My dreamy slumber is pierced by the unfamiliar racket from Taipei’s working class. After a refreshing hot shower and struggling with the buttons on the bidet it’s time to meet in the lobby. Our mission, to hunt down our first Taiwanese breakfast. Our dress code, unfashionable bucket hats.
Treading the concrete, our senses are assaulted, everywhere you look there is a new sight, smell and sound. We stop for a couple of seconds to pull funny faces at a cute puppy in the window of a pet store but a few doors down, stumble across something exponentially more attractive and less noisy, fresh handmade dumplings. These were meticulously crafted on the footpath by a lady who had been doing it for that long that she had developed a dumpling genome. Her trance-inducing ritual left me questioning whether I had even left my bed.
Corralled inside we sit next to a man who was intrigued at the sight of two tourists grappling with chopsticks. We endeavoured to have a conversation with this older gent but followed the well-worn path of communications past – we confidently say hello (“li-ho”), they mistakenly assume that we are fluent in the local language and from this point we look confused, reaching for a phone to translate us out of our conversational cul-de-sac.
With the help of technology we were able to garner some basic background information, he worked in the hospital we had strolled past a few blocks prior. Before I could get a free tableside consultation to check about the rash on my hand, he started unbuttoning his shirt in the middle of the restaurant. His white cotton shirt and grey chest hair was shielding a long scar from the bottom of his neck to his bellybutton. After throwing up in my mouth from the unsolicited strip show, it turns out he wasn’t a doctor, rather a patient who had undergone open heart surgery and was in the city for his regular checkup. If a total stranger starts taking off their top during breakfast I am dreading what the local ritual is during dessert.
Given my height, our accents and skin colour we were finding it hard to blend into everyday life. My friend’s “Stranger Things” shirt (from the Netflix show) wasn’t helping, locals saw this as an opportunity to hone their English language skills in a real life scenario. This time a father and son approached and said they were fans of the show. Their English was impeccable, the product of being born and raised in Chicago.
Gordon and Pat were on a father and son trip. The father (Gordon) was working as an IT consultant and would work from their hotel while the son (Tom) openly admitted to hitting the clubs in search for women and fun. He started asking questions about our adventures as he was looking to do some travelling while he was “between jobs”. Our friendly chat ended abruptly by the Dad when his son was asking specific questions about sex tourism in Thailand. The only way to end our conversation quicker would have been to produce a handgun.
Our parties went our separate ways only to cross paths minutes later in a nearby Yum Cha restaurant. I assumed that if I had my mouth full at all times Tom wouldn’t have the opportunity to cross the room to reconvene our conversation. My scheme of dismissal paid dividends in the form of a satisfied tummy.
Given our gluttony over the previous two hours we thought we should shun the subway and walk back to our base. Our attempt to burn off the excess calories as if they were a suspicious growth. We got our first glimpse of Tapei 101, the world’s tallest building when it was completed in 2004. To think some adrenaline junkie climbed (with no safety equipment) it a couple of months after our visit has me scratching my head. It’s that tall I passed up the opportunity to scale it with the safety of the elevator. My fear of heights is a constant.
A quick detour to the Family Mart for a drink and my friend started patting himself down like he was a pit crew member falling victim to an invisible alcohol fire. Turns out his wallet wasn’t in his pocket and was somewhere between us and its last confirmed sighting at the Yum Cha restaurant. This meant backtracking our 4.5km trail and scouring each meter of foothpath for a wallet brimming with cash. My mind quickly jumped to images of Tom showering some exotic girls with fists full of cash in a sleazy Thai bar courtesy of some naive tourist with an Australian accent. Did they have an opportunity to scam us? They could be anywhere now.
About a kilometre before the chaffing setup camp on my inner thighs (word of warning; denim, a tropical climate and walking long distances only ends poorly) we made it back to the restaurant. During the walk I’m trying to distract myself as a way of managing the pain. How we would manage the logistics of a lost wallet, the processes of cancelling cards, getting more cash without a card over the next couple of weeks.
We return and my friend reintroduces himself and begins attempting to convey his plight using large hand gestures interspersed with waving translated phrases in front of their eyes. Having no luck with that approach we resorted to Plan B, look under the table where we sat. He reached down and to our combined amazement found his wallet camouflaged on the black flooring of the restaurant. Relieved, we celebrated with more food.
“Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to insult your cat”
Maybe it was the MSG or the adrenaline of us winning the missing property lottery, but we decided to walk back home (again) when there is a world-class railway at our disposal. Why we decided to walk home in the rain when a handful of change would have got us home in fifteen minutes is something I still can’t reconcile? They say that the universe is always sending you signs, you just have to keep your eyes peeled. My feet are killing me, if only there was a solution?
And to make things worse, my friend accidentally stood on my toe. Some twelve weeks later it is a daily reminder of that fateful day. Rather than lose my nail, my toe is doing an impression on Michael Jackson, gradually changing from black to white.
