重新開始: Fresh Starts

Admission is no easy thing.  Confessions are not written simply. Because I struggle to separate my decisions and actions from my sense of self, admitting my faults often feels uncomfortably close to culling myself.  Maybe that’s something I need.  So I have words to share with you, and I can’t keep silent anymore.

I struggle with keeping in touch.  Many of you know this firsthand.  So before I left for Taiwan in late July, I swore to myself that this time would be different.  It hasn’t been.  This past summer, I reasoned that I’d grown and realized how deeply friendships and family bonds run.  I guess I haven’t. 

For a number of days, maybe even weeks, I had convinced myself that new starts in life are a simple matter of choice, willpower, and opportunity.  Even if fresh starts operate this way for others, they never have for me.  This past several months have been like few times in my life—I say that with immense joy and yet great yearning—for what, I don’t know.  I do know that I am convinced that beginning anew is not the panacea it seems to be.  Nor is it easy.  I have found myself in unfamiliar places surrounded by unfamiliar people, prompting me mistakenly to assume that amidst new circumstances, the self can be recreated (as from a blank slate) through sheer will.  Try as I might, my foibles remain firmly entrenched.

Among those shortcomings, my persistent incapacity to keep in touch with loved ones once proximity’s convenience gives way weighs heavily on my mind.  A bad habit for one living halfway around the world.  I say “habit” because I must retain liability for this deficiency.  Too often, “I’m bad at keeping in touch” is furnished as grounds to excuse oneself from doing so and to dampen others’ expectations.  At least I have been guilty of such semi-conscious moral calculus. 

And I’m very sorry.  For being silent these past months.  For ignoring the efforts of those who’ve tried to keep in touch.  And most of all for taking for granted the affection, esteem, and patience of all those who I claim to love and care for.  Really, I am.

Not emailing, updating the blog, or Skyping is not something that occurred intentionally.  Some of the faults we are slowest to see are those that occur through no overt effort on our part, but through our busyness, our inattention, and our remarkable tolerance for letting things adrift remain adrift.  For too long, I have contented in allowing the busyness of teaching, language study, and traveling to distract me from sharing these joys and aches with you.  So I’ve carried these alone, sometimes even convincing myself that this displayed a perverse sort of strength.  But that only partially explains my reluctance to speak. 

More than busy, I have been afraid.  I have been afraid of being unable to articulate the experiences that I have faced in a way that you will find relatable and engaging.  I have been afraid to practice the reflection necessary to sift through the layers of meaning and confusion that mark too many of my days, and which rattle me more over than I should care to admit.  I have been afraid to admit that I feel lost.  And  I have most feared is that after writing, I would look at the words and see that it is not good.  Not true.  It has been so much easier to lose myself in the frenzied productiveness of my first full-time job and the host of new experiences lying just beyond my front door.  My eyes have been so fixed on hiking Taiwan’s landscapes (both literal and cultural), that I had all but given up on acting as cartographer for my year here. 

But the time has come to resume those grapplings for meaning and perspective.  With the start of a new year, I choose to allow the infectious optimism this day brings (with its ‘fresh starts’) to overshadow the possibility that I will again renege on my intention to keep in touch.  So I won’t promise anything concrete, either to myself or to you. 

Yet for the time-being, I am pondering these thoughts again, in the only way that I know—by writing.  In a letter to Marcellinus of Carthage in 412 A.D., Saint Augustine writes, “For I am the sort of man who writes because he has made progress, and who makes progress – by writing.”  On one level, these words are convicting.  Perhaps a major reason I feel I haven’t made the progress I want to is because I haven’t written and because I have repressed the thoughts that lead to such writing.  On a second level, Augustine comforts me by presenting the possibility that writing may help clarify my confused ideas of self and place. 

More reassuring still, Augustine touches upon the salve-like truth that our written words need not (and indeed will not) be beyond reproach.  Disseminating them may indeed put our thoughts and words under heightened scrutiny.  Nevertheless, Augustine quietly reminds us that putting thoughts on paper can be a means towards further understanding, and that such words may be as flawed in substance or presentation as the thoughts that give rise to them or the person behind them.  And that that imperfection is okay.

So here’s to another year of imperfection, another year of pondering, so long as it be another year of growth.  In Mandarin, the word 重新開始 (chongxin kaishi) means ‘to resume’ or ‘to start again’.  A fresh start.  One that doesn’t hope to leave the past behind, but to build from it.  That’s what I want for the new year.  I hope you’ll join me.  

第一次 - First Belt Notch

At the risk of sounding unforgivably repetitive and uninventive, I concede once again that my blogging has continued to suffer from chronic irregularity.  Ah well, I could promise to be more diligent in the future, but at this point I am inclined to disbelieve such a statement nearly as much as you are.  So instead, let us just see what the future holds for us in terms of both my schedule and your patience, which I continue to crave, as undeserved as it may be. 

But I digress.  Today, I’d like to mention an experience from this weekend while it’s still fresh in my mind.  I recall that I previously promised to talk about my teaching experiences, but as I’ve already broken one pledge, so I suppose that discussion can wait a bit longer.

I’d like to focus on my initial experiences with Taiwanese customer service, which raises some thought-provoking issues about cultural experiences and expectations.  At least it seems to me.

Anyways, everything started last week when I bought a new belt at a shop near our apartment. The humidity here had KO’d my new Old Navy one after a mere three weeks.  Leaving the store, I was fairly excited, because the belt I bought here was 100% leather, and apparently that means it’s a good one (like from a Gucci cow or something).  Actually, I was also feeling a bit smug because the store manager told me it was 百分之百的牛皮 (100% genuine leather) and I understood her.  So for $600NT ($20 USD), I had a new (dare I say, fashionable) new leather belt.  Mistake number one.

After wearing my new prize for the first time, I was dismayed to discover a ring of streaky brownish (albeit eye-catching) leather stains around the waist of my khaki shorts.  Perhaps a temporary consequence of ‘wearing in’ a new leather belt, my novice mind told me.  So I scrubbed the shorts by hand with stain remover and managed to get most of it out.  Undeterred, I re-donned the belt the following day.  Mistake number two.  

Repeat stains.  My first thought was that the belt would cover up the stains anyway, so why make a fuss about it?  But then my inner asshole kicked in and reminded me that I’d just recently dropped $20 on the already-worn Old Navy belt and already had to replace it.  Admittedly not that much money, but it’s the principle (or so I’m telling myself).  So I grab the evidence, receipt, and my Mandarin phrasebook and embark on my first ever customer service complaint foray in Asia. 

I walk into the store.  The clerk is sorting discarded hangers behind the counter and sees me coming a mile away.  “What do you want?”  (not as rude in Chinese as it sounds in English). 

“I want to…exchange this…b…belt.”

“Let me take a look.”

“After I wore them…this stain… [pause]…happened.”  She looks at the shorts, then the belt, then me.  “I have…receipt…brought with me…to here.”

She presses her hands down on the shorts over the stain.  “It seems you already wore this belt.”

“I wore it.  That’s true.”

“Well, it looks used now.  We can’t sell it again, so I’m afraid you can’t return it.” 

My brain tries vainly to shift gears.  “I have…receipt…show you…it.”

“Yes, but you already wore the belt.”

“My shorts…they are broken…”

“I’m sorry, I can’t return them like this.”

“Oh.” At this point, I am rendered quite literally speechless, so my linguistic arsenal depleted, I return home in momentary defeat.  

After stewing briefly in my communicative futility, I break out my dictionary and grammar book to conjure up some persuasive sentences of stunning clarity and rhetorical force.  In my mind, I see visions of three-piece suits, pointed negotiations with official Taiwanese trade representatives at a polished table with sliced fruit wedges and water glasses.  I close my dictionary with satisfaction.  The clincher—my closing threat, subtle but sharp: “There seem to be many other stores around here.  I don’t think I’ll shop here anymore.”

I return to the shop with renewed confidence.  “Hi, I came back.”  (She may already have noticed).  She looks at me—it may have been a patient look, but it as easily could have been one of long-suffering, strained tolerance.  Trigger round two of negotiations.  I begin diplomatically.  “I’m a bit unsatisfied with your last answer.”  She blinks.  “I don’t understand why I can’t return the belt.  You said it’s because I already wore it, right?”  She nods patiently.  “But how could I know there was a problem without wearing it?”

She breaks into a lengthy explanation that for me seemed as polite as it was unintelligible.  All I picked up was her suggestion that perhaps the stain problem would be less severe if I wore darker pants.  “But I don’t have darker pants.”  She adopted a bemused expression, as though trying earnestly to work out how this further detail was her problem. 

“I’m really sorry, I hope you understand.  Have a nice day.”  She smiled politely again.  Cue end of negotiations.  Again, I head for the exit, verbally out-spared.

Only partially deterred, I resorted to drastic measures and enlisted the help of my incorrigible landlord, Michael.  Depending on one’s perspective, this was either my third miscue or my first wise strategic move.  Michael is an affable, well-meaning enough fellow—a self-professing DINK in his early-fifties who passes his days watching baseball, learning English, and fixing various ‘problems’ in our apartment whether they exist or not.  But he is also an intensely-persuasive, forcibly-insistent individual, making him the perfect candidate to assist me, if an efficient outcome is to be valued above social delicacy.

So the following afternoon, Michael returns with me to the shop.  Round three.  I pray that the visible blanch on the clerk’s face was a mere byproduct of my nervous imagination.  Michael strides right up to the counter.  

“My friend would like to exchange this belt.” 

She stares at him.  “I know, I told him yesterday that wasn’t possible.”  Michael removes the belt and shorts from the bag and begins an animated conversation with the clerk, little of which I could comprehend.  I caught the word 潮湿 (humidity) several times, as well as her repeated insistence that 这并不是我们的商品的问题 (this isn’t a problem with our merchandise). 

Michael adopts a slightly more conciliatory tone, though his voice retains an insistent edge.  “I know, I know…but how was he supposed to know about the weather here?  You didn’t tell him.  He’s a foreigner.” 

My ears perk up.  When traveling outside the U.S., I have striven to maintain a calm cultural deference and avoid running roughshod over others’ cultural norms with an air of exceptional American self-importance.  Needless to say, I think I fell a bit short on that front today.  But after asking for Michael’s help, I was not about to again reveal my unpolished Mandarin negotiating chops, especially if it meant interrupting his undeniably more effective communication.

“It’s not a problem with our merchandise,” the clerk insists again.

Michael leans forward.  “I know, I know, but he’s a foreigner, he didn’t know.  And he’s an American teacher.  He’s teaching our kids proper English.”  His speech becomes more and more rapid, and I quickly lose him again.  But finally the clerk relents.  She tells us to select a belt made from synthetic material instead, and motions us upstairs to pick one out.  Michael leads the way with a satisfied smile.  “You should pick two belts, one black and one brown.  You might need to pay a little bit more.  That will make them happy.”  I’m not about to disagree with him, or mention that I hadn’t brought my wallet along.

I gently suggest a rack of $300NT belts to keep the total at $600.  Michael picks two out, quickly gauges my approval and then we return to the counter.  The clerk forces a smile and begins ringing them up.  She removes the tags, but as she begins to bag them up, she hesitates and frowns.  She glances at me, then turns to Michael.  “These are synthetic, but they are still mostly leather.  They will probably have the same issue, but it won’t be as noticeable.”  At this point, I am ready to just take the belts and run, but Michael would have none of it, so back upstairs we go.

We soon return with two entirely-synthetic belts and place them before the clerk.  She looks at me and bites her lip.  She points to the ‘34’ on the tag and explains that these belts are actually only 31 inches.  Another sideways look at me.  “A bigger size may be better.”  Michael grabs me by the elbow and directs me back upstairs.  The clerk follows us.  “Maybe I’d better go with you.”  Oh. God. Get me out of here.   

With her help, Michael and I again browse the belt selection and find two (1 brown, 1 black), 37 (34) inch, synthetic (non-100% leather) belts.  As we proceed to the service counter, Michael mentions casually that he has a friend who can drill additional belt loop holes for me if need be.  My eyes shift down to the belt he’d had me try on with its four spare holes.  How much shaved ice does he expect me to consume in the next ten months?  I nod quietly, the perfect picture of docility. 

The clerk rings up the two belts for us.  $399NT.  $399NT.  Damn.  Michael looks at me.  The clerk looks at the belts.  I look for the nearest exit.  “Michael...” I glance at my feet.  “I actually didn’t bring my wallet.”

He reaches for his pocket.  “You’ll pay me back when we get home, ok?”

“Of course.”  In more ways than one. 

He hands her the bills.  “Tell her thank-you,” he says, in an uncomfortably fatherly tone. 

“Thank you, thank you a lot” I manage lamely.

On the walk back, I finally ask Michael how he convinced her.  He quickens his stride.  “I told her if you didn’t let you exchange the belt, I would get the local government involved.” 

“You said what?  Michael…”

He reaches for my shoulder.  “The customer service…怎么讲(how to put it) attitude in Taiwan is not like America.”

“Well, I know.  But—”

“So I had to tell her, to explain her, how it is.  She has to take responsibility for the product.”

“But what about the weather?  The humidity?”

He waves his hand dismissively.  “No, if Taiwan wants to advance, to make progress, they need to change their attitude.  People can’t act like barbarians.  You were right, it was on your side.”

“What?”

“It was on your side.”

“What was?”

“Right.  Your side was.  No problem.”

“Oh.  Thanks.”

“No problem.”  We walked the rest of the way pretty quietly.

I’m still not sure about the belts.  I mean, I have them.  And I still do think that my request was a reasonable one.  But I am also deeply conscious that my sense of rightness and fairness is inextricably entwined with my American upbringing and all the ‘self-evident truths’ about decency and fair play that my childhood subsumes.  Moreover, the methods for getting what I wanted left me uneasy.  Could I have spoken up?  Of course.  Should I have?  Perhaps.  Did I?  No. 

In moments like these, living in another culture makes me uncomfortably aware of how our lives and character consist of a multitude of seemingly inconsequential interactions that we fumble through on our way to living.  Moments that leave us thinking Aw, what the hell, that was a fluky thing and we got on through.  But it sticks with you. 

I likely won’t see that store clerk again, at least by conscious choice.  I feel too awkward to go back there now: too self-conscious, too defensive, but also ashamedly validated in some small part of me by my ‘cultural’ conquest.  Is this soft power?  It feels harder than that.  And I don’t know where to put these feelings.  It gets me thinking of post-colonial lit and makes my head and stomach ache as though they are conspiring against me.  But like it or not, negotiations are over.  The ink is drying.  And I signed my name, one way or another.

特点: Touring Kaohsiung's Public Schools

Oh dear.  Well, there’s no getting around it, so I’ll just come right out and say it.  I have been grossly negligent in my blog posting for the past few weeks.  But the time has come for me to end the vicious cycle of not writing, then feeling guilty for not writing, then avoiding thinking about writing to avoid feeling guilty—which serves only to compound the feelings of guilt.  In short, this writing will likely prove as therapeutic for me as it is informative for you, if not more so.

But enough on my malformed cognitive and writing habits.  What have I been up to for the past three weeks?  The quality of my answer likely will have some impact on your willingness to forgive my recent sloth.  To expedite the writing process, and to include as much as I am able of my comings and goings, I am thematically organizing the following several posts, which will not necessarily present events in chronological order.  By clumping similar experiences together and condensing them to the highlights, I hope to skirt needless repetition and present a compelling narrative in a reasonable amount of time. 

狮甲國小 (Shijia) Elementary School Group Photo

Today, I will cover a series of school visits I made with my fellow English Teaching Assistant (ETA) grantees to all 23 of the elementary schools participating in Kaohsiung’s Fulbright ETA program this school year.  Each of the 11 ETAs in our Kaohsiung group will be teaching cooperatively with experienced Taiwanese Local English Teachers (LETs) at two or three local elementary schools.  During our second week here in Kaohsiung, we spent three days visiting these schools to meet their staffs, tour their facilities, and view presentations about each establishment’s unique features.  These schools range in size from 200-300 students up to over 3,000 students at the largest school.  The week following the tours, ETAs were matched with schools by a random draw designed to make the decision process fair and balanced. 

Although the school tours presented very busy and draining days, we were overwhelmed by the warmth and hospitality that greeted us at each campus.  Every school organized a welcoming delegation of faculty and staff members to receive us—these groups often included school principals, English teachers, and academic affairs administrators.  At each place, the school’s painstaking preparations were evident immediately, in the form of prepared speeches and small gifts.  Nearly every school furnished bottled water, tea, or some other beverage for us.  Some provided snacks such as fresh fruit slices, shaved ice, or pineapple cakes.  A few schools also presented us with small tokens such as key chains or post cards—one principal even gave us a small light-up paperweight.     

Gifts from various schools

At some campuses, I also noticed an ineffable quality of weighty apprehension—an unspoken imperative to impress us.  From what we have been told, the selection process for partner schools is highly competitive and selective each year, with only 20 of Gaoxiong’s 150+ elementary schools earning the privilege to host a foreign Fulbright teacher.  As a result, some of the schools’ representatives seemed noticeably nervous to meet us.  These individuals stuck closely to formal, pre-written speeches of welcome, and they went to great lengths to communicate their schools’ distinguishing features, including litanies of their achievements in competitions with other area schools.  I am not at all accustomed to being regarded as someone worth impressing, so that aspect of the experience was a bit uncomfortable for me, and it underscored the high esteem and expectations with which the Taiwanese school representatives viewed us.  As someone with little classroom teaching experience, this dynamic had a humbling effect on me—I just hope I am up to the task of helping students progress in their confidence and abilities to use English comfortably.  I suppose time will tell.

福東國小 (Fudong) Elementary School

But all in all, the tours were warm and inviting.  In most cases, I was genuinely impressed by all the schools had to offer.  Nearly all of the campuses were beautifully green, populated by fruit trees and other forms of lush vegetation.  Even those schools embarrassed by the clutter of in-progress renovations remained havens of natural beauty amidst the hustle and bustle of Gaoxiong’s neighborhoods.  The vast majority of schools strongly emphasized ecology and environmental consciousness; some encouraged students to participate in cultivating campuses’ plant life as a metaphor for the educational process.  Many of the schools also had international partnerships with foreign schools in Japan, Singapore, and other places, with which they coordinated trips and student visits throughout the school year.

青山國小 (Qingshan) Elementary School

The school facilities were equally impressive.  Many of the classrooms came equipped with projectors or smart-boards, with one school even boasting computer listening stations for each student to practice English.  Quite a few schools had exercise facilities, including Ping-Pong rooms, yoga studios, dance studios, weight rooms, and even a few swimming pools.  Many teachers encouraged us to get involved with Ping-Pong lessons or other physical activities after class.  One or two schools included activity rooms that housed air hockey tables and arcade-themed basketball games.  This struck me as all the more impressive considering that all of these schools are stand-alone elementary schools, administered and housed separately from middle or high schools.  

Calligrapher @ 漢民國小 (Hanmin) Elementary

But all these commonalities and generalizations mask the fact that many of these schools had distinguishing features or 特點 (tedian) that they were quite proud of and keen to emphasize.  One or two schools had greenhouse-enclosed butterfly gardens onsite.  One school brought in a well-regarded local calligrapher to make us personalized scroll messages in Chinese characters.  Another school had an enormous music program that allowed students to begin learning instruments in third or fourth grade.  Still another one hosted artists on campus to hone their craft and teach art classes to students.  Yet another brought in traditional waist drums for us to try on and demonstrate our cultural acumen.
 

苓洲國小 (Lingzhou) Elementary School

These characteristics were fun and interesting to hear about, and sometimes unintentionally hilarious.  One school principal took such pride in his potted plants that he offered to provide his school’s ETA with as many house plants as he or she could possibly desire.  Another school had a prominent statue that was alternatively introduced as a lollipop or a cloud, but better-resembled a mushroom to most of us.  Finally, another school gave us a hearty introduction to its mascot: the Anti-Noise Monster, whose support conceivably could be mustered to counter students’ noisy escapades in the classroom. 

明義國小 (Mingyi) Elementary
"Anti-Noise Monster" Mascot

As overwhelming as it was to see so many schools in such a short amount of time, we all felt blessed to experience all they had to offer both students and us.  How heartening it was to see that no matter which schools we would be teaching at, we would be placed in well-equipped places that value both their students and the unique backgrounds that we bring to the table as ETAs.  Before long, I hope to introduce you to the three Taiwanese English teachers I will be working with, as well as the ESL crash courses that have occupied my weekdays for the past month.  Phew, it’s good to be writing again.  Thanks for your patience and thanks for reading! 

龍華國小 (Longhua) Elementary School
Lollypop, Cloud, or Mushroom?

台风: Typhoon Running and House Warming

My apologies on having to cancel our housewarming party at the last minute, but Typhoon Saola was most insistent that we reschedule.  And to think that all those tea-leaf eggs went to waste…  But I digress.  For the non-Mandarin speakers out there, you may have noticed that I’ve included characters in the title of each entry.  I’ve included explanations of each so that you too can enjoy the beauty and mystery of the Chinese  language family.  Today’s word is 台风 (tai feng), which is pronounced tie/fung, and means ‘typhoon.’  And how appropriate, given the over-zealous welcome that Typhoon Saola greeted us with on Wednesday morning. 

Yes, nature is a fickle companion on the travelers’ road.  An unwary soul may be caught off-guard.  And one of nature’s most pernicious affinities is its penchant for combining unlike things in, shall we say, unnatural ways.  Things that should not be brought together.  Things that are better left unassociated.  When such unholy unions arise, the results can be most dire. 

Take, for example, the mild-mannered saola, an elusive bovine said to frequent remote stretches of Laos and Vietnam.  A creature whose understated sensibilities and mythic rarity have inspired such names as ‘the Asian unicorn’ and ‘the polite animal' (for its dainty forest footfalls).  A noble beast.  And yet.

When combined with the indefatigable ferocity of a tropical typhoon, it is alarming how rapidly the saola will relinquish its mantle of docility.  I myself lack the capacity to put into words the nature of the deviant spawn resulting from this trans-phenomenological-breeding.  Luckily for our intellectual indulgence, the blogger Kazeko does not share my communicative deficiency, a fact for which the world is both a bit more demystified and slightly more alarming.       

What does one get by combining an idyllic woodland creature
and an insatiable force of nature?

In all seriousness, though, Typhoon Saola did cause a considerable amount of damage and suffering over the past several days, claiming at least 26 lives in the Philippines and another 5 in Taiwan.  We were very fortunate in Kaohsiung to be shielded from the worst of it, and our fellow ETAs in Yilan and Jinmen also came through the storm safely.  Please keep those who were not as fortunate in your thoughts and prayers during the days and weeks ahead.  For more in-depth coverage of Typhoon Saola, please consider the following links: BBC News Video, Washington Times Article.

In light of the storm, our original plan of using Thursday to set up bank accounts, get cell phones, and take care of other logistical details fell through.  Fonda emailed us in the morning to tell us that we instead would be staying put and enjoying our first typhoon holiday.  This turned out to be a blessing, as it gave us an opportunity to settle in and get our apartment cleaned up. 

Without a multitude of errands to run, the morning began at a far more leisurely pace than anticipated.  We watched out the windows of our flat as masses of grey clouds gathered over the cityscape, streaking past more rapidly than they had any right to.  Rain fell for much of the morning, usually at a moderate rate, but sometimes more heavily.  And the wind rushed convincingly through the palm trees as though on its way to a Wall Street power-broking session.  The Weather Channel forecast seemed a bit ominous with its talk of a category-two typhoon and 20-30 mph winds, but to be honest everything seemed to hold up fairly well.  It all seemed more interesting than threatening from our vantage point, at least. 

But before long the idea of remaining continually inside, a mere day removed from countless hours spent cooped up in airplane seats, became increasingly unagreeable.  I soon succumbed to a case of ‘pagoda fever’, an East Asian variant of the ‘cabin’ variety commonly observed in Canada.  (Disclaimer: no, I don’t have any reason to believe that this is a real thing).  So I checked the weather forecast again, checked to make sure I hadn’t misplaced my health insurance card, and laced up my New Balances for a bit of typhoon running.

I thought it would feel pretty bad-ass, but the environment wasn’t overly accommodating to my aspirational machismo.  Unsurprisingly, the streets were fairly deserted, so I really had the roads to myself aside from the occasional poncho-donning scooter persons.  Problem is that the morning’s constant rain had made the sidewalks slick as bowling lanes and the pavement was nearly as bad.  I didn’t fall, although I half-expected to, and no one was around to see one way or the other anyway.  So away I went, vaulting gingerly over fallen branches and debris on the pathways around the Kaohsiung Cultural Center, praying that I wouldn’t end up flat on my back. 

Before long, I began making my way through the neighborhood side-streets around our apartment, in my vain search for more sure footing.  But the sidewalks were wet no matter where I went, and dodging dozens of parked scooters didn’t showcase my gracefulness any more than the branches had.  But I kept going.  I saw some stray cats slinking between dank alleyways and unattended food stands.  I saw a fruit stand where I decided to stop on my way back to buy a banana.  And I ran along a nearby side street that sported a host of intriguing dining options, including a small Thai-Burmese restaurant and an Indian-Pakistani place with signs out front offering baked Mexican bread.  The Thai spot especially caught my eye, because of the clever word play in its name.  In Mandarin, it’s called thai haochi, which means ‘Thai Delicious’ but is also a homonym for ‘too delicious’.  I’m sure we’ll try them both before long.

I finished my run walking through a gentle drizzle, trying to find the corner fruit stand I had passed thirty minutes earlier.  Never did find it, so I settled for an egg and tomato sandwich from one of the few shops that wasn’t closed.  On my way back up to our apartment, I came across our neighbors across the hall, an elderly Taiwanese couple in their 60s or 70s.  They greeted me pleasantly, and we exchanged a few words, only some of which I understood.  They asked about our plans in Kaohsiung and I told them about how we would be teaching.  They asked more about my roommates, and I don’t think my clumsy explanations addressed their inquiry as to why I was living together with three women in their 20s.  Still, the couple was kind and welcoming, and we amicably parted ways in polite confusion.  

The first roommate picture
From left: Brey, Ryan, Melissa, Amanda

For the rest of the afternoon, my roommates and I sorted through the mounds of sheets, dishes, and discarded toiletry items left behind by previous Fulbright grantees from the last several years.  Our landlord Michael sifted through piles with us, lamenting the cost of some heavy purple rugs that a previous grantee had requested, but we no longer needed.  But he seems to be a well-meaning, affable man with helpful hands and a quick wit.  He told us a bit about his life as a DINK (double-income-no-kids) and his midlife 'halftime break', which he currently spends watching basketball and helping tired Americans go through old things they don’t want to keep. 

With our landlord, Michael

Fulbright Kaohsiung ETA Apartment A: Before

When the humidity and rummaging began to take its toll, Michael took us on a short tour of the neighborhood.  He gently encouraged us to abandon our attachment to the next-door 7-11’s convenience, and brought us to a nearby grocery store which offers better selection on many goods, which are about 20% cheaper.  He even helped us apply for a discount card.  He told us which restaurants in the area were worth frequenting and which weren’t.  He told us that we were free to use the bicycles that he had placed outside our front door, providing that we came to him with any mechanical problems rather than trying to find a repair shop on our own.

And on the way back, he lead us by the corner fruit stand I had discovered briefly during my morning run.  He held the mangoes up to our noses, and told us how to tell by smell whether they were ripe.  He recommended a new fruit that none of us had tried before—a small, grape-sized one that comes in bunches and has a smooth, brown skin: the Chinese call them dragon eyes.  As we ambled our way home, loaded down with paper towel, shampoo, and dragon eyes, the happenings of the past few days mulled around in my head.  I thought of Michigan, with all its familiar sights and scents, and smiled in a way that made me feel a little sad.  Should it be so very easy for a place so different to so quickly feel like home?

After

欢迎，欢迎: Arriving in Kaohsiung

Well, I left you all in a bit of an odd place with my last post, hovering with me somewhere over the Pacific en route to Taiwan.  I am hopeful that this post will rectify that shortcoming and restore (or maybe introduce) some semblance of coherent orientation to this blog. 

Although I neglected to mention it earlier, I met a group of other Fulbright English-teaching grantees at LAX for the flight over to Taipei, the capital of Taiwan in the northern part of the island.  There are roughly 30 of us altogether from all around the States, and we are dispersed across three cities in Taiwan: Jinmen, Yilan, and Kaohsiung. Twelve of us, myself included,  will be teaching English in Kaohsiung over the next year.  Even spending a few days with these individuals has demonstrated that they are a special group, and I feel privileged to be with them.  I’ll introduce them a bit more as the year goes on, as we get become better acquainted with each other.  

A Taiwanese Water-Buffalo Observed  in its Native Habitat
Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport, Taipei

 We arrived at Kaohsiung International Airport around 7:00am local time, about 26 hours or so after I departed from Grand Rapids on Monday night.  Fonda and Cherry, two Taiwanese women who coordinate the Fulbright English Teaching Assistant (ETA) program in Kaohsiung, met us at the airport with official-looking name tags and a little sign like you see in the movies.  That was kind of cool, I have to admit. And the experience also had a surreal 'Chinese' feel to it.  Being greeted by the traditional Mandarin phrase huanying, huanying (欢迎欢迎), meaning 'welcome, welcome' has an irresistible air of affability that one does not quite encounter anywhere else.  We heard the phrase throughout the day from neighbors, drivers, and others, sometimes accompanied by a slight tremor of excited apprehension that I appreciated mostly, I think, because it mirrored my own.

I would say that one of the first things you notice about Kaohsiung is the humidity.  Each day we’ve been here so far the dew point has been in the 80s or 90s.  We could feel it the moment we emerged from the plane, even in the passageway from the plane to the airport terminal.  A deep moisture settles in the air around you, as though it is embracing you.  I suppose if the temperature weren’t already in the 90s it might feel at least slightly pleasant, in a comforting, homey sort of way.  While not the most pleasant feeling in the world, I sometimes have thought that high humidity has a quiet sort of intimacy to it, in the way that the saturated air presses against you.  I don’t know if that makes sense, and the novelty of it may wear off quickly.  But for now, I will enjoy it.

2012-13 Kaohsiung Fulbright ETAs
Arrival at Kaohsiung International Airport

 We traveled by bus to Sanmin Elementary School, where we went over some preliminary orientation details.  I don’t know quite how to describe the landscape, because it is not quite like any place I’ve been before.  The humidity and tropical environment, complete with fresh fruit and palm trees, reminds me a bit of Florida, but the bustling and “Chinese” feel of Kaohsiung sets it far apart from Florida.  Others in the group, better-traveled than I, have said that the city reminds them somewhat of Singapore.  What I remember most from the bus ride is an exhilarating yet slightly frenetic feeling of wanting to see everything at once.  Is that sensory overload?  I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think it can be, because this seemed far more pleasant than that.  Scooters are by far the most ubiquitous form of transportation, as nearly every large building we past had dozens and dozens of them parked outside.  And as for buildings, I was a bit surprised that Kaohsiung didn’t have more skyscrapers.  At the same time, I don’t know if any other places, in the States or elsewhere, that boast a building with an outdoor Ferris wheel perched on top, like Kaohsiung’s Dream Mall.  I wish I’d gotten a picture, but I’m sure we’ll visit there at some point before too long.

At Sanmin, we will have a full month of orientation and training before we begin teaching in September, for which I am grateful and not a little relieved.  Fonda and Cherry introduced themselves and walked us through the Fulbright orientation booklet—to be honest, the morning felt a bit like the first day of classes at Calvin, which was a nice reminder of things past.  Although I never got complimentary bubble tea for Calvin Orientation—that was a nice touch.  We also received our school assignments for the upcoming year.  I will be teaching at two of Kaohsiung’s local elementary schools: Zuoying Elementary and Sanmin Elementary (where our orientation is hosted). 

First Day of Orientation at Sanmin Elementary School

Lastly, we received our rooming assignments for the next year. For the first month, we are divided into three separate apartment units in the city.  After orientation, a few of us will be moving to new apartments closer to our assigned schools, but my roommates and I will be staying put.  Our apartment is located on the third floor of a 12-story complex at the intersection of Guangzhou Street and Linde Street next to a 7-11 and across the street from the Kaohsiung Cultural Center.  I’ll introduce you all to the apartment and roommates tomorrow once we’ve had a chance to clean things up properly and give you a proper welcome.  I know that I speak for all my roommates when I say that we are looking forward to hosting you tomorrow evening.  Does 7:30pm work for you? 

Oh, and please don’t feel obligated to bring house-warming gifts or anything like that.  We happily will provide some bottled water and tea-leaf eggs from the 7-11 next door, so come hungry.  I know it’s not much, but it’s all we’ve been able to find at the moment while we get situated.  See you tomorrow!

等一下: The Art of Waiting

If patience is a virtue as they say, than it would seem that waiting can serve as an exercise in virtue.  And if it were not too much to assume, I may dare to say that some of you may have been waiting for my first actual post.  I’m rather new to the whole blogging thing, so I hope that you don’t mind if I ease my way into it.  To be truthful, I rewrote this first post half a dozen times before finally getting around to saying what I wanted to.  Hence the delay.  This first post actually just covers my pre-departure thoughts and time spent at airports en route to Taiwan—with a focus on the theme of waiting.    But I’ll soon post again about moving in and everything that goes along with that.  So for now, we wait and think on waiting.

Waiting is a curious thing, in part because we spend so much time doing it for as little as we tend to enjoy it.  In mainland China, Singapore, and other densely-populated Asian locales, waiting (if anything) is a more frequent undertaking.  I suppose Taiwan may be this way too.  In the Mandarin-speaking world, shopkeepers, ticket punchers, waitresses, and others typically solicit your patient waiting with the ubiquitous phrase deng yi xia (等一下).  Deng yi xia literally means ‘wait a moment’, but is similar in usage to ‘just a second’ or any number of similar phrases.  Said testily, I suppose it could be translated as ‘hold your horses’. 

But I haven’t been doing much ‘deng yi xia’-ing yet.  Just waiting.  Because dengzhe (Mandarin for waiting) is an activity for mainland China or Taiwan.  In the U.S. it’s just ordinary waiting.  And waiting doesn’t have the exotic flair of ‘deng yi xia’.  Turns out it can even be dull. 

You see, this upcoming year in Kaohsiung, Taiwan has been a long time coming for me.  I began the Fulbright application back in September 2011, hoping that it might work out, but trying to temper that hope with realism.  But I applied nevertheless.  And then I waited.  Thanksgiving came and went.  As did Christmas.  Then I finished my last class at Calvin in January.  Not until later that month did I find out whether I’d made the first cut, which I thankfully did.  Then came more waiting.  An odd sort of waiting, because it wasn’t just waiting for my birthday or Christmas like when I was a kid.  It felt heavier, with a strong measure of self-doubt.  Because it seems that landing a job is deemed life’s proverbial next step after college.  And I suppose I wanted that in an instinctual panicky way akin to self-preservation.    

So I waited some more.  When March rolled around, I finally heard that I had been accepted as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant to Taiwan, where I would work in concert with local Taiwanese English teachers.  In the flurry of paperwork and bureaucratic hurdles that followed, I temporarily forgot my waiting at least in part.  But those pesky yearnings—both hopes and fears—crept quietly back in the weeks leading up to my departure, until they felt as dense as the t-shirts wadded up in the bottom of my suitcase. 

Yet a funny thing happened.  It didn’t feel like I’d actually be going.  It seemed more like a story happening to someone I’d known back in grade school but fallen out of contact with.  Even after leaving on the first plane on Monday evening, I felt like I was taking a week-long trip or some other short-term commitment. 

Waiting is a curious enterprise—it has odd effects on our perception of time.  Particularly after 26 hours spent with my high-flying friends at Delta and China airlines.  Grand Rapids to Minneapolis.  Wait.  Minneapolis to LA.  Wait.  LA to Taipei.  Wait.  Taipei to Kaohsiung.  Phew.  When the dust cleared, July 30 had turned into August 1 (the day of my arrival in Kaohsiung), leaving July 31 forgotten in a haze of bustling terminals and half-remembered airline food.  I think there was an omelet, but I cannot recall…

Part of waiting’s curious nature, I think, is the conflicting effects it has on time.  On the one hand, waiting seems to prolong time, causing it to unfold tentatively like a faded, slightly frayed fabric.  Or in more poetic terms: time spent waiting tends to drag its butt across the carpet like an old, worm-ridden dog.  Yes, time spent longingly looking ahead to the future with a kernel of present discontent embedded in our hearts is a sure way to make time drag.  Sometimes (too often) I have forgotten to use the waiting time I am given in wise reflection and preparation, because I’ve been too mindful and resentful of a perceived vacancy in my life that I wrongly think should be filled with something that hasn’t happened to me yet. 

In such moments, awareness of life’s monotonous aspects is heightened, and routines can come across as stultifying rather than comforting.  Each day seems the same, and that realization can spur frustration and/or resentment.  Oddly, I think, this perception of monotony can create the impression that time compresses itself into a string of similarly unmemorable days.  I don’t mean to imply that the days themselves are not worth remembering, but only that looking ahead to life’s next step can tempt us to put life on cruise control and forget to enjoy the ride.  And when our world blurs together in an overriding race toward some (at least ostensibly) defining moment, something of ourselves and our lives gets lost in translation.  I am as guilty as anyone, but I hope to live a bit more intentionally and present-mindedly in the coming year, a goal that keeping this blog hopefully will help bring to fruition.  So here’s to a year of reflecting, remembering, and not forgetting.  If we can manage that, I trust that this upcoming year will be well worth the wait.  I am looking forward to sharing all the experiences of this next year with you, along with all the twists and turns that they will hold, both expected and unexpected.