What more could you Taiwant?

I neglected to include any photographs in this post as I have maintained a meticulous collection on my Facebook. Please check them out for pictures and explanations from my trip: http://tinyurl.com/JodysTaiwanTrip

I’m not afraid of flying. (I am, however, afraid of flying crocodiles.) When things go smoothly, I find the whole airplane experience to be somewhat cathartic. You essentially get to do what everyone usually wants to do: spend hours sleeping, reading and watching movies without feeling guilty. Of course, there’s the risk of screaming children (or screaming adults, which is usually coupled with a sudden loss of cabin pressure) or the neighbor who betrays his dignity by drinking three cups of airline coffee and spends the next two and a half hours twitching as he tells you about the trip to Montana where he saw bears fornicating in the wild and even though National Geographic uses high-definition photography you really can’t imagine the majesty of ursine intercourse until you’ve seen it up close. These are the assumed risks of flying, but I’d rather face them than watch a Susan Sarandon movie. Not that the two are mutually exclusive.

I even enjoy being in airports. I like the way I can get from one end of the terminal to the other by shuffling between moving walkways (called “lators,” as no escalation occurs) and can walk in and out of the touch-free bathroom with the knowledge that I never had to compromise my dignity by using my hands for something as degrading as flushing a toilet.

Putting aside the fears of terrorism, broken airplanes, and drunk pilots, the whole flying experience can make one feel downright safe and comfortable. However, leaving the airport womb is a spank in the face. This is especially the case when you are in a foreign country.

As I left the Taipei airport, I had two hours to get to the Taoyuan High Speed Rail train station, where I would catch the bullet train from Taipei to Tainan. The train ride would be two hours, and upon reaching Tainan station I would need to catch a local train at 3 o’clock and take it four stations where I would be meeting up with my friend Alec. I don’t speak Chinese or Taiwanese, there is not much English signage in Taiwan and I did not have a phone.

Therefore, punctuality was key.

Upon exiting the airport, I found the bus parking lot and asked someone where the bus to the High Speed Rail station was. He pointed to a line of people. I bought a ticket and stood in line. As the bus arrived, my spidey-sense tingled and I asked a worker if the bus was going to Taoyuan Station. “No.” I refunded my ticket and began searching again for the proper bus.

“Bus to Taoyuan Station?” I asked another employee. He pointed to the final stall. A woman standing at the final bus stall saw me stumbling around like a cat fresh out of the washing machine and asked me where I was going. “Taoyuan Station.” She assured me that this was the proper bus.

I boarded and asked the driver, “Taoyuan Station?” He nodded. I paid and sat down. I was uncertain how long the bus ride would be. Thus, when we passed a sign for the High Speed Rail station a few minutes into the ride, I figured we would be looping around and returning shortly, à la the Möbius strip.

Forty-five minutes into the ride, I was so far in the middle of somewhere, I wouldn’t have been been able to explain to anybody how somebody could begin to get to where I was. However, despite any indication as to the location of my whereabouts, I found comfort in the few familiarities around me. For example, it was clear that I was still within an oxygen-rich environment as no one was asphyxiating on the sidewalk. Also, there were Starbucks, meaning limited supplies of milk and cinnamon were nearby. Yet, after an hour on the bus, anxiety set in.

I pulled out my Kindle (or, my Kindleh, for those who prefer the Yiddish diminutive) and turned on the free Internet.

“Taoyuan High Speed Rail Station is only five minutes from the airport!” The Internet said.

“Shit,” I said.

I turned and asked the woman who had previously affirmed my bus selection, “Is this going to the High Speed Rail station?”

“Ooooh…,” she oooohed at me.

“High. Speed. Rail.” I repeated.

“No! Why you not say that before?”

Instead of slamming my head into the window, I moved up to the front of the bus and indicated in Chinese sign language that I would “like to get off the bus before I kill someone with my Kindle.” My debarking request was denied and I was assured by the woman that the bus driver would take care of the situation.

Eventually, the bus emptied and I was alone with the driver. As he continued to drive, I wondered if I was being chauffeured to the High Speed Rail Station. I felt a brief wave of bravado, as my personal city bus flew through crowded streets in an effort to deliver me to my bullet train. This delusion ended abruptly when the bus stopped on the side of the road. The driver led me across the street, flagged down another bus, and put me on board. As I sat in my new vehicle, I assessed the situation:

Do I have control over whether or not I make the bullet train? No.

Will I survive if I do not make the train? Yes.

So, I played Angry Birds. Forty minutes later, I was sitting on my train.

If my limited time in the country was an indicator of anything, Taiwan is excellent. Down south in Tainan, where Alec was studying at National Cheng Kung University, people were very friendly to us (particularly when Alec spoke Chinese) and the best part was… they had vegetarian food!

Hallelujah! The lord shower grains upon us! A thousand splendid sweet potato suns shine their bountiful rays of broccoli and potato croquettes on a harmonious sea of tofu and wheat gluten trumpets playing an anthem of raw and well-seasoned dishes based in a clear broth!

After two months in Korea, where “vegetarian food” means “less beef,” it was a breath of fresh air to speak with waitresses who not only knew what vegetarianism was, but went out of their way to ensure that I had enough food and enjoyed what I was eating. Alec and I frequented a vegetarian restaurant near his dorm where the owners had adopted him as their pet American. They engaged with him in lively conversation, and gave me the friendliest eyeing a person could ask for. They even brought us to another restaurant and treated us to vegetarian dim sum.

During one particularly feisty consumption of a delicious tofu dish, I asked Alec to tell the owner that I wanted to take the sauce and make a bath out of it. I watched as the two spoke and the owner turned confusedly to the couple eating next to us and made the univeral washing-the-body-with-bar-of-soap pantomime. Eventually, Alec translated, “He says that’s not possible.” Alec cleared the air with, “in America, people express their contentment by saying they ‘want to take a bath.’”

The damage I do is limited.

The main public attraction of Taiwanese cities are the night markets, large swaths of land covered in food booths, flirting teenagers and English misnomer t-shirts. Much like the Spokane County Fair, you can blow your money on carnival games and win Chinese factory-made prizes. Unlike the Spokane County Fair, you can actually win the games at the night market without your father mortgaging the house to bribe the carny. I was particularly keen on a mahjong-bingo fusion game and the shoot the balloons with the BB gun game.

Up north, in Taipei, we ventured throughout the city visiting night markets and Taipei 101, the world’s second largest building and the only thing preventing me from being the tallest free-standing entity in Taiwan. I also had the opportunity to visit another friend from Columbia, Vicky, who was wreaking havoc in Taiwan in her own specialized way. Together, we destroyed the Shillin night market game section.

Despite the remarkable humidity and my smelling like a war crime, Taiwan was a great country to visit. I highly recommend the trip, given that you have some time and someone with you who speaks Chinese.

Also, don’t trust anyone at the airport.