Jungle Boogie

I had three categories I wanted to indulge in during my great Southeast Asian Adventure: architecture, nature, and food.  So far it looks like each country I visit will more than satisfy all three.  I should pause for a moment to mention that while my next two posts will be about Thailand, I am in fact already in Cambodia.  Too much is happening everyday, and I can't keep up; I've only been in Siem Reap for two days, and I already feel overwhelmed, full.  But I cannot move on from my discussion of Thailand without a description of the jungle.  The Jungle!!!!

 

 

Cory and I left our colonial paradise in Chiang Mai after four days and began our trek into the wilderness.  The destination?  Our Jungle Treehouse Resort in Khao Sok National Park.  We were promised the jungle, and we were not disappointed.  Tucked away at the end of the road, right against a cliff, Our Jungle Treehouse was a rare experience.  It's basically a collection of bungalows and treehouses on the river, with a clubhouse/restaurant/bar at the front of the property.  Yes, we had a bathroom and a cold trickle of water that served as a shower.  Yes, we came into contact with all manners of insect life.  Yes, there was a bat in Cory's mosquito netting the night we got there.  But more importantly, we had unbelievable food, met wonderful people, and saw parts of nature that I don't know we'll ever experience again.

 

 

You'll have to forgive me, but I really don't have too many pictures of the food.  This is not for lack of trying - the main issue is that my camera does not work well in darkness, and there's suprisingly little light in the jungle after the sun goes down.  But no matter.  You can walk with me down culinary memory lane.  First of all, we once again had excellent options for classic American breakfast.  I have accepted that despite my huge appetite for culinary experimentation, when it comes to breakfast, I want eggs.  And toast.  And most likely bacon.  But while American breakfast is certainly important, but it is by no means what I came to Thailand for.  I came here, primarily, for curry.  In Chiang Mai I had the incomparible opportunity to make Thai-Burmese curry: pork belly!  pickled garlic!  more chilis than you can shake a stick at!  Thai-Burmese curry is not coconut-milk based, but the addition of pickled garlic and peanuts add almost as much richness.  And really, have you ever known me to argue with pork belly?  But I digress.  I want to talk about Our Jungle Treehouse's addition to my curry repertoire: Panang Curry.  WHY HAVE I NOT HAD THIS BEFORE?!?!?!!?  It's criminal I tell you, criminal.  This is thicker than your average red curry, using more of the coconut cream, rather than the milk.  The curry paste has the main ingrediants such as chilis, galangal, etc.  But then, peanuts!  These delightful legumes are toasted until fragrant with coriander and cumin seeds.  Coconut cream, curry, and meat blend together to form a velvety, spicy concoction.  The dish is garnished with lemongrass leaves, their herbal acidity a lovely note to the decadent curry.  What can I say?  This is the kind of curry you want to bath in (and then lick off yourself).

 

 

Luckily, however, prudence prevailed and I did not bath in said curry.  That might have had unfortunate consequences during the jungle trek.  On day one of our totally awesome jungle adventure Cory and I got right down into it and hiked the jungle.  Our guide was a helpful, knowledgable, yet almost incomprehensible Thai man.  He felt very strongly about preparing us for jungle survival.  And bamboo.  The man loved bamboo.  Cory and I learned all about what kinds of bamboo you can eat, drink, use to build shelter, and use as kindling.  This last item was one of our guide's favorites.  Have I mentioned that it's rainy in the rainforest?  As we trekked through the mud our guide continuously pointed out the specific type of bamboo which, no matter how wet on the outside, remains dry on the inside.  And proved this to us.  Again, and again, and again.  Every now and then along the trail he would grab a piece of bamboo, break it in half and say, "See?  still dry".  He was kind of like the Thai answer to the Slap-Chop guy, except in the jungle, and without a police record. 

 

 

 

Our guide also schooled us on the various forms of wildlife we could potentially encounter during our hike.  He gave us an excellent primer on what to do when bitten by a cobra (wait seven seconds and then die painfully).  He pointed out elephant footprints.  He alerted us to a squirrel-chipmunk death match, which our corrupt Western ears were unable to detect.  And of course, he showed us monkeys.  But really, the wildlife highlight of the trek had to be the leeches.  Que the thell!  The jungle is teeming with leeches!  Why, during no part of my indepth shoe research did somebody say, "hey, get closed shoes, cause the jungle is teeming with leeches, I tell you, teeming!"  Actually, I should confess: I remained leech free during the hike.  Poor Cory bore the brunt of our leechy escapade, and with aplomb.  The only "good" thing about Thai Jungle Leeches is that they bear no resemblance to the leeches from that memorable scene in Stand by Me.  Had that been the situation I would have uttered some very unladylike language and then forced Cory to give me a piggy-back ride the rest of the way. 

 

Okay, so sometimes nature sucks.  Literally.  As in, your blood.  But at other times nature is stunningly beautiful.  Sometimes nature seduces you with its blue, bath-like waters. 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes it humbles you with its unexpectadly gentle magnificance. 

 

 



Despite the discomfort, our time here felt like a gift.  Here is this amazing corner of the world that invited us in, let us hang out, and let us pull back just a little bit of the curtain. 

Oh, and did I mention that we rode elephants?  Elephants!!!!

"Snake meat not have enough chew for me"

Wow.  Thailand.  Ladyboys.  Curry.  Jungle Paradise.  Tons, and I mean TONS, of prostitutes.  All these, Cory and I have conquered. 

So when I last posted, I believe it was to tell you that I was incapable of finding my way down a New Jersey street, let alone a Bangkok neighborhood.  Luckily, I was rescued by Cory, the Spreadsheet Goddess of Long Island City.  Cory and I had similar childhood misadventures, and while they have turned me into a free-wheeling, bus-taking, foolhardy traveler, they have turned her into the ultimate Modern Woman.  Cory puts together a trip like nothing I have ever seen.  I may ask her to book all future events in my life, just to be on the safe side.

Spreadsheet Item #1: Cory and I meet at the Bangkok airport to fly together to Chiang Mai.  This went off without a hitch, since I had accepted the fact I will need to take a cab everywhere, all the time.  And it's worth it - the trip from the aiport by multiple buses took 3 hours and cost $2.00.  The return trip to the airport by cab took half and hour, and cost $6.  Best $4 I ever spent.  Cory and I arrived safely in Chiang Mai, and proceeded directly to our lavish colonial estate.  Seriously.  I spent three days feeling just like Meryl Streep in out of Africa, except without the Academy Award.  Or Robert Redford.  Or the Syphillis.  But we definitely had more prostitutes. 

The Chedi Chiang Mai is a teak outfitted, olympic swimming pool owning, delicate candlelight offering, little bit of Thai paradise.  I felt like a Communist refugee seeing a supermarket for the first time - the shades are automated!  We have a balcony and a foyer!  There's a phone in the bathroom!  Our hotel guide's name is Oily!  And, best of all, breakfast is included at the Chedi.  And breakfast involves fresh baked bread and REAL CHEESE.  I almost lost my mind.  Cheese and I have been parted for so long.  We had that one fling at the hotel in Taipei, but that was merely a teaser.  I needed serious cheese satisfaction, and the Chedi provided it.  Brie, gorgonzola, manchego, and two emmentaler-esque cheeses that struck just the right note of both salt and cream.  Cheese, our love will continue to be thwarted for much of the next year, but please, promise you'll wait for me. 

Obviously we've also been eating Thai food like it's our job, which at this point it kind of is.  I would like to draw special attention to Khao Soi, the unofficial dish of Chiang Mai.  You start with a vegetable broth flavored with coconut milk, and then, after simmering it for an extra tasty amount of time, you add two pieces of marinated chicken and wheat noodles.  The dish is then topped with a fried serving of the aformentioned noodles.  Because noodles are apparently an art, my Khao Soi was served on artist's palete with various accoutrements: shallots, pickled cabbage, sugar, fish sauce, chili, coconut milk, and slices of bananas to cool the inevitable heat.  It was street food, comfort food, and also a magical journey into the mysterious capabilities of curry.  Oh curry.  You and I are going to have a very good month together.

When not suffering the curry sweats, Cory and I took in some of the non-prostitue related Chiang Mai sights: driving up a mist covered mountain  and exploring Doi Suthep, one of the most important temples in Thailand.  While there we received sacred Buddhist wisdom about what our futures hold, why long hair can be an asset when starting a new religion, and why Lady Monks fell out of favor (strangely, some of the men didn't like women holding positions of authority.  Shocking).  All of these things were imparted to us by James, our tourguide.  He was accompanied by our driver, Mr. Cloudy.  James was so much more than your average tour guide.  He was, in his own estimation, the tour guide who told the truth.  He did not shirk from telling us that Chiang Mai women were so beautiful that wars were fought over them, or that cannibalism is still practiced in Indonesia and Papau New Guinea (roasted Shaman is a particular delicacy).  He was also a fount of knowledge regarding local medicines: for example, did you know that you can extract the oils from the horn of a certain type of antelope and "rub on man banana to make big"?  Well, now you know.

James and Mr. Cloudy also took us to the Night Safari, where we were able to frolic with Zebras and feed giraffes by hand.  It must be said, giraffes are AMAZING.  No joke.  When a giraffe sticks his head into your safari tram, you best believe that you're going to give him all your bananas and carrots, no questions asked.  As wonderful as the animals were, however, they were slightly overshadowed by the Chiang Mai Night Safari Cabaret show that closed out the evening.  How can you argue with poorly performed magic tricks, long-haired Thai men on unicycles, racy balloon tricks, and the most appallingly boring interpretation of Gloria Estefan known to man?  It was, in a word, hilarious, and of course the appropriate ending to a viewing of noble beasts.  You can just see the tigers thinking, "You moronic humans.  If we had opposable thumbs we would bust out of these cages, kick all your asses, and cook you up in a curry pot with a side of roasted Shaman".  Lucky for us that nature favors the silly. 

During the thrilling Gloria Estefan finale, James educated us further by confirming our suspicions as to which of the dancing girls were girls, and which were ladyboys.  I will tell you this: the ladyboys were much more committed to their performance, and much better dancers.  Just saying.  After this James and Mr. Cloudy dropped us at the Monkey Bar, where Cory and I listened to sensitive Asian pop with women who were most likely not prostitutes, but still dressed like them.  And then it was back to the hotel to rest up for today's adventure: a six hour trip into the heart of, well, not quite darkness.  More like rastafarian twilight.  Yes, we are now snuggly tucked away in the Thai jungle.  It has occurred to us that neither of us has ever camped.  And we're both made extremely uncomfortable by bugs, bats, and snakes.  But we will keep stiff upper lips and hike the jungle, visit coral caves, and ride elephants.  And get lots of massages.  Cause a girl's gotta relax after all this hard vacationing work. 

Stayed tuned for the next jungle update - we'll have true tales of scams evaded, and a description of our new cooking skills!  Until then, I leave you with this pictorial representation us as bowls of curry.  Try to guess who's who.

One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster (but only if you can figure out the bus system)

Remember that time I said I wouldn’t neglect my blog, and would write every week, and then I fell off the face of the earth for almost a month?  Nope.  I don’t remember it either.  So let’s press on.

Somehow the leisurely wind-down from my month of teaching craziness was anything but – I barely made it to the airport this morning after sleeping through my alarm (note to self – those people who stay up all night in anticipation of an early morning flight might have the right idea).  But after racing through Taoyuan airport and running down innocent Taiwanese I made it to the plane, and arrived safely (and sweaty) in Hong Kong.  I had a nice airport nap, and enjoyed the free wifi and feeling of travel limbo while waiting for my connection to Bangkok.

And then, when I woke up, everything started going just a bit wrong.

Our flight was delayed, and once we got on it we just sat there.  For an hour.  With no air conditioning.  In the midday Hong Kong heat.  And I must say, we were a pungent bunch.  But finally we were given the sweet gift of air con, and then took off for our ultimate destination.  Tomorrow I’ll be meeting up with my friend Cory and we will be living the life of luxury, but for today I thought I should get myself acclimated to the Spartan measures I’ll be taking for the rest of the trip.  So I booked a room in the “backpacker” area of town, and I set my course to get to the hotel from the airport via public transportation.

Perhaps I should mention that I’m not all that good at orienting myself on buses.   Trains, no problem, whether above or below ground.  But buses require a sense of direction that I don’t exactly possess in any kind of useful quantity.  So maybe I should have thought twice about my brilliant idea to take not one, but two buses into the city center.  I guess it’s a classic case of hubris – I’ve successfully navigated NYC!  And Taipei!  And Bloomington, Indiana!  I can do anything!  (except get around Jersey).  The misadventures really pick up when I disembark from the airport shuttle at the main bus station heading to the city.  I knew I needed bus 556.  What I found were buses 551, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, and 9.   Seriously.  So I looked at the routes; none of them appeared to go to the area I wanted.  I thought about just canvasing the station, meekly asking every driver “Khao San?” until I hit upon a winner.  Instead I just went up to the first bus that seemed be carrying other dirty backpacking westerners and whispered “Khao San?”  The driver nodded, so I got on.

You know, I really should have gotten off the bus the minute the other scruffy westerners came over and asked me where they should go while in Bangkok – they had no idea, you see, and had just randomly chosen a bus.  And these were the people I had pinned my hopes on.  But no, I got another brusque confirmation that the bus was in fact going to Khao San, so I settled in.  Fast forward to the bus entering the city proper.  I’ve just awoken from my 4^th nap of the day (I still don’t function well on three hours of sleep), and the ticket taker is telling me that the next stop is Khao San.  I thank her profusely and gather my stuff.  I notice that my crunchy cohorts are getting sent off the bus as well.  As the bus rolls away, I start to take in my surroundings: I was aiming for a nightmarket-ish tourist area.  This is a highway in front of what appears to be a Thai housing project.  No matter, it’s probably just a short walk, right?  So I boldly start off in one direction, but when nothing appears but more highway I give in and ask someone which way I have to walk to get to Khao San.  Except  I can’t walk there, because I’m nowhere near there.  Apparently I need to take the 36.  So I fight my way onto that bus.  At this point it’s rush hour, and bus drivers here just kind of slow down a bit and open the doors, expecting us to jump on.  Once on the 36 a nice man tells me that no, the 36 will in fact not take me to Khao San.  I need to take the 12.  I get off the bus.  I’m starting to get worried.   I try to get into a cab.  I plead, “Khao San?”  And the driver says “No!  No, no no!” and waves his hands back and forth.  I get out of the cab.  I realize I may be in over my head.

But I rallied.  I figured, okay, I’ll get the 12.  It has to take me somewhere, right?  So I get on the 12.  While this was not the end of my transportation adventures, it was certainly the most colorful.  The bus had a wooden plank floor, and driver had rigged old school speakers throughout the vehicle so he could play an array of Asian pop songs.  Loudly.  I can’t argue though, because the man was clearly a professional.  At point, feeling a bit peckish, he reached behind his chair, pulled out a spoon, rinsed it with water outside his window, and the reached back into a cooler to get a jar of mysterious food that he promptly slurped down.  He then placed the spoon back behind his chair and continued on his way.  I should mention that the spoon wasn’t actually used for eating, rather he used it to fish the jar out of the cooler.  But you’ve got to appreciate the cleanliness, right?  I mean, it is next to godliness.

The purpose of that tangent was really to avoid the next sad part of my tale.  The 12 does not, in fact, go to Khao San.  Or at least, not that 12.  I needed the “other” 12.  I was assured that 12 would be air conditioned, but somehow I didn’t think the music would be as good. 

I was getting desperate here, folks.  I could not get onto another bus.  Also, I’d been traveling since 6:30am.  It was now 7pm.  I hadn’t showered.  I’d barely eaten.  I was broken.  I fell to pavement, threw my arms up in the air, and yelled, “Khao SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!!!!!!!!”

Oaky, that may be a bit of an overstatement.  All I really did was run down two elderly Asian women in order to secure the next available cab.  Miraculously he understood when I sobbed, “Khao San”, and soon I made it to my destination, only three and a half hours after getting off the plane.  And from there it only took me another 45 minutes to find my hotel!  I’m amazing!  I can do anything! 

My first impression of Bangkok – this is where bad 90’s cover bands go to die.  Every few feet I was met with the sounds of Nirvana, Radiohead, Eric Clapton, and Red Hot Chili Peppers sung by a guy with a guitar and a questionable sense of pitch.  The other stores were reliably pumping out the Summer of 2012 Club Anthems – I’m pretty sure that by the end of this trip I will be convinced that I do in fact have the moves like Jagger. 

After my day of traveling I only had the energy to crawl to immediate sustenance, but damn it was good.  Spicy coconut curry with chicken and, perhaps, white asparagus?  Whatever that vegetable was, it was the perfect curry conduit.  And the curry itself was so delightfully layered: spicy, salty, sour, sweet.  The national flavors of Thailand, if I’m not mistaken.  I topped that off with a fried banana crepe, and took a bit of a walk around the neighborhood.  I found all kinds of interesting things, including an alley that seems to be dedicated to prostitutes.  Yup, less than 24 hours in Bangkok and I found the scooter girls.  I really need to start using my powers for good, not evil.

Tomorrow I’m going to attempt to hit the weekend market before meeting Cory for our flight to Chiang Mai.  However, I can’t guarantee anything.  Instead of finding the market, I might accidentally stumble into Thailand’s first manned mission to the moon.  Either way, I’ll be sure to be on time for this flight.  Cory has a travel itinerary spreadsheet, and she’s not afraid to use it! 

 

Yehliu - the urban antidote

July rolled to a shattering close amid twelve hour days, distracted students, and copious servings of wine and cheese.  My exhaustion hit its peak on Friday and Saturday, and I found myself wandering the halls of the office muttering, “Must grade essays.  Must grade essays!  Where’s Bao Bao?  Give me some dumplings, dammit!” 

Note to all: This is Bao Bao

At this point my pupils were dilated unevenly and I could no longer feel my toes.  I imagine that if House heard these symptoms he would immediately diagnose PTSSD – Post Traumatic SAT Stress Disorder.  And then hopefully he would serenade me with lonesome piano blues, as this is still the only known cure.

At the end of class on Saturday I hobbled home, crawled into my bed, and slept for fourteen hours.  I awoke to a dorm room full of people and plans.  We would finally start using our Sundays productively instead of merely sleeping off the effects of a rough night out.  We would sightsee.  On tap for the day?  Yehliu.

A trip to Yehliu had first been tossed around a couple of weeks ago.  A short, cheap bus ride would deposit us at a coastal geopark filled with sandstone rock formations shaped like mushrooms, tofu, ginger, fairy shoes, and queens (the monarchs, not the borough).  Our prior plans were thwarted in a number of ways: Luxy, Luxy-related exhaustion, essays, essay-related exhaustion, and the sad realization that if laundry was not accomplished on that particular Sunday we would probably all be arrested for olfactory indecency.  Also working against us?  Our routinely suppressed irresponsibility, flightiness, and inability to get anywhere on time. 

I’ve discussed this at length with my roommate / co-worker / partner-in-crime Linnea.  As a teacher, lateness is not an option.  You run the show.  If you don’t appear, 15-20 people get screwed over as a result.  So we simply have to ignore our dilatory natures, suck it up, and arrive on time with at least some kind of plan for the next three hours.  On days off this all goes directly out the window.  Plans are haphazardly made, and often broken.  Destinations are changed mid-route, if not mid-sentence.  Invitations are poorly extended.  Lengthy expeditions through underground malls deposit us directly across the street from our departure point.  And yet, somehow, despite all this, we made it to Yehliu on Sunday a mere three hours behind schedule.

Yehliu Geopark is a short walk through a small fishing village.  This village had an immediate and visceral impact on me.  I usually chalk this up to a childhood spent near the shore: I crave water, and get antsy if I’m away from it for too long.  I remember during college feeling a sort of painful longing every time I heard a chain clank against a flagpole.  The sound reminded me of boats and harbors, which I pined for endlessly during my Midwestern sojourn.  So the immediate sight of fishing boats, the smell of sea water, and the preponderance of crusty, muscled fisherman sent me reeling.  As much as I love cities, I must also have the beach.  And after four weeks of urban hysteria, Yehliu was exactly what I needed. 

 Yehliu looks like an alien landscape.  Black, pock-marked rocks cover a floor of golden stone.  The area is unfortunately well regulated so we couldn’t dive headlong into the surf in our underwear.  Also, Yehliu is popular.  Very popular.  I can only imagine what it would be like to have this place almost to myself, with no whistling guards, no Taiwanese tourist groups, and no Falung Gong protesters.  There’s something strange about being part of the picture-taking hoards.  I wonder how much I’m actually appreciating the scene on its own merits, rather than for its pictorial value.  I also feel competitive: that Asian woman over there is taking a picture.  I should be taking a picture!  She must know something I don’t!  I sometimes think traveling was easier when I didn’t have a camera and I just stole other people’s photos.  (OPP.  Shout out to the 90’s.)

Once I had finished reliving my central park mini-rock climbing youth, I joined the group in a hot, sweaty trek up the hill.  We finally left the tour groups behind, and were able to enjoy the juxtaposition of barren rocks, lush vegetation, and a perfectly blue sky. 

It was a good day.  I'm still not entirely sure what the hell I'm doing here, but days like this help.

A little slice of Taipei heaven

Oh how to begin.  Beasts.  We have been working like beasts.  Here is a typical day:  Wake up at 7am.  Fail.  Try again at 7:30am. Almost succeed.  Finally emerge at 8am. Stumble to the bathroom/shower (the shower is actually just a hose and drain in the floor - economical, or sketchy?  You decide.)  Abulations performed, I depart in a shamefully cheap cab at 8:15am.  I purchase various rice-y breakfasts, then stumble into SAT class, where I proceed to make self-deprecating jokes until my students laugh at me with a mixture of affection and pity.  I smile, confident in the scientifically proven correlation between adorable SAT teachers and SAT score improvements.  Suddenly realize that I may not be as adorable as I think I am.  And correlation still doesn't equal causation, dammit.  Smile falters. 

12pm.  Lunchtime.  Preptime.  Naptime.  Our midday meal is usually purchased from the food truck lady or the 7-Eleven.  Just for the record, 7-Eleven is the healthy option, but food truck lady is the delightful option.  Also, our colleague Connie translated the food cart menu so now we can knowledgably order such dishes as "fatty awesome pork noodles", "trouty rice", and "magical makes you skinny soup".  Coniferous, we miss you dearly, but bau-bau lives on. 

1:30pm.  TLA class.  Aka, a bunch of teenagers practicing English in between their packed flirting schedules.  It's a rough life, kids.  Early on I expressed my devotion to dumplings.  Now, everytime they have a free writing assignment, guess what it's about?  Dumplings.  Always, dumplings.  I don't mind, but I feel that I'm getting a reputation.  Seriously, there's more to me than dumplings.  Like cheese.  And wine.  And wine and cheese.  Why does no one appreciate me for the complex glutton that I am?! 

5pm.  Dumpling dinner, because those damn kids brainwashed me into dumplings agian.  I never would have done it otherwise.  Really.  I swear.  It doesn't help matters that we have an amazing underground dumpling/potsticker place right outside our door.  5 kimchi, 5 garden vegetable, roughly a $1.50 USD.  But the heart disease?  Priceless.

Next up?  Tutoring.  At this point, I'm delirious.  I start holding up signs that say, "Read the question.  No, I wasn't kidding.  Read it again.  Really."  But I also liberally reference comic book movies, so our tutor-student bond remains in tact.

8pm/9:30pm.  Work is done.  Andi is tired. Andi says she's going to go home and sleep.  Or veg.  Or grade essays.  Or take over the world.  But definitely not go out.  Because that would just be crazy.  Crazy, I tell you.  Crazy.

I won't do it. I won't go out.  You can't make me.

No, I will not wear sunglasses at swanky bar at night.  That would just be ridiculous. 

Friends, this will all be over in a week.  Then my posts might start to make a bit more sense.  At the very least, they will be more food-oriented.  And the word on the street is, trips out of Taipei will happen.  For now, I leave you with the emblem of my month of July:  money, essays, and dorm beds.

  Mo' money, mo' problems.  Or mo' essays.  Or mo' dumplings.  Christ, I'm tired. 

"Oh, it's too over!" *Insert Asian giggle here*

Allow me to take a slight pause from rapturous descriptions of organs and bodily fluids to share my thoughts on the Taiwanese.  All guidebooks and reputable websites had informed me that the Taiwanese are some of the nicest people on earth, and that I should basically expect smiles and hugs wherever I go.  And while I certainly met my fair share of exuberantly happy locals, the saucy nail technicians and terrified children must be mentioned as well. 

I am not known for my "girly-ness".  I like a mani-pedi as much as the next person, but i won't go to extremes to make it happen.  And what with my crazy schedule and meager Chinese skills (not to mention initial poverty), suffice to say that my toes were looking a little ragged.  A bit wolf-like.  To tell the truth, my nails had grown into talons, and I had taken to climbing the palm trees at night for a little exercise.  (Of course, this is nothing compared to the Slavic-ness that my eyebrows have unleashed.  Seriously, my eyebrows have become sentient beings that reach out and attack innocent passers-by.  There may be multiple Taiwanese children stowed away up there.  Which would explain their potent fear of me.  But more on that later).  Anyway, it was clearly time to take action.  And so, with roommate in tow and Venus as my Chinese-speaking, trusty guide, I stepped into Cinderella nail salon.

Perhaps I should point out that all of my New York pedicures have occured in sketchy storefronts that vaguely resemble Taipei eateries.  I never go for anything fancy.  No nail art for me. Just make me look less like a werewolf, please, and that'll be that.  Cinderella nail salon had chandeliers, purple velvet, and individual TV's.  I should have realized then that I was in over my head.  I confidently instructed my friend that I wanted the cheapest pedicure possible, and then settled in to watch some Chinese soap operas (which are hilarious, by the way.  More poorly edited than Telenovelas, but perhaps not as shockingly awful as Indian music videos.)  My toes were then washed, trimmed, buffed, and perhaps drilled (there was a mystery tool involved.  Maybe they were sanded?)  As my fearsome nail technician was about to embark on the color phase she paused, held my foot up for the general assembly to see, and began chattering away in horrified Chinese.  I believe the rough translation goes something like this:

"Jesus Christ, you hairy white devil, what the hell is wrong with your feet?  You have dead skin on here from the cretaceous period.  Seriously, I can see a trilobite fossil right here on your heel.  Do you see this?  Do you understand?  Something must be done.  For the sake of my countrymen I cannot let you leave here like this.  My nail technician soul screams in protest.  Please, let me right this horrible wrong!"

This was then followed by a girlish Asian giggle and the English phrase, "It's too over!"

What could this mean?   Were my foot callouses actually beginning to cover the rest of my healthy, living foot?  Would I soon look like an extra from a Zombie flick?  (shout out to the Zombie Apocolypse!)  What exactly was "over"?  My pedicure?  Because of her revulsion?  My goodstanding as a female?  My life?!  My Chinese-speaking cohort calmly explained to me that this was a cute phrase used to describe anything that has gone to extremes.  Like my hunger, perhaps.  Or my unholy love for Kurt Weill.  I was not being kicked out of the plush paradise, but I was being informed that a serious foot scraping was about to happen.

Back my feet went into the fuschia foot wash.  When she felt that my skin had softened as much as could be reasonably hoped for, my ninja nail technician began to scrape, expoliate, and scour with a passion I have only heretofore seen exhibited by my tremedoudlsy clean roommate when faced with the crawling black mold in our shower/bathroom.  At my tiniest flinch she narrowed her eyes at me, clearly communicating that if dared to move, fidget, or otherwise interfere with this monumental task I would soon find that foot knife held to my throat.  Soon, sweat beaded her brow.  A tear in her own nail was dealt with by a summary ripping and spitting of the offending item across the room.  She flexed her arms to demonstrate her swiftly-developing muscle tone to her astonished co-workers.  Finally, she was done.  She grabbed my hand so that I could feel the new skin that had been excavated and gave me sly look with a slow nod which was clearly meant as a comment on my foolish lack of belief in her Asian foot prowess.

Now came time for the color.  She asked my friend if I had worn sandles. Of course I had not.  I had worn my slimy, nasty mary jane crocs, which were probably what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.  Ninja Nail Technician shook her head in disgust.  I would not be allowed to exit her establishment like this.  Someone would have to be sent out on a sandle run.  Of course this someone was my long-suffering roommate Linnea.  I offered to borrow her shoes and go myself, and she gave me a look that implied that not only would my horrific feet never be permitted to sully the sactity of her footwear, but that I would most likely awaken that night to find the offending extremeties soaking a preventative bath of bleach.  So off Linnea went on a hunt for the cheapest, least garishly offensive flipflops available at 11pm on a Saturday night in Ximen.  I was left to ponder my various sins. 

Though I certainly did not deserve it, the Taiwanese Goddess of the Foot smiled down upon me, and Linnea returned 15 minutes later with a pair of delightfully classy $6 flip flops.  The kind I would have bought myself under less pressured circumstances.  And so, trembling with gratitude, I walked my baby soft feet out of there, and headed directly to a club where they were trampled and covered with beer.  Here they are, slightly worse for wear, but still immensely improved thanks to the ministrations of one Ninja Nail Technician:

Yeah, they still kind of just look like my feet.  And I've rambled.  You'll have to wait until next time to hear about my coworker Dave's amazing family that insists upon buying us food anytime we enter the town limits of Taichung.  Or the children of Taiwan who watch in mystery, heads cocked to the side, food hanging out of their mouths, as I roll my sticky albino body down the street.  Until then, I leave you with:

Grilled nightmarket oysters covered in wasabi and happiness

A tranquil Taichung teahouse

And a noble goat.

I was horribley remiss in not posting last week.  It shall not happen again.  And next time, I'll share something more exciting that the saga of my gross pedicure (hopefully.  if not you'll just get a rant about GMAT students).

I will do anything for food, but I won't eat liver

It had to happen eventually.  I'm only surprised that it took this long.  Yes, after roughly a month of street food adventures, I finally had a bad meal in Taipei.  Up till now I've been remarkably successful in my campaign of "point and eat".  I wouldn't always know what I was in for, but things usually turned out alright.  And then I went up against the Vietnamese street-cart restaurant around the corner.  This was not my first visit.  I had previously enjoyed a lovely meal of grilled pork with my roommate Linnea, during which we noticed a diner next to us enjoying a vibrant curry.  Naturally I wanted to return to try it, and we thought we had identified the picture on the cart that would lead me to curry shangri-la.  Reader, it was not curry.  Not by a long shot. 

Let me set the scene: a sweaty, hungry, pasty white girl wanders down a dark alleyway, determined to feast on curry goodness.  Stray pets languidly walk by.  A small child is almost hit by a scooter, and his mother apologizes upon seeing that I almost went into cardiac arrest (apparently my delicate western sensibilities were the only things in danger).  I brush my gooey, wet hair back from my glistening, salty face as I arrive at my destination - the random Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall.  I should explain that the line between street food and restaurant food is extremely thin here in Taipei.  Your standard eating establishment consists of a sticky, poorly outifitted room at the back, and a food cart of varying dimensions at the front.  This is not a problem, as the food is usually excellent and cheap, and apparently I have very fluid standards of hygiene.  So I approach the Vietnamese cart-restaurant, utter one of my three Chinese phrases ("ni hao!") and with a huge grin on my albino-esque face proceed to point at the item I believe to be curry.  My smile falters as I watch the proprietor start to fill a bowl with a dishwater brown broth, some strips of something white, and huge brown chunks of a mysterious substance.  Oh well, I say to myself.  I guess I just ordered some sort of tofu and vegetable soup.  How bad could it be?  And I walked home with my bucket of nastiness. 

Once home I assembled my meal.  When ordering a noodle soup to go, it is customary to receive two plastic bags: one filled with broth, one filled with noodles.  Naturally I appreciate the concern for proper noodle texture.  I dumped the noodles into one of our two bowls, and then poured the soup over it.  Slowly my situation becomes clear:  those huge brown chunky things?  They have a slick exterior and a porous red interior.  They can be only one thing.  Clearly I have ordered liver soup.  I throw up a bit in my mouth.

It cannot be denied that I am an adventurous eater.  There are few things I don't like, and fewer things that I won't at least try.  But liver just freaks me the hell out.  It looks nasty, smells bad, and the texture is just wrong.  Squishy.  Evil.  And at the moment this textural oddity is compounded by the fact that these immense cubes of liver have been simmering in broth for god knows how long.  i "slice" into one with my chopsticks.  I try to steel myself for the first taste.  I can do this, I tell myself.  I am a strong, confident woman who has enjoyed organ meat cooked in a variety of ways.  I will not be conquered by nightmarket soup.  Really, if Abraham Lincoln could save our country from vampires, I could certainly eat liver.

But you know, maybe it would be a good idea to ease into it by trying the broth first.  And the noodles.  And the tofu.  And the vegetables.  And the random white strips of something.  Maybe the real way to prepare yourself to eat liver is to eat everything else first so that you're no longer hungry.  So I explore the other elements of the soup.  It was, how shall I put it, awful.  Terrible.  Really, really bad.  The huge hunk of fried tofu tasted like wet sponge.  The broth was simultaneously bland and yet...somehow....bitter.  And metallic.  And wrong.  And those random white strips of something?   They were reminiscent of soggy potato chips.  I could not go on.  I had to admit defeat.  I re-packaged my Vietnamese surprise and hightailed it back to the nightmarket where I soothed my sorrows in the only fitting way: deep-fried egg fritter, extra la.

This is one of my favorite nightmarket snacks: a disc of dough is dropped into a vat of boiling vegetable oil, quickly followed by a freshly cracked egg.  Egg meets dough, and the two perform a graceful, greasy dance in the tub of hot liquid.  After a moment's rest, my egg fritter was slathered with a gingery soy sauce and the requisite la.  I took my prize home and erased the memory of the terrifying liver soup from my mind.

And that would have been the end of my story, had I not wandered onto the internet looking for a picture of this horrid liver concoction to give my tale a bit more authority.  This is how I discovered that liver had no role in that meal.  No, the white strips of randomness were slices of steamed pork loaf (*shiver*), and the huge brown globs of mystery meat were, in fact, chunks of congealed pig's blood (*vomit*).  Sometimes a little knowledge can be a terrible thing.  And I may be off mystery meat for a while.