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.