Beware Bobbed Beauties

We interrupt our anything-but-regularly scheduled programming for a special bulletin:

I've got a new post up over at PimpKnowledge!  I'm laying down the truth about France's favorite Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

http://www.pimpknowledge.com/the-amelie-dilemma/

Hide your lawn ornaments!

The tofu-strewn road to Kyoto

Taiwan is offering up a formidable winter this year.  The past few weeks have been mostly wet, cold, and dreary.  Yesterday the sun made a brief appearance and then apparently decided to leave us to our sad fates, because today was yet another long, dark day of the Taiwan soul.  I took advantage of the brief reprieve yesterday to explore the northern end of the Gongguan bike path.  The hours I spent cycling back and forth, with no deadline, and no destination, brought to mind the late night drives I used to take in high school.  At that time, everything moved way too slowly, and I yearned for life to speed up.  I yearned for arrival.  This impatience would build up and, coupled with my chronic insomnia, would propel me out the door and into the car.  I would drive for hours, directionless.  Sometimes I stopped by the beach to hear the soothing crash of the waves.  Mostly I just hoped the continued movement would assuage my teen-angst.  Now a night like that seems fairly impossible.  First of all, life has become all about speed - events end seemingly moments after they start.  We feel a constant pressure to determine our next turn; we fear uncharted courses. Yes, it was a simpler time back then.  That, and gas was a much, much cheaper.

That will be $60, thanks.

There are still certain situations in which we are forced  to slow down: stomach flu and travel disasters. Luckily, this post does not involve bouts of stomach flu.  No, this post is about what may well be the most convoluted trip from Tokyo to Kyoto known to modern man.  First let's review the amount of time it usually takes to make this trip: by train, anywhere from 2 to 4 hours; by bus you're looking at 7-8.  For my sister and I, it took a solid 10.  Now, before you all go and chalk this up to some special Smela trait, some family ability to weed out the most bizarrely inefficient travel arrangements possible, let it be known that my sister did some excellent research before this trip.  She had figured out a way that we could travel to Kyoto almost entirely for free, thanks to a special rail pass available over the holidays.  It would involve a bunch of transfers, but hey, free is good!  No, we are definitely going to have to place some of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the Japanese Rail System.  

The trip followed this general pattern: we arrived at the station, showed our ticket (which was supposed to entitle us to free rides during the national holiday), and were promptly told that the first leg of our trip would, in fact, not be free, it would instead cost $60.  But the tickets should work everywhere else so, hey, no worries, just pay up and be on your way.  During the second leg of our trip, when the conductor came over to check our tickets he promptly told us that this leg of our trip would, in fact, not be free, it would instead cost another $60.  At this point my sister got a bit suspicious and checked on the rest of our itinerary with him.  The conductor told us that our next planned transfer would,  in fact, not be free, it would instead cost yet another $60.  Clearly the Japanese travel website my sister has used was, at the very least, misguided in its listing of acceptable trains we could use with this ticket.  Luckily, this kind conductor worked out an itinerary we could use our tickets on.  This itinerary would stretch our travel time out to a whopping 10 hours, but we had already paid $120 plus the cost of the "rail pass" and we were not prepared to spend anymore.  We decided to settle in for the long haul.  

Let's just note, for the record, that the 2 hour long bullet train trip costs.....$120.  Damn you Japanese Rail System!!!!!

The view from our 10 hour train ride.
Why do I miss all the good snowpocalypses?

But you know what?  This ended up being one of the highlights of the trip.  Susie and I had years of catching up to do. Major life events needed to be recounted.  Personal revelations needed to be shared.  We spent the full 10 hour train ride talking, with brief pauses to be dazzled by the jaw-dropping-ly beautiful scenery. This gave us a bit more mental space to take in the refined splendor of Kyoto.  We saw glittering golden temples, minimalist wooden temples, and cherry-red temples situated atop quaint old-fashioned market streets (which were filled with massively overpriced stuff, but hey, it's Japan.  The whole point is to leave with not a cent to your name, right?)  We ate twelve different kinds of tofu, including these outrageously good grilled tofu skewers slathered with miso paste.  They were delicate morsels of velvety decadence.  We wandered through the old Geisha neighborhood (lanterns!  hidden alleyways!)  We ducked into multiple izakayas to ward off the endless cold (gyoza!  fried chicken!)  We found a bar that sold beer, snacks, and collectible figurines (Run DMC action figures!!!!!  Which I'm sure cost so much I would have had to sell a kidney to afford just one!)  And we ended our night with some of the best vegetables I've had yet in Asia: sweet, vinegary boiled spinach with rock salt for dipping, and the only lotus root I'll ever love.

I love you, lotus root. You complete me.

Thus ends part two of Hungry Like the Wolf's Epic Sister Reunion Episode.  Still to come: a thorough exploration of Osaka's gay nightlife, and a pile of conveyor belt sushi so high it makes Taipei 101 look like shack.  

And now, to play us out, here are some photos of Kyoto brought to you by my poor, struggling camera, Mr. Blurry:

The Smelas Take Kyoto.  Super Asian!

The Golden Pavillion

Here are a few shots of a solo-trip I took to the Shogun Palace.

The entrance to the Shogun Palace.  

Pictures of the inside of Casa de Shogun are forbidden,
but the grounds are fair game, and pretty impressive to boot.
At least, Mr. Blurry seemed to approve.

The Shogun's cul-de-sac.   

 Interesting fact - closing time at Shogun-palooza is signaled by playing Auld lang syne on repeat.  Apparently that song actually translates as, "Thank you for visiting the Shogun.  Now get the hell out."

The street with that name beside that place with the temple.

The aforementioned temple!

Mr. Blurry has the soul of an artist,
and the hand-eye coordination of a sleepy two-year old.

Thank you for visiting Hungry Like the Wolf.  Now get the hell out!

Brains! It's what's for dinner.

Hello devoted readers.  I'm sure that by now you're tired of reading about the same old meals: dumplings, dumplings, and more dumplings.  Never fear!  The good people over at www.pimpknowledge.com have given me a forum to discuss some more....unusual fare.  So don your most Kramer-esque pimp hat and do some reading.

http://www.pimpknowledge.com/zombies-are-here-sexy-vampires/

The Cold and the Ravenous: Tokyo Drift

Growing up, I was one of those kids who always believed she had a secret twin or long lost older sibling out there, just waiting to be discovered.  Yes, there are certain advantages to being an only child, but by early adolescence I had negotiated those waters long enough to be absolutely thrilled when I gained not one, but two younger sisters.  Of course, since we were separated by both time and geography we didn't get to experience all of the standard sibling joys and conflicts: no toys were co-opted, no diaries read (after all, that's what Stepmothers are for, right?)  Our time spent together always involved travel, either me to their home in the city, or occasionally them to my home in the suburbs.  So it's only fitting that after too long a separation my sister Susie and I would plan an epic reunion halfway around the world.  Well, okay.  We actually both live in Asia right now.  So you could say that I was "in the neighborhood and decided to stop by".  But I prefer the epic-reunion-half-a-world-away narrative, so we're sticking with that.

I did not know what to expect from our Japan trip, and frankly I was nervous, maybe even a bit scared.  My sister and I hadn't seen each other in years, and this meeting had the prospect of unearthing a wealth of terrible family drama.  In some ways I think the painful family history made me more restrained than it did her.  My Buddhist younger sister has learned to forgive and accept things that I'm still coming to terms with.  

It was so cold even the statues
needed sweaters.

But this is not a tragic memoir! This is a food and travel blog, and therefore we must press on with discussions of epicurean delights.  I had a day and half in Tokyo before meeting up with Susie, and I started out with my usual chaotic travel pattern: hours of aimless walking which led to my getting hopelessly lost when a mere three blocks from home, and all of this providing an excellent excuse for eating really good food.  One thing about Japan that must be mentioned - it's cold.  As in, painfully cold.  And my first night there was rainy and awful.  (Side note - I'm writing this from the sunny beach at Kenting, and the music at the Happy Panda Bar is so crushingly bad that I'm in danger of going deaf from my preventative ipod measures.  Really, is this their business plan?  Drive us to drink?  Anyway, back to Japan).  The bitter cold was not alleviated by my inadequate shoes, coat, gloves, and non-existent umbrella.  But I still managed to take in the Asakusa temples by night, enjoy over-priced yakitori, and finally discover the warmth that only spicy ramen can bring.  Now, while this ramen was spicy, it was also a bit tomato-y.  My previous ramen experiences had not prepared me for this.  Was it supposed to be that way?  Have I been wrong all these years?  The meat was good, but not "melt in your mouth" good.  In fact, the best thing that can be said about this ramen shop is that it existed, and gladly welcomed a white girl who bore a striking resemblance to a drowned rat.  The soup could have been Campbell's Chicken Noodle and I would have attacked it like it was my last meal.  Any port in a storm.  Literally.  

You're suspect, ramen.  Suspect.

Yes, this photo is blurry, but when you compare it to the much
blurrier photos it becomes a work of genius.  

The next day dawned a crisp, cold blue.  I returned to the Asakusa temples and experienced the standard tourist side of things: crowds, kids, and kimonos.  This was followed by a walk through inokashira park in kichijoji which, strangely enough, made me quite nostalgic for Berlin.  What was it?  The spare delicacy of the barren branches?  Or the fact that I couldn't feel my toes?  (Side note: Dear sweet lord, the Happy Panda music.  Why would someone do this to another human being?!?!?)  But I digress.  We're not in Berlin (or Kenting, for that matter.)  We're in Japan. (Further side note: the more I travel, the more easily I transport mentally to a previous trip or a plan for a new one.  It's as though time and space is coalescing into one great, big vacation.  This may not be a good thing.)  But Japan!  Tokyo!  What did I eat? Lots of tempura, because I was freezing and therefore deserved fried food.  Tender, salty yakitori.  A particularly satisfying bowl of chirashi.  Generally, anything I could find that cost less than the US debt to China.  I was prepared for prices more in the range of NYC than Taipei, but that didn't make them any easier to deal with.  So yeah, I ate a lot of what I can only assume would be considered Japanese fast food.  Finally, adorable kichijoji shops thoroughly explored, I went back to the hostel to prepare for the big reunion.  I killed time by helping a Frenchman prep his audition for a British dental commercial (over red wine, of course).  Then Susie arrived, and it was once again like existing in several times at once.  I was 12, 20, 27, 36.  Susie was an infant, child, and teenager living in the body of a wise, kind, and curious adult.  How did we get here?  How did we make it through the passage of time and history?  I can't answer that, but I can tell you that the next day we embarked on a 10 hour train ride to Kyoto.  And yes, it was epic.  

To be continued, hopefully sometime within this calendar year....

Help me yakitori!
You're my only hope!

And as promised, kimonos.

Close Encounters with Water Buffalo

When we last left our wanderlust-ing heroine, she was recovering from the raptures of Italy.  My next major opportunity for intercontinental exploration did not appear until my senior year in college.  My cloistered Mid-Western music school had finally decided that maybe, just maybe, students of classical music might benefit from time spent in Europe.  You know, the place where this stuff was written.  Enter stage left: a semester in Vienna, appropriately decked in golden Klimt finery.  I immediately knew that this trip must be mine.  Nothing would stop me.  I would be victorious.  If memory serves me correctly, my quest to attain Viennese glory involved the procuring of a sketchy sublet-er, the ending of a relationship, and finally an interview with the musical powers that be in which I faced the challenge of explaining to them how I would manage to complete my graduation requirements even though this trip would expressly keep me from completing some of the necessary courses.  My justification went something like this,

"Don't worry, I'll figure it out."

The members of the committee stared at me in bemused confusion.

"No really, I will.  I'm not sure how I will, but I'll do it.  Because when I want to do something, I get it done.  I make it happen.  And this is going to happen."

The members of the committee were now trying to conceal their guffaws.  They were not entirely successful.  But, nonetheless, they approved my application, and off to Vienna I went.  And yes, I did graduate on time, though I could not tell you how I "made it happen".  I'm pretty sure mental breakdowns and red wine were involved.  And maybe a few of my roommate's research papers.

And that was the last time I ever exhibited such passionate determination and resolve.  Oh sure, I've worked towards things, and I've wanted things really, really, REALLY badly.  But I've never felt that potent mix of unstoppable chutzpah and infantile stupidity.  Until, that is, I went up against the Caoling Historic Trail.

The Caoling Historic Trail is known as one of those trails in Taiwan you just have to do.  As in, if you do one hike in Taiwan, this is it.  I've wanted to do this hike for over a year, and November was officially the Caoling Silver Grass Festival, so I figured there couldn't be a better time.  Of course I planned to do this alone, because I find hiking alone to be extremely peaceful and centering.  Also, Taiwan is so densely populated that you're never entirely alone.  Or so I thought.

Let's address my preparations: one bottle of water, one bottle of tea, lunch, and snacks.  More than enough, since my guide book said that the trail only takes 3-4 hours.  Well, one of my guide books said that.  Others said 7-8 hours.  But what's an hour or four between friends, right?  Note that my preparations specifically do not include rain gear.  Or a flashlight.  This will become important later.

It just looks like such an innocent little trail...

I got a late start, (because I sleep like the boozy cabaret singer that I am) so I started at the end closer to Taipei, Fulong Beach.  My end point was Daxi, where I planned to relax over a lovely seafood dinner.  Along the way I was promised stunning views of the pacific and rolling fields.  The first two hours were refreshing, and occasionally hilarious.  Although I went on a weekday, the trails were pretty crowded with elderly Taiwanese hiking groups.  Let me say, that I do love elderly Taiwanese hiking groups.  Everyone is so friendly, so helpful.  They offer you tea.  They encourage you with calls of "Jaiyo!  Jaiyo!", the Taiwanese equivalent of, "You go, girl!".  And they also play inspirational music.  Rather loudly.  And their inspirational music consists of "Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier", and doo-wop songs about infidelity in the 1950's.  After two hours I made it past all the traditional sights.  I had quelled the wild winds.  I had seen the tiger inscription. I had reached a scenic overlook.  At this point I found myself facing a crossroads.  Many people chose to turn back.  I could go to Dali, which was a only few kilometers away.  Or, I could climb really high things and hit the Taoyuan Valley and finish in Daxi, as originally intended.  Of course I chose to press on.  I got to the next, even more scenic outlook, and had my lunch.  And oh, the vista.  It was stunning.  As a city girl, I do love Taipei.  It is amazingly designed, and offers a variety of daydreams and distractions.  But it's rural Taiwan that really sets the island apart.  I enjoyed my lunch while watching the mists rolling in over the shore, reveling the green, the brown, and the blue.

.....and 30 seconds later those mists had covered the entire mountain side and I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of my hand.  Oh, and it was raining too.  Pop quiz, hotshot - you're hiking alone on a mountain in Taiwan.  You can't see, and it's raining.  You only have 3 hours of daylight left.  And you still can't really speak Chinese, goddammit.  What do you do?  WHAT DO YOU DO????

Just imagine how awesome this photo would be,
were it in focus.

Okay, a few of you probably said, "shoot the hostage".  Hopefully most of you said, "turn back and go home."  I, of course, said "Daxi, or bust," and continued on my way.

I reached the top of the next hill, and accidentally stumbled on to the Lord of the Rings set.  It looked as though I was walking along the edge of the world.  No stunning views of the Pacific for me.  And no one else on the trail.  Just endless fog and tiny stone path.

What I wouldn't give for a helpful elf right now.

And still, I pressed on.  Daxi couldn't be that much farther, right?  I mean, I had been hiking for close to three hours, so, according to some estimates I had a mere...five hours to go.  You can do this, Smela.  you can do this,

And then, a Water Buffalo.

Friends, sometimes a woman comes face to face with the abyss, and sometimes that abyss is populated by feral Water Buffalo.  I inched forward.  Horned heads jerked up from their grassy snack, and I found myself peering into the black eyes of bovine oblivion.  In one fluid movement I turned around and walked quickly, calmly, and in a totally nonthreatening manner back up the path.  And there I sat, contemplating my options.  I had been hiking for 4 hours.  I was probably 2 hours from Daxi.  It made no sense to turn back, but I was scared.  The way back was familiar, known.  The way forward, treacherous, and filled with rabid Water Buffalo.  Why, Smela, why!  Why did you undertake this ridiculous adventure on your own?  Without ample supplies?  And with only a few short hours of daylight on your side?  But then I remembered equally foolish 21 year old Andi, who set out with absurd determination, and yet somehow managed.  I can't really say that she always succeeded.  But she managed.  There was, ever and always, only one way.  Forward.

I scurried past the herd of Water Buffalo while projecting a servility I haven't felt since music school voice lessons, and was rewarded with a sudden clearing of the valley.  All around me were hills of green, sometimes muted, sometimes, brilliant.  The sky was a bruised indigo.  In the distance to my left, civilization twinkled.  Down the mountain to my right, the white breakers yearned for sand.  I had reached the perfect moment: totally alone, enveloped in the beauty of my foster country.

Light was fading, and the last part of my journey was still ahead of me, the Daxi Forest Trail.  And this last part was most definitely the worst.  Dark, jungle-like vegetation broken only by the pathetic light of my cellphone and the screech of nocturnal creatures.  Two hours later I reached the end of the trail, a broken woman.  I was soaked. My legs screamed like tortured banshees.  My water was long gone.  Basically, I was exhausted and pathetic.  Delusional, if you will. Why I had attempted this?  I wasn't ready for this.  But it had happened.  I made it happen.  There was a certain satisfaction in that.  I still had a bit of my stubborn pride.  I knew I wasn't using it in the right way, in a meaningful way.  But as I rode the train back to Taipei I took comfort in knowing that I hadn't lost it entirely.  
          

Truer words were never spoken.

Sending a postcard to my 16 year old self

The first time I did any kind of significant travel was at the age of 16 with my high school choir.  Our whirlwind tour of Italy featured unbelievable food and architecture, glorious music, and much fainting.  There was a general, languorous descent into love, and many a night was spent singing duets from hotel balconies and pining for the unattainable of every stripe.  I was not immune to this intoxication.  I fell headlong, crazy-faced in love - with travel.

My mental postcards from that trip begin at the airport.  On our way out of security my friends and I witnessed a poignant farewell.  A young woman, perhaps in her 20's (and therefore worldly and wise in our naive eyes) had just retrieved her luggage from the scanner belt.  In her long, flowing, patterned skirt and slightly ratty t-shirt, this tall brunette was the epitome of college nonchalance.  We watched as she waved goodbye to a man separated from her by only the scanner and one inept guard (this was the 90's, a time when you could accompany a loved one almost up to the gate, or even onto the plane if the conventions of romantic comedy demanded it).  He gave her a warm, encouraging smile.  She tried to reciprocate, her lips curving up slightly while her brows knit together in pain.  She waved, and then turned to begin the long walk down the concourse ahead of us.  My friends and I commented on the sweetness of the scene, and then continued to speculate about our upcoming adventure.  We halted our manic conversation, however, when the young woman abruptly dropped her bag to the ground.  Her head fell forward into her hands, and her shoulders heaved in one long sob.  We held our breath.  This was it - this was love, passion, and despair.  This was romance on a cinematic scale.  This was what 16 year old girls lived for.  Would she turn and run back to him?  Or was the promise of the adventure ahead too potent, too seductive?  The young woman raised her head, breathed deeply, picked up her bag again, and walked briskly down the hall, her long brown hair swaying in time with her steps, her body still shaking slightly from her tears.  She hadn't turned around, not even for one last look.  We hung back a few moments out of respectful awe for her glorious pain.  And I suspect we were envious not just of their love, but also of their separation.

This addresses one of the strange attractions of travel.  The joy of the journey is always accompanied by the pain of departure.  There is no way to exist in two places at once, and therefore there is no way ever to be perfectly at peace.  Trips end, homes are abandoned, and no matter which path you choose, you will inevitably lose as much as you gain.  It's just a question of choice.  I find myself fairly obsessed with these choices lately, as I prepare to go back to New York for a month, which is really just long enough to make me idealize both my old home and my current one here in Taipei.

Whenever and wherever I travel around Taiwan I always make plans for a return journey, but the reality is that these are all most likely one-time visits.  There's just too much - too much space, too much wanderlust, and never enough time.  A great inertia envelopes me when I realize that I haven't been taking full advantage of my time here, and that frankly I don't really know what it would look like if I did.  My most recent trip was to Yilan, a lovely area of the island about an hour from Taipei by bus.  The excursion included all the traits of a typical Andi trip: horrible transportation decisions, endless wrong turns, and prodigious amounts of sweat.  But I love my travel disasters, I really do.  I don't mind that it takes me 12 hours to reach a cafe just down the street, or that the locals assume I've lost my mind when I ask them if I can reach mainland China via bicycle.  That's just part of the adventure.  I do get frustrated when I recognize that these detours come at the expense of certain items on my itinerary.  But then again I feel the same way about the life choices that have closed off other avenues to me.  I will never be a ballerina-fireman.  And I'll just have to learn to accept that, because if I had become a ballerina-fireman I wouldn't have experienced have of the life I did choose.  So let's look at both versions of my trip to Yilan - the trip I wanted, and the trip I got.

Where I planned to stay: a cozy, adorable minsu (aka Taiwanese Bed and Breakfast) in the middle of an agricultural wonderland.

Where I actually stayed: a rather anonymous hotel in the middle of Luodong, a town that looks just like Taipei.  But the hotel was owned by a wonderful family that immediately adopted me.  They gave me aloe for  my sunburn, dried kumquats, and authentic Yilan cow's tongue!  (It's a cookie, people calm down).  They were worried about the dangers facing a young woman traveling alone in Taiwan.  This was particularly sweet because there are, in fact, no dangers facing a young woman traveling alone in Taiwan, other than heatstroke.

Where I planned to visit: some sort of black sand beach and an island that looks like a turtle.
What I actually saw: all that is accessible by bike (and much that isn't).  I circled Meihua Lake at dusk along with families in little motorized bike caravans.   I biked down endless highways to reach the National Center for Traditional Arts.  There I browsed handicraft shops and watched men dressed in beetle costumes engage in classical Taiwanese break-dancing.  I chilled out with Taiwanese families at a rare cold spring (one of only two in the world).  I dipped my feet in the cool waters of Wufengqi Waterfalls, surrounded by groups Taiwanese teenagers splashing and screaming, and elderly Taiwanese couples lying on the rocks and softly singing.  Oh, and at night?  Some sort of out door entertainment event featuring really inappropriate high school dance troupes with routines choreographed to gangsta rap, and a cover band playing a hilarious version of Enter Sandman (most of the lyrics were indecipherable, but "rrrrrroff to never never land" was crystal clear.)

What I wouldn't give to see these guys on the A train

A view from my endless bike ride

A small moment of quiet perfection

Where I planned to eat: every famous food stall at the Luodong night market.
Where I actually ate: places that didn't involve waiting on line for 30 minutes for a bowl of soup.  Luodong night market is one of the largest and most crowded in Taiwan, and frankly I didn't have the patience to wait for the ultimate lamb soup, or the most famous scallion pancake, so instead I ate the slightly less famous scallion pancakes which were more than delicious enough for my ignorant western palette.  It was more like a scallion doughnut really, and was one of the culinary highlights of the trip.  I mean, who can pass up a flaky, buttery crust surrounding a a moist center of pillow-y dough and sweet green onions?  Of course, the whole thing was spiced with the requisite Taiwanese salt/pepper.  I'm not really sure what that stuff is, but it's ubiquitous.  I'm surprised they don't sprinkle it in beer here.

See that line stretching into the neon-lit distance?
All for sake of Taiwanese burritos.

Mmmm....scallion doughnut....

As always, I'm sharing the bare minimum.  What about the street-side candy puller?  And the Chinese Opera singers?  And the red bean tapioca ice?  What's my criteria?  How do I decide what is worthy of relating?  How do I decide anything?  That's the question. In fact, that's the question I went to Yilan to answer.  How long am I staying here, and where am I going next?  I came back without answers.  I don't know where I'll be in a year - New York?  Hanoi?  Buenos Aries?  Istanbul?  I can tell you that tomorrow I'll start my day with a waterfall hike and end it by drinking with friends in the park.  I can tell you that next week I'll make my way to NYC by way of Waikiki.  And I can tell you that I'm trying, trying every day, to accept the uncertainty.

When I returned from that epic Italian trip I felt gutted.  We met up with our families in the high school parking lot, and I still remember the feeling of driving home that night.  Everything felt wrong.  Absolutely wrong.  It was infinitely wrong to be home and safe, instead of being on the move, traveling to the next ridiculous destination.  It felt as though chains were descending on me, in a large part because I was 16, and I FELT THINGS DEEPLY IN MY ARTISTIC SOUL, DAMMIT!!  But in the midst of my maudlin teenage meltdown I did make a decision that travel would be a significant part of my life.  It's a decision that I avoided fulfilling for a long time, so when I think about my concern over my rootlessness now I take comfort in the idea that my 16 year old self would probably look at  me say, "are you kidding me?  this is a dream, you idiot!  you're living my dream!"  And then 16 year old Andi would probably run off somewhere to listen to Tori Amos and write bad poetry.  I can only hope to live up to her expectations.

Some thoughts on hedonism...

My line of work necessitates a precise vocabulary.  Take, for example, hedonism.  The commonly understood definition is: sensual self-indulgence.  But there's another definition, which I find equally intriguing: the pursuit of pleasure.  Why does this matter to me?  Admittedly, I have a test prep teacher's obsession with verbal minutiae.  But there's more to it than that.  In recent years I've attempted to embrace my hedonistic nature, but I'm still not entirely sure which camp I fall into: pursuit, or indulgence?   I have a fairly constant need for movement; I get wanderlust restlessness regularly (I'm predictable in my unpredictability).  But there's so much to be said for steak and red wine at home during a downpour.  And by that, I mean steak.  fried in butter.  At 4pm.  The wine needs no explanation.

But indulgence isn't as interesting as pursuit, so let's focus on the movement.  Before returning to my hedonistic Taipei pleasure dome in preparation for the summer teaching marathon, I explored a bit of Formosa.  Most guidebooks will tell you that no trip to Taiwan is complete without a visit to Sun Moon Lake, so I made my pilgrimage there, and it was nice, and I'll blog about it (in like 7 months or something), but in my humble opinion it does not hold a candle to the magic and splendor that is Penghu.  Ah, Penghu.  Let me sing of your seafood, praise your windy landscape, and marvel at the kindness of your people.  Penghu, land of squid, land of cactus.  Penghu, you are a 50 minutes by plane from Taipei, and yet you hold mysteries unknown to the rest of this island-country.  Penghu, wo ai!

Penghu is an archipelago off the west coast of Taiwan.  Since it's made of basalt, its terrain provides a stark contrast to the lush, mountainous jungles found on the rest of the island.  Instead of Jurassic Park ferns, it boasts aloe and cacti.  Penghu is widely known for two things: wind and seafood.  I managed to avoid the first, and revel in the second.  I spent my days there biking. scooting, and eating.  I love harbor towns, which I suppose makes sense since I grew up in one.  There is something that feels so incredibly right about the smell of brine and the clang of boat rigging.  My home base was the Moscor International Youth Hostel, run by perhaps the nicest people in all of Taiwan.  Jeffrey and his wife provided me with a vintage bike and copious amounts of travel suggestions (they were also more than willing to write down said travel tips in Chinese, since this sad Waigouren is still functionally illiterate.)

Undoubtedly I have a yearning for new environments and experiences.  But upon landing in a new locale, I'm easily contented.  My first evening in Penghu was perfect: I ate this absurd fish soup consisting of a gooey broth juxtaposed with pieces of spicy fried fish indigenous to the region.  I can admit that when I looked at this soup I was skeptical.  But I forgot rule #1 - trust the locals.  Even the semi-locals.  My hostel-mate was a college girl studying in the south of Taiwan, and she led me through a night of culinary greatness.  After the soup we went to the itty-bitty Penghu night market for fried squid.  And suddenly, I knew.  Penghu and squid.  A marriage so perfect that George R.R. Martin would certainly kill one of them off by the third book/season.  Penghu and squid go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.  Penghu and squid, well, they complete me.  In a way that Tom Cruise and his creepy Scientology never will.  Oh, and what did we wash this bounty down with?  Bright purple cactus juice, the beverage of Penghu champions.  And then, sated, it was on to the Penghu Fireworks festival, featuring Asian boy bands and a general disregard for deodorant.  I rode my rickety bike home enveloped in a seaside embrace.

My saviors

So, um, despite my best efforts, I don't really speak Chinese.  And I don't really have a valid drivers license.  And this can be an issue in an area with few English speakers and even fewer cabs.  My first full day in Penghu  was a comedy of errors.  A Smela-level state of absurdity.  But, as always, things somehow worked out. When I missed the bus from the really old and big tree, generous food stall owners took me in, called me a cab, and gave me free beverages because "you are a friend now".  And then, when the cab driver couldn't take me from the turtle temple to the traditional village he arranged for a crazy woman in the Taiwanese equivalent of a burka to shuttle me to my next destination.  True, she spent most of the time yelling at me in Chinese, but beggars can't be choosers.  And I did manage to get back in time to enjoy a lovely bike ride by the shore.  And eat more squid.  Yeah, I ate fried squid every day.  You gotta problem with that?

Day two was island hopping.  Luckily for me, no one on the far-reaching islands cares if you have a valid drivers license; they'll give you a scooter regardless.  They'll also put a sticker on you so that people know which boat you belong to when you're wandering the harbor, sunburned, weeping, a broken woman, trying to find your way home.  Not that this happened to me or anything.  *Ahem* Chimei and Wangan were stunning.  I rode around the practically desolate islands, drinking in the colors: brilliant blue water against a yellow, rocky shoreline.  Green succulents amidst withered brown grass. This was my world, if only for a few hours.   I felt such a sense of calm, of peace.  Of person.  There was only one way to honor this.  More fried squid.*

Really?  You're surprised?

Super Asian

My time in Penghu was woefully short.  I did not cavort on the white sand beaches.  I only tried one of the local melons.  And I was only partially adopted by the hostel owners; we never had a chance to fill out the official paperwork.  But Penghu will live on my memory as my rugged Taiwanese paradise.  I will return with a valid license and most definitely an appetite.

People of Peghu: hide your squid.

* A note about the squid - the texture is firm, just short of chewy.  And the flavor, oh my, so buttery, so right!  The street stalls served it deep fried with fresh basil, garlic, and the mysterious Taiwanese salt-pepper.  One can only dream of being worthy of such deliciousness.  And goddammit.  We haven't even talked about the oysters.  The oysters!  Gran dio!  Giuosto ciel!

For dessert I present to you:

A very old tree

A very young boy band

A turtle

And Taiwan