A Taiwan Christmas

Josh and I didn’t make it to the States for Christmas. The realities of airfare cost and a work deadline for me deterred us from that Christmas miracle. But even though the holiday was different from traditional family Yules of old, it was bright and merry all the same.

*Our Christmas tree, giving Charlie Brown’s a run for its money

We haven’t cooked much in our 6 x 4 kitchen, seeing as it doesn’t hold much more than its single burner and a water boiler. But we were set on having blueberry pancakes for Christmas breakfast. Locals don’t seem too keen on baking, so to obtain ingredients, we dropped by one of the city’s international grocery stores—C!ty Super. They stock everything from spicy Mexican salsa to Swiss cheese that's actually from Switzerland. And two days before the big day. . .well, as Josh put it, “Got foreigners?” Despite the crowds, we found everything on our list, but baking powder is pretty hard to describe when the only related word you know in Chinese is bake and the only English word the staff knows is cake. Three different employees had to powwow before determining what it was we needed. But that’s the beauty of the Taiwanese—they don’t give up until they’ve helped you.

Christmas Eve’s main events were 1) taking ol’ Rodney (our motorcycle) out for a spin and screaming Merry Christmas! at every passerby and 2) attending the Holy Family Catholic Church for midnight mass (or rather, the English service held at 10). It was the first English church service I’ve attended since moving here, so I was excited to be able to fully participate. It was pretty great until I passed out during the homily.

*People buzzing outside the church - including a female SANTA!

Sunday morning we put that baking powder to delicious use and exchanged gifts. I supported Josh’s beer snobbery with a few imported brews while he fed my Tina Fey obsession with a 30 Rock mug displaying a quote from the show.

Liz: Why are you in a tux?
Jack: It’s after 6pm. What am I, a farmer?

While dinner was far from my mom’s traditional Christmas fare of ham and yams, it was delish. We tried a new restaurant called Nonzero Kitchen, which is reputed for its simple healthy cooking. We splurged on a set meal apiece—nutty bread with olive oil, salad dressed in the restaurant's own balsamic vinegar, creamy nutmeg soup, risotto topped with scallops, and a fruit and cake tray for dessert. The style was modish too—multi-colored wood paneling, mismatched wooden tables and chairs, and a middle-aged hipster sporting a red head scarf wandering around.

*Dessert platter

But perhaps best of all, the shoes I recently purchased for an animal print-themed birthday party doubled as festive Christmas flats. Not gonna lie, they pretty much made my outfit.

8 Things I Hate About You

Dedicated to Taiwan, my super cool country-of-residence

I hate the way you drizzle all day
And the way it ruins my boots
I hate the way you have hordes of ants
And how they eat my fruits

I hate your big dumb mosquitoes
And the way they chomp on my flesh
I hate your jungles for causing me to sniffle
And making my allergies a mess

I hate the way your climate is humid
And how that makes my house dusty
I hate it when you make my clothes mold
Even worse when you turn my pots rusty

I hate that your sky is usually hazy
And the fact your locals consider me tall
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you
Not even close. . .
Not even a little bit. . .
Not even at all

PS - My clothes really are molding though.

I hate going to the doctor. This isn’t an original aversion, I know, but it developed when I was a kid. I was sick with the flu, and my mom asked me if I wanted to go to the doctor. This freedom of decision had never been granted me before, so it warranted the following thoughtful reasoning: change out of my Beauty & the Beast jammies to drive 20 minutes to the pediatrician’s office to sit in the waiting room for 30 minutes to have the doctor with cold hands reeking of sterilization jab me in the stomach and poke coarse wooden sticks down my throat to determine that yes, I did have the flu so I should drive back home to take Tylenol out of Mom’s medicine cabinet.

No sugar-free sucker is worth that.

Since then, I’ve been to the doctor a handful of times. In Boston, a doctor with no ethical qualms about calling in prescriptions for his friends lived in my building, so I only had to schlep myself up the stairs to receive medical attention.

But then we moved here, and my body decided it’s too wussy to adjust to Taiwan’s autumn without an illness. I tried tricking it into feeling better by still going to work, but my manager sent me home because I “wasn’t in my right mind.” Here, however, there is no hassle-free prescription connection. There is no mother to enforce a doctor’s visit. Josh tried, but he lacks the iron fist. He is, however, a gifted nagger, so after a few days, I relented.

I still don’t enjoy going to the doctor, but I love Taiwanese healthcare.

Upon entering Wanfang Hospital, located just a short drive down our mountain, I was greeted by the intrinsically healing aroma of fresh bread and coffee, wafting from the bakery and neighboring Starbucks next to the door. (My initial thought was, “Why can’t they have these installed in US hospitals? Then it wouldn’t be so obnoxious to visit sick friends.” Then my conscience fainted.) I walked up to the registration desk, in clear sight of the entrance, and was asked to fill out one sheet of paperwork. The process took five minutes, despite the fact that I didn’t have a Taiwan ID yet and thus, wasn’t registered for national health insurance.

The clinic was a quick escalator ride upstairs. The doctor saw me after 15 minutes, fluently examined me in English, and diagnosed me with the flu. But instead of offering lame advice I could find on WebMD, he prescribed three different types of medication: an antibiotic, pain killers, and cough medicine. When I reminded him that coughing wasn’t one of my symptoms, he responded, “I know. But you’ll start.” And he was right. I still sound like a chain smoker. Pre-emptive prescriptions—love it.

There was even more to love. The pharmacy was downstairs. Plus the prescriptions were ready by the time I arrived at the desk. Then I simply paid at the cashier’s desk for both the appointment and drugs. Total: $11.54 USD. And that’s without health insurance.

Let’s compare this to the experience a Taiwanese girl I met had with US healthcare. She was in the States with no health insurance, got sick, went to the hospital, was treated rudely by the staff due to her poor English (which I had no difficulty understanding), and was then sent a bill totaling $1,200 USD. She couldn’t afford this astronomical fee and had to leave the country.

If this be socialism, let socialism be served.

Huangdidian - The Emperor's Throne - 皇帝殿

Josh’s college roommate, Matt, came to Taipei for a visit a few weeks ago. To kick off his stay, we hiked Huangdidian, which means “The Emperor’s Throne.” Our trusty Lonely Planet guidebook recommended this hike for intense exercise and thrilling views. It did not disappoint.

To get there, we took the 666 bus (Foreshadowing, anyone?) from the Muzha MRT station to the village of Shihting, where we enjoyed a tasty pre-hike lunch of tofu, rice, and the standard boiled vegetables at a stand run by a Buddhist nun. We asked her where the trail started and, to our surprise, she flatly refused to tell us. She pointed at the sky, which had been cloudy for most of the day, and said it wasn’t a safe hike in the rain. A passer-by then volunteered the information, which produced an irate outburst from the nun. (Again, foreshadowing?)

The trail begins with about 45 minutes worth of stairs. . .

. . .and then moves into a series of winding footpaths, parts of which are steep enough you have to use the ropes provided for balance or even to just flat out pull yourself up.

The only part of the trail that had me worried was these steel ladders. At 30 or 40 meters long, some of them were a doozy.

Especially after it started raining. We were too occupied with maneuvering the slick metal and slippery rocks to get photographic proof, but turns out, that nun had good reason to treat us like dolts.

Then you have to walk the ridgeline. This section provided some protection on the sides, but on other stretches, it’s just you and the edge.

Huangdi temple, nestled in the mountains, is towards the end of the trail. The temple attendant had set out a nice spread of teas and chairs for hikers to enjoy.

The views were, per usual, misty and breathtaking.

We had a blast. Just be sure to check in with one of those nuns before approaching The Throne.

Road Trip - Taipei & Yilan Counties

As you may have seen on FB, Josh and I purchased a motorcycle a few weeks ago. The first drive through Taipei’s hectic traffic alongside monster buses and hordes of scooters was literally heart-stopping. But there’s nothing more refreshing than taking Rodney (Yes, I named it.) for a spin outside of the city, zipping through clean mountain gusts and fresh ocean breezes. Two weekends ago, we took a road trip through Yilan county, and it was incredible!

To beat it out of the city, we took Provincial Highway 9. This road cuts through some breathtaking mountains.

At some points, we were so high that we were literally driving above the mountains’ cloud cover.

And of course, there were some impressive temples to see along the way.

Hwy 9 connects to Provincial Highway 2, which is renowned for spectacular coastal views. It didn’t disappoint.

There are several fishing villages sprinkled along the coast that make for a great pit stop. We alighted in Dali and got a tub of fried seafood for $100 NT. It was scrumptious. And seeing as we lived in Boston before this, we’re pretty much fried seafood connoisseurs.

The fishing market we ate at overlooked the docks, and you could see fishermen lugging their wares up the hill and selling them to the stand owners right in front of us. This stuff was FRESH.

Here’s the map!

Or at least, that’s the route you’re supposed to take. Scooters and motorcycles under 550 c.c. are not allowed to drive on major highways in Taiwan. We knew this – kind of – but still wound up taking the 62 expressway back to Taipei. It was an accident – kind of. Do not do this. The police will stop you, and you will have to resort to acting like dumb American tourists to avoid a ticket. Or maybe we weren’t really acting. After all, we are amateurs.

Herb and Dorothy

Last May, I attended BookExpo America in New York, NY, a glorious four-day convention for everyone in the book biz. I was working the event for Godine, the house I interned with this spring, and one of our debut titles was Miss Etta and Dr. Claribel, an illustrated book about Etta and Claribel Cone, who purchased Matisse’s and Picasso’s work before they were discovered by mainstream collectors. One author who dropped by our booth recognized the cover’s illustration of the Cone sisters, which surprised me, seeing as no one I pitched the book to had heard of them. We got to chatting, and I commented that I wished I had the resources to collect art. She enthusiastically replied, “But you can!” She proceeded to tell me about Herb and Dorothy, a documentary about a Manhattan couple who, without any professional training, amassed a selection of art worth millions. “Watch it,” she said. “It’ll change your life.”

Well, I just watched it. Twice. Consider my life changed.

At first glance, Herb and Dorothy Vogel seem like your average elderly couple. In many of the film’s shots, they sit at the kitchen table, Herb watching TV and Dorothy fussing over her cat, Archie. But the backdrop for these scenes is anything but commonplace. The otherwise stark white wall is canvassed in paintings, sketches, and colorful paper constructions. As the camera pans through their one-bedroom apartment, you realize their place doesn’t function as a living space – it’s a sanctuary for thousands of artistic creations. They don’t own living room furniture because their stockpile takes up too much space, hence the filming in the kitchen. The real mind-boggler is that this isn’t even their full collection. They donated 4,782 pieces to the National Gallery of Art in 1992. The pieces you glimpse in the film are just what they’ve acquired since then.

Throughout the documentary, Herb and Dorothy narrate their life story. Dorothy was a librarian and Herb a postal worker who didn’t graduate high school. So how does a middle-class couple come to own one of the most renowned late 20th century art collections? By buying art no one else wanted.

Herb and Dorothy explain that when they started collecting in the 1960s, pop and abstract art were the popular styles, and experts weren’t interested in the fledgling minimalist and conceptual movements, making these productions affordable. They spent Dorothy’s salary on living expenses and Herb’s on art. Dorothy said they only had two rules for purchases: “It had to be affordable, and it had to fit in our apartment.”

The artists interviewed in the film speak not only highly of Herb and Dorothy, but also warmly, as if talking about life-long friends. And for some of them, that’s the case. A few artists said they get a call from Herb once a week just checking in on them, and one referred to them as “friend collectors, not collectors collectors.” Christo and Jean-Claude, an artist team-couple, said they even traded the Vogels art for cat-sitting. It’s inspiring too that they genuinely collect art for art’s sake. Dorothy said, “I never thought the artists we collected in those days would become so famous. It wasn’t a goal for us. We liked the work, and when they got recognition, we shared their joy. We sort of became of part of it.”

But the documentary’s point isn’t that everyone can collect art or even that everyone should learn about art. The message is more universal than that. Dorothy says it best herself: “You don’t have to be rich. You can enrich your life.”

You can watch Herb and Dorothy for yourself here: Herb and Dorothy
And check out Miss Etta and Dr. Claribel here: Miss Etta and Dr. Claribel

Since moving to Taipei, something’s been bugging me, and I feel the need to mention it: Americans are way too concerned about “protecting” their native language.

In Taipei, many people speak English, even though their island society could function just fine without it. But in an attempt to market themselves to the Western world, they learn. Not only do they learn, but they also use their knowledge to help little lost foreign girls (exhibit 1: me). I’m never standing on a street corner looking perplexedly at a map for long before a local is at my elbow, offering to help. What makes this even more indulgent of them is that Americans are not their first, not their second, but only the third largest group of international visitors in Taiwan. In other words, they’re not assisting me for the tourism revenue; they’re just doing it to be nice. In fact, out of deference to English-speaking foreigners, many signs are in English. (And by “many signs,” I mean every sign related to public transportation or any road sign.) I can count on one hand the number of times someone here has gotten frustrated with my inability to communicate. The first time it happened, I have to admit, I was offended. But I mean, I guess I am living in their country, eating their food, earning a salary from a local business. It’s only fair that I learn their language.

And then I realized that those lines sounded familiar.

Oh yeah. It’s like, every American’s mantra about Spanish-speaking immigrants.

I’ve never bought into the whole let’s-make-English-the-national-language battle. But now that I’m experiencing the foreigner’s side, I realize just how miserly that mentality is. If native Chinese speakers can learn English, which is an overwhelmingly dissimilar language, I think Americans can learn some basic Spanish. Despite the fact that the U.S. was built on the backs of immigrants, we can’t subtitle a few simple road signs in Spanish? We begrudge them the Mexican bakery that now fills the empty building down the street? We refer to any neighborhood populated by Latin Americans as “the bad part of town”? Please. The most shocking thing is that my Christian friends are the most stringent supporters of this movement. Jesus went through some pretty inconvenient stuff for slaves, for women, for all the outcasts of the day. Shouldn’t we do the same?

For those of you who find it irksome to press 1 for English: stop being selfish in the name of nationalism. If Lady Liberty had pose-able thumbs, she would beat the bejeepers out of you.

Hong Kong Highlights

Due to delays with my Taiwan residency documentation (This has been such a bugger process for me, an American, that I can only imagine the horrors immigrants to the States must face.), I had to leave the country last week, so Josh and I took a five-day trip to Hong Kong. The city blew my mind. While it’d be impossible to narrate all the experiences we had, here are the highlights.

The spectacular views – The landscape of HK was mind-boggling: lofty skyscrapers set against lush mountains, clear ocean, and seemingly uninhabited tiny green islands. HK reminded me of Manhattan, except better – urbanites can escape into nature in a matter of minutes, not hours. Also, riding the Star Ferry across Victoria Harbor for $0.36 USD a pop = priceless.


Drinking a Guinness! – Táiwān Píjǐu may be cheap, but it looks and tastes like water. Which, I discovered during Guinness and I’s reunion, has led to a serious decline in my alcohol tolerance...

Chungking Mansions – We stayed on the cheap in Happy Yeung Guesthouse, one of many hostels in Chungking Mansions, which our Lonely Planet guidebook lists as a sight to see. They weren’t kidding. It’s an entire complex (and by complex, I mean several high-rise buildings, encased in wobbly-looking scaffolding) of low-budget guesthouses, with the ground floor housing various shops and stands. Cell phones, Indian food, money exchangers, saris, magazines – you need it, and you can probably find it down there. Also, back in the day (and by “back in the day” I mean a few years ago), the Mansions were renowned for drug busts and being a fire trap. They’ve cleaned up their act since then, and we stayed in a private room for $13 USD a head per night. For those of you unaccustomed to staying in hostels, that’s the economic equivalent of getting a new couch off the sidewalk.

Gambling in Macau – Neither one us have gambled before. But we took a day trip to Macau, China’s other SAR, glamorous gambling capital of the world, and it seemed silly not to gamble in a city known for gambling. Seeing as we are novices and didn’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of those purple suited card-dealers, we stuck to slot machines. It was horrible. First off, the machine had a minimum of $3 USD, when we only wanted to spend like $10 HK. Then, the directions weren’t helpful at all. Something about getting five picture thingies in a row, which the chances of accomplishing are increased by gambling more credits, which are, of course, purchased with money. For reals?! We had already spent $3! Suffice it to say, we lost.

Dim Sum – I’ve only had the pleasure of consuming this delish southern Chinese cuisine once before, in Boston’s Chinatown, and it was pretty epic then too. Egg custard tarts, steamed BBQ pork buns, or my favorite, sesame buns coated in crushed peanuts – we ate Dim Sum four times in five days. THAT is how scrumptious this stuff is.



Best thing about this trip – we spent about a grand. This may sound expensive, but let’s compare that to a vacation of similar length at any European destination, or even a major city in the U.S. Let’s also consider the fact that HK is one of the most expensive cities on the continent. Traveling in Asia is CHEAP.

In other news, I start my new job on Monday! I’ll be working with an educational publishing company as an editor and English-speaking PR rep. Teaching English, my original employment plan, would have been fun. But not gonna lie, I’m not cut out for teaching – even if Asian kids are pretty adorable.

Taiwan - Finally!

When Rachelle and Brittany, two friends from my hometown, returned from a two-week trip to China this summer, I asked them to give me the low-down on Asia. Out of the many tidbits they shared, the point they emphasized the most was that generally, bathroom facilities are not equipped with toilets. Instead, they use “squatty-potties,” which are basically porcelain-coated holes in the ground into which you relieve yourself. At first, I assumed they were exaggerating. Or, at the very least, this couldn’t be an Asia-wide standard. After all, Josh had been living in Taiwan for six weeks, and surely would have thought to mention such a…umm…cultural difference.

They were not exaggerating. And Taiwanese bathrooms absolutely include squatty-potties.

I first experienced these in the Tokyo airport bathrooms during my layover. The stalls were labeled “American Style” and “Japanese Style,” which instantly raised a red flag. Feeling a little panicky, I nudged open a “Japanese Style” stall…and proceeded to stand awkwardly in the doorway, my mouth gaping open at the rounded-rectangle of porcelain set into the floor. Why had Josh not warned me of this?! I could have spent part of the summer practicing, you know, doing squats and lunges and stuff. This isn’t a huge deal (I tried to reason with myself), but it does affect an activity I do multiple times a day, not to mention a significant muscle group. Surely he would have also found this a bit unusual and made some sort of comment. I mean, good Lord, Rachelle and Brittany couldn’t stop talking about it.

Then I remembered: he’s a man. I’m not passing judgment; it’s just that peeing on the ground makes things more convenient, and actually, the porcelain is an added luxury.

Although, when I asked Josh why he didn’t mention it (Yes, I asked. Quite indignantly, in fact.), he made an excellent point: it’s pretty gross to sit on a toilet, seeing as God knows how many people’s butts have been planted in that exact spot.

So yeah. I just dedicated a substantial part of my first blog post about Taiwan to the particulars of using the toilet. I can sense my mother’s horror from here.

Despite the squatty-potty issue (Which, by the way, is a horrible term, obviously created by some vulgar American.), Taiwan has been an amazing experience thus far. The Taiwanese are uber friendly, and there is so much to do and see – dazzling temples, beautiful jungle hikes, lively night markets… Plus eating has become my new favorite hobby. Dumplings are the bomb, shaved ice/fruit desserts are delish AND hydrating, and bubble milk tea is literally manna from heaven. Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if researchers someday discover that “milk and honey” stuff the Israelites were raving about was really milk tea.

Also, I discovered a website that streams 30 Rock for free in Taiwan, so basically I’m all set on American TV. Tina Fey is just funny – it doesn’t matter where you are.

100 Mile Fitness Challenge!

I'm flaky when it comes to consistent exercising. And when I say "flaky," I mean I exercise every day, obsessively so, for one week. Then the next, I spend the time that was allotted to exercise eating Cheez-Its. So I'm taking the 100 Miles Fitness Challenge! 100 miles isn't much, but if I can accumulate those miles on a regular basis before September 1st, that would be quite the personal accomplishment.

Hopefully this won't turn out to be completely humiliating...

Berry Baking

I love baking. It's therapeutic to use a hand-beater, roll dough into cookies, or lightly boil a berry sauce (while stirring continuously). And today, while baking, I realized I've never blogged about this particular hobby. So, here 'tis.

Today's bout of baking was inspired by visiting Thunderbird Berry Farm this morning to pick blueberries with my mom and younger brother, Joshie. (Picking berries - also therapeutic)

With 8 pounds of fresh, sun-warmed blueberries strewn about the kitchen, I felt compelled to bake something! I chose Blueberry Oat Bars from allrecipes.com, which is my go-to baking/cooking website. These were scrumptious! An all-around hit.

But something else I realized today: I alter every recipe, sometimes beyond recognition. Here are the changes I made to this recipe:
1) substitute 1 cup whole wheat flour & 1/2 cup all-purpose flour for 1 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour;
2) substitute 1 cup brown sugar for 1 1/2 cups white sugar;
3) add 1/2 tsp. of cinnamon;
4) double the amount of berries from 2 cups to 4 cups;
5) and use blueberries AND blackberries!

And voilà!

Please note: photography is not one of my hobbies.

Time for a Little Update...

I’ve been visiting my hometown (Tulsa, Oklahoma) for 8 days now. While spending quality time with my family and old buddies has been terrific, I have to admit, I’m suffering from a bit of culture shock. Here’s a few noticeable differences from my Boston life:

1) A bigger car is a safer car.
2) Walking is bothersome. Why would you walk or ride a bike or take public transportation to get to your destination when you could drive the aforementioned over-size vehicle? What kind of government propaganda is that?! (I think I’m developing blood clots in my legs.)
3) Wal-Mart rules!
4) Kenny Chesney is immensely talented. (I guess that’s the thinking you develop when country music constitutes 89% of the available radio stations.)
5) This is a serious one – the average Boston resident really is abrupt. The other day, the cashier at Wal-Mart thanked me for visiting and wished me a nice day with a very genuine-looking smile. I was immediately shocked/suspicious, and opted to ignore her because she must want something. My sister informed me I was embarrassing her.
6) Organic food is expensive, hard to find, and gross. (Thank you, Mom, for not believing any of this.)
7) Insects are just a part of life. (Which is true, I guess. But I really enjoyed my life without them.)
8) The sun is SO BRIGHT. I had forgotten what real, un-hindered by clouds or buildings, sunglasses-are-not-optional sunshine feels like.
9)Roadkill happens. And it's disgusting. Please note, I saw one roadkill victim during the entirety of my time in Boston, and it was a kitten.
10) Females should have medium to long hair, or else they look like a boy or a 60+ woman. Which is unfortunate, seeing as my hair now looks like this –

Again, thank you, Mom, for not believing any of this.

Our Code of Peace

Check out an article I wrote, published by The Daily Flannelgraph: Our Code of Peace.

Staycation: Days 2 - 4

Day 2: Cantab Lounge Poetry Slam

On Wednesday night, day 2 of Josh and I’s staycation, we attended a poetry slam at The Cantab Lounge. As with improv, I was a slam virgin. I’ve been to poetry readings, of course, but no official open mic marathon of poetic goodness. I figured it would be good. The lounge website was so non-informational and ugly that even I, the only person under 60 who hasn’t yet learned to use Photoshop, recognized its wretched, non-mainstream design – evidence of a hipster hot spot. And hipsters write the best poetry.

I was not disappointed, in the locale or the poets. The poetry slam was held in the Cantab’s basement. It was dim, the walls’ paint was scratched and blotchy, and there was an itty bitty baby bar crammed into the back of the room. The place was full of people – there wasn’t even space for everyone to be there. (For example, we got there only 10 minutes after it started and had to sit in the doorway of the men’s bathroom.) And people had traveled to get there too. The host announced there were “slam teams” (I had no idea such a thing existed.) in attendance from Portland, ME and NH. Talk about commitment to your art. Best of all, everyone seemed to know each other. As people would arrive, half the room would wave at whoever had just entered, and inevitably, a girl would skip up to the new arrival, squealing, and throw her arms around him/her/them – an unusual display of affection for hipsters. Cantab holds these slams almost every Wednesday, and these people must be faithful attendees. We stuck out like the lame, non-plaid-wearers we are.

The poems were quality. There was a heavily-tattooed woman with rib-length frizzy hair who compared her mother to Medusa and every other mythological female no mother would ever want to be compared with; a hairy skinny guy who wrote a sensual double-entendre poem entitled “Where Mommy Can’t See”; and, my favorite, a woman in boots and a filmy floral dress who argued that, since children can be entertained by the same puzzles and toys and books over and over, perhaps they should be the ones working at most of our jobs. Solid stuff.

Favorite line of the night: “A fish needs a bicycle like a poet needs a girlfriend/I just don’t see it happening”

Day 3: I panicked that we would never be ready to move and stayed home. Not that I did any packing. But I hyperventilated about it. And then I got over it and we hung out with friends.

Day 4: Breakwater Reading Series @ Brookline Booksmith

The Breakwater Reading Series is put on by the awesome bookstore Brookline Booksmith, at which MFA candidates from Boston’s universities read what they have been working on. This event wasn’t great. I liked the first reader, with her fictional short story about a girl’s fling with her tattoo artist, and the last reader’s poetry had an intriguing choppy style. But the other two readers weren’t well-prepared, which led to awkward reading sessions full of pauses and paper shuffling and stutters, and, frankly, most high school students’ material is more original.

Maybe MFA programs should recruit hipsters.

Staycation: Day 1

As previously announced, Josh and I will be moving from Boston to Taiwan at the end of the month! But bad news: Josh will be going over to Taiwan hans solo for the first six weeks, as his Mandarin summer program at National Taiwan U. is intense. The good news is that I will be spending that time in Tulsa visiting my family and friends, and I am eagerly anticipating my mommy taking care of me again. The bad news is Josh and I will be separated for our two-year wedding anniversary. Stink. But good news! We decided to celebrate early by going on vacation this week! The bad news is that didn’t work out because we haven’t planned for our move at all, as Josh just graduated and his family visited us for a week. And moving all your stuff back to the Midwest so you can bum storage space from your parents, and then moving internationally, is no small feat. Ultimate good news though: we’re treating this week as a staycation, cramming in all the activities our beloved city has to offer that we haven’t taken it up on yet. Which is really great news.

Staycation, day 1: The house teams show at Improv Asylum

Now, I didn’t use to be into improv, or really even into comedians in general. That is, until I fell in love with Tina Fey during her Sarah Palin impressions in 2008. And, until last night, I was actually an improv virgin. I had seen it on TV, but never been to a live show. But who doesn’t love well-done, hilarious, off-the-cuff comedy? These people were good. Laugh-your-a$k off good.

The theater was cozily small, with the stage in the center of the seating, so every seat was a good seat. There were four house teams – I later overhead one of the comedians telling his friends in the audience (Who I had the good fortune to sit next to. And then blatantly eavesdropped on their conversation.) that two were resident teams and two were in-training teams. I honestly couldn’t tell the difference. Well, maybe on one team I could. They only got like 65 laughs as opposed to non-stop.

You knew the sketches were true improv, as the comedians got their material from shout-outs by the audience, which also made the subjects of the sketches completely random. There were Spanish conquistadores in a boxing ring fighting with mathematical equations and jello shots, a high-strung girl on a first date with a surfer dude who made a necklace out of his beloved dead pet gerbil, or my favorite – the mafia trying to pawn off the body of their most recent victim, a muppet. Fun was had by one and all.

As a side note, Tina Fey has a memoir out – Bossypants. #1 book in the country right now. Read it! I read it on a plane and, despite my best efforts, kept laughing so hard I snorted. But really, she and Amy Poehler are like, the only female comedians who don’t make lame jokes about how horrible men are or what hormonal witches women are. So basically, they’re the only female comedians who are intelligently humorous and don’t make us look bad. I support that.

LMA, My New Heroine

Louisa May Alcott is pretty cool, not gonna lie. Read about her life in Kit Baake's whimsical LMA biography, which I review here.

My Day With David

Spent the day with my boss a few weeks ago. He doesn't act like much of a boss though - more like a second grandfather. I wrote a piece about my day with David for the Godine blog, which he read and said "just tickled him pink." I do sound like a suck up in this piece, but what can I say, he bought me a muffin during our trip. And I will devotedly follow anyone who gives me muffins.

Published! And Other Misc Updates...

Big news: one of my flash fiction pieces, "Glide, Twirl," was published in the online literary journal amphibi.us! You can read it here. You'll notice this was published 2.5 weeks ago and I'm just now announcing it. I have a good excuse for my hiatus, however. I took a trip. To HAWAII (!!!). And received the notification email while I was lounging in Waikiki. Which is basically as good as life gets.

Also, one humorous story and one significant life update:
1) I flashed two guys (accidentally) while boogie boarding in Hawaii. The surf was, shall we say, quite aggressive that day, and keeping my swimsuit top properly positioned while staying belly-down on a slippery foam board that is bobbing around like mad was just too many things to coordinate. Trying to re-adjust my swimsuit underwater while not allowing the board to float away so as to leave me stranded at sea was also difficult, but I succeeded. And then promptly beached myself, half-drowned and whacking myself over the head with the board as I landed. I am nothing if not a smooth young lady of poise and grace.
2) Josh and I will be leaving Boston on May 31 to move to Taiwan! Josh will be studying Mandarin at National Taiwan University in Taipei until August, at which point we plan to move to China (Specific location TBD). We're thrilled about our upcoming Asian adventures!

I hope to improve my boogie boarding skills among the kind people of Taiwan...

Craft Time

My favorite thing about interning with a publishing house: I do crafts and then write about it, and that counts as WORK. The American Girls Handy Book - Book Cover.

Ferdinand & Fairies

There is an older man who calls our office every few weeks with the same query: why does Godine publish a classic children’s book, The Story of Ferdinand, in a Latin translation, Ferdinandus Taurus? Several weeks into our internship, the other interns had warned me to expect his calls. He calls often and has for months, apparently, always asking the same question about Ferdinand, and the general speculation is that he suffers from dementia. They said Ferdinand Guy seems rather grouchy and the conversation typically ends with him becoming disgruntled and hanging up. Maybe I only get him when he’s in high spirits, but he’s been pleasant. He starts by asking my name, then exclaiming at its beauty and saying, “That means sweet-one and honey-like, you know. It’s typically a name reserved for fairies.” Whether this is fact or just a positive result of his dementia, I don’t know. Then he asks his question about our sole Latin title, sometimes pausing to mumble under his breath about that being un-American. I explain that it’s an educational tool for students learning Latin, at which point he brightens up directly and politely exclaims, “Well! That makes much more sense. I’m so glad you could help me understand that. Really.” Typically, he then rambles about growing up during WWII and the uproar that Ferdinand the pacifist bull caused in America at the time. But today, he went the direction of other children’s literature that touched him, first recommending the anthology Everything I Need to Know, I Learned from a Children’s Book (His favorite contribution is by Jay Leno.).

“Have you ever heard of… Well, I’m going to ask you about this children’s book that I read as a child that no one can find for me. I can’t remember the title but it was about a baby bat who got lost out of his cave and mice raised him. Which, of course, is pretty weird. The mice teased him for the two strange humps he had growing on his back, but then a cat came and, see, the bat snatched up all the mice and got them to safety. So even though he was different, he saved them, see. And I just can’t find it anywhere, but the images are just so…so stuck in my head. I can see them. I wish I had it. I keep asking reference librarians, but no one can help me.”

After a flash of pity for the librarians who assist him (or, more than likely, the same librarian who helps him repeatedly, listening to the bat’s heroics over and over), I wished I could find this book for him. A Google search was fruitless (Google tried to convince me I was searching for a cat who grew up with mice), and I don’t know how to contact him anyway. Who knows how many eons ago the book was published or what the title might be, but it obviously impacted him in a memorable way. Who knows how far his memory has receded, how much he remembers of his life. But Ferdinand the peaceful bull and the bat who saved his tormentors, they are constant. In his old age, they are the figures who remain vivid and real.

Ferdinand Guy then concluded today’s conversation by narrating the story of how he once told an inappropriate joke about Adam and Eve to a group he had just met at a bar...who turned out to be missionaries. He concluded, “I did always have a knack for shoving my foot in my mouth.”

He then thanked me for talking to an old man like him, and hung up.

Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, & Nazis

Recently, Josh and I watched The Reader (Oh the glories of Netflix), for which Kate Winslet won the Oscar for Best Actress in 2008. While I’m not sure she deserved the Oscar (Let’s face it: The Academy was still embarrassed for overlooking her performance in The Titanic. Idiots. Kate was the only redeeming aspect of that pathetically sappy movie.), I very much enjoyed the film. The first half of the movie is basically just Kate and David Kross naked, either sleeping together or reading aloud together. But in the latter half, it was refreshing to watch a film that portrayed an employee of the Nazi regime as complex - maybe evil, or maybe just naïve. But it was the reading together thing that caught our attention. We are both avid readers, but have never read out loud to each other or even read the same book simultaneously and discussed, like an uber-exclusive book club. Josh reads his books (i.e. theology, Asian history, the occasional Graham Greene novel) and I read mine (i.e. Russian lit, indie fiction, Harry Potter). Sure, there are recommendations made while riding the T, opinions offered at the dinner table. But overall, reading is a pretty autonomous activity in this relationship. However, The Reader got us to thinking (and not just about the ethics of Nazi camp guards who couldn’t get a job anywhere else). So this weekend, we started reading aloud to each other from The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. We should probably be a tad humiliated that a) we’re reading such a short book and b) neither of us had read this classic before. But oh well. It’s been a fun read, despite already knowing the gist of the plot – so much so, in fact, that we read aloud three chapters this weekend while suffering sore throats. We’ll pick a longer book next time.

Book Highlight - String Too Short to Be Saved

My latest Godine book review: String Too Short to Be Saved

Disclaimer: this book wasn't really my taste. It was a very charming book, filled with reminisces about the author's family and old-fashioned farm life, and it gave me a warm fuzzy feeling about my own family. But, I didn't learn anything (except how to hay a field and use a yoke to carry two huge pails of blueberries single-handedly), nor did it challenge my thinking. So, it was a pleasant read, but not a literary masterpiece. If you choose to read it, I'd recommend shelving it for a gloomy day. Then, if you read it next to the fireplace, you'll be warm inside and out. *insert cliche giggle here*

Book Highlight - Cheyenne Madonna

Here's yet another of my pieces from the David R. Godine, Publisher blog, featuring Cheyenne Madonna by Eddie Chuculate, a Native American author. I raved about this book for weeks and had the opportunity to interview the author (who is brilliant, by the way). Here it is, along with my short review of the book: Eddie Chuculate Interview

Glide, Twirl

A piece of flash fiction I wrote, inspired by this year's never ending winter (blah).

The subway car emerges from underground, crackling over the track-laid bridge, slipping over the Charles River, which is encased with ice. Native Bostonians don’t take their eyes from their NYT bestsellers to notice the view. But I look through the scratched plastic windows towards the sun setting over the river, my soul slipping down to the banks.

My feet crunch through the week-old snow, which comes up to my thighs. I shove each leg ahead, pushing against the snow, my upper body leaning forward against the chilled wind. My face is red and chapped. My fingers are tingling, the pink woolen fluff of my mittens providing little protection. I fall in once, my arms and face plunging through the crusty snow, and I struggle to right myself, brushing snow out of my eyes with the wool. It stings. I press onward.

The brink of the river meets the edge of the snow in an icy fusion. I stop. I stare into the surface. In 4th grade science, Mrs. Hall said fish could still survive in rivers that had frozen over, residing in the warmer waters near the bottom. I wonder what the fish do during the winter, all alone in the dark. I place my left foot on the ice, my right foot lingering on the snow. I push off the bank. I glide forward, leaving curvy foot trails in the thin snow overlay of the ice. I never learned to ice skate, but ice gliding is easy. Ice gliding – maybe I will pitch that idea to the people at Frog Pond. I go to my tiptoes and twirl on the ice, then glide.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

I extend my arms, elbows curved, hands above my head. I form a V with my feet, heels together, toes wide apart. I pliae. I bend my knees, then push my toes against the tips of my boots, my calf muscles thrusting me upward, away from the ice.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

The ice encasing bursts, the snow overlay exploding upward into the dimming sunlight. I flail in the water. My fingertips brush the ice but I cannot grip it. I strain for the surface. I kick towards the light. But it does not matter. I glide towards the bottom, gravity pulling me to the depths. I do not fight it. Mrs. Hall was right – it is warmer near the bottom.

The ice shards fuse together again during the cold of the night. The snow settles. I twirl with the fish.

Book Highlight - The Philosopher's Diet

I'm starting to blog a bit for the publishing house I intern for - David R. Godine, Publisher. Very cool, particularly the books they publish under their imprint, Black Sparrow Press. Here is my first post for their site! The Philosopher's Diet

Fresh Ink: Ten Takes on Chinese Tradition

When Josh (aka: my Asian historian husband) said he had scored a VIP ticket (aka: free pass) to an Asian art exhibition at the MFA, I was torn. I love the MFA mucho mucho but Asian art ranks down there with Egyptian hieroglyphics. But, being the charming wife that I am, I faked some enthusiasm and went along. Thank God, because this exhibition blew my mind.

In a nutshell, 10 Asian artists selected a work of traditional Chinese art from the museum’s collection, then created a new piece as a personal response to the original work. According to the MFA, “This exhibition is about new art inspired by old art, and the complicated relationship between innovation and tradition.” Each new piece was exhibited alongside the traditional artwork, and each section included a synopsis from the artist about his/her experience. Every single one was brilliant. Liu Xiaodong chose the ink painting Erlang and His Soldiers Driving Out Animal Spirits from the Ming Dynasty, a cruel depiction of soldiers beating colorful animals out of a twisted forest, and created an acrylic painting of nine students speaking out against violence in American schools. Qu Bing fashioned his own style of English writing whose elongated lines and harsh angles look like Chinese calligraphy at first glance. It took me a solid 5 minutes to make out the words. But my favorite was Qin Feng’s Landscape of Civilization, which responded to the Fangyi-shaped Ritual Vessel, a pottery piece from the 11th century BC, thought to be used in religious ceremonies to offer food and wine to gods. But, that’s not known for sure, which Feng plays off of. He built an entire theatrical set for the vessel. Fat, squat, accordion-style books act as the audience, with room between the aisles for spectators to squeeze in and get a better look at the ink designs on the paper. Floor-to-ceiling scrolls decorated in images with ink made from tea and coffee serve as a backdrop to the stage in the center of the room, upon which the Vessel sits enclosed in a case, its bronze turning green with ancient aging. The Vessel is the sole performer, narrating its past and the things it has seen to us and the books in the audience.

The main thing I gleaned from this was that art doesn't just take skill. It demands genius. Art is not the simple act of drizzling watercolors onto a canvas or splaying crushed glass on a mirror. Don’t misunderstand that – I am not saying that Cubism doesn’t count as an art movement. What I’m saying is, although some art might look simplistic (i.e. oversized pieces of paper hanging cluttering up a room), the artist put considerable contemplation and elbow-grease into the piece (i.e. a muti-layered visual ode to an ancient way of life). It gave me a new respect for artists. That stuff is hard work.

Now for some bad news and good news (but mainly bad). This exhibition is closed now, as we attended on the last day. BUT you can experience each piece and the ideas behind them here, no VIP pass required: Fresh Ink: Ten Takes on Chinese Tradition

Amateur Bohemian

Amateur: a. Characteristic of or engaged in by an amateur (n. a person inexperienced or unskilled in a particular activity); nonprofessional

Bohemian: n. A person with artistic or literary interests who disregards conventional standards of behavior

That’s me, Merriam-Webster style. Currently in recovery from 1.3 years in the legal field, which consumes all creative energy it comes into contact with, I’m now interning at a small indie press in Boston. Engaging in a literary environment again has inspired me to continue work on my artsy-fartsy side and writing endeavors. While paying the bills has become a bit stickier, life seems to have more of a purpose.

An article entitled How to Be Bohemian on Wikihow.com lists six steps to achieving true Bohemianism. Here’s how I match up.
1. Create art. If that means quitting your day job, do that.
- Check.
2. Know that it's your body. If you want piercings or tattoos - go for it.
- I recently got my cartilage done. A lone hole plugged with a tiny stud. Pathetic.
3. Listen to the music, read the books, watch the movies, etc. that you like.
- I’ve read the entire Twilight series. And I liked it. Interpret that as you will.
4. Challenge what you and others believe. If you have grown up with a certain belief system (religion, political view, etc.) ask yourself why you believe this.
- Growing up, I eagerly anticipated Rush Limbaugh’s Open Line Fridays. Now, Colbert is my man.
5. Become informed about other lifestyles or points of view.
- I read the news like, every day. Does that count?
6. Express yourself in some artistic way.
- Enrolled in a beginning oil painting class. The results of which only bring me anguish and self-loathing.

Blogging acts as a method of accountability for my feeble attempts to apply steps 2 through 6 – and, on particularly industrious days, to become a foodie.