the smell of hot oil and the sound of
babies crying. I snuggle deep into my
mosquito net shrouded cocoon and contemplate the day. Work starts at 12:30pm, and I’m either a 30
minute walk, 20 minute subway ride, or 10 minute cab ride away. (Yes, this is pure luxury after 12 years of
painful MTA commutes. I am free, I tell
you! Free!) Breakfast might be a scallion pancake topped
with egg, soy sauce, and la, or
perhaps a CheeseBacon Waffle™. Of course
there will be bing café (yes, I know
three Chinese words now. And yes, they
still all apply to food. And yes, one of
those words is “CheeseBacon”). I can
bring these items onto the train, but I cannot consume them on it. If I try to do so a mysterious Asian will
appear and kindly request that I spit out and throw away the offending food
stuff. No caning, mind you, just a
gentle request to follow the rules. She
then ninjas back into the general throng.
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| So many questions, finally answered. |
My place of work could be mistaken for your average American
office – until you reach the bathroom. I
have been “gently” mocked in the past for my delicate sensibilities regarding
bodily waste. Well, I’ve kind of had to
get over that here. First of all, squat
toilets. Yeah. They’re exactly what they sound like. And they are well-loved here. Many public buildings will have a 50-50
split, squat and non-squat. The
non-squat toilets will have instructions detailing proper usage – i.e., do not
climb on top of the toilet. And
certainly do NOT put paper into the commode.
Our delicate island’s plumbing can’t handle it. So… um… yeah.
The used toilet paper just stays there.
Used. In the trash bin. In the bathroom. Oh the humanity.
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| Never mess with Captian the Diner. Literally |
And that’s not the extent of Taiwan’s strange trash
culture. Taipei is an extremely crowded
place, and if we were all to just pour our trash out on the curb it would make
NYC look like an oasis of sanitary splendor.
So instead, we have to carry our garbage directly to the garbage
man. Luckily, this process provides
endless entertainment for the inept ex-pat.
At 10pm the garbage truck will announce its presence by playing a
horrifying midi-version of Für Elise. Upon hearing the first poignant electronic
strains everyone in the neighborhood emerges from their lairs with bags of
sorted garbage. And just like that, the
trash dash begins. Some trash goes to
your average, Western style truck, but the really lucky garbage goes to elderly
Asians wearing odd hats. Take, for
example, the cardboard man. This ancient
little fellow stands at the corner with his motorbike cart piled high with
cardboard stuck in every which way and eagerly takes all our recyclable
offerings. Where does he go? What does he do with all of it? He’s like the patron saint of paper waste,
smiling his toothless grin, happily relieving us of our Taiwan beer cases and
noodle box packaging, and then softly melting into the humid night.
After the 10pm garbage block party it’s time for an evening
run in my neighborhood park. In NYC (or
at least in Washington Heights) this would be the prime time to meet up with
drug dealers and prostitutes, but in Taipei I mingle with senior citizens and
families. Okay, maybe the senior
citizens are really just looking for the next fix, but at least they hide it
well. The city is both nocturnal and
safe. It’s a wonderful feeling. I’ve grown up with the unfortunately common
assumption that all women are targets.
The world is not kind. The
boogeyman is waiting to get you. Not so
here. Also, I’ve probably got 50 lbs
and two feet on the local boogeyman, and could probably drop kick him down the
road if need be. So I run around the perimeter of the park,
carefree, listening to trip hop and fado, because that’s how tortured and brooding
cabaret artists roll, I guess.
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No worries, I could totally kick his ass.
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