the journey continues

on Taking Flight.

i shed and shed

This is my last evening in Taipei.

That's right, the trip has approached its last moments, and the timing couldn't be better, as I am starting to become homesick and ready to renew my life - sans work, of course - back in San Francisco.

As I type this final entry, I am looking at my peeling, snake-like skin, a consequence of the sunburn from two weeks ago in Thailand and, while I succeed for just a minute at a time in resisting the urge to deliciously peel the flaky pieces off, wondering if I will return tomorrow a different person than two months ago.

To be honest, I can't remember if I set specific goals for this journey.  My guess is that I did not, although one glance at the title of this blog will tell me that I wanted to eat, prey, and write, not necessarily in that order.

Without a doubt, of the three items, eating was done the most frequently.  Just yesterday I stuffed myself to near nausea at a social event which my cousin Sophia's husband, Daniel, had planned for his alma mater, the school of dentistry at National Taiwan University.  Sophia had recruited me to be the unofficial photographer, which I most gladly accepted, for my target was the quintet "N's Fun," who was performing at the function.  Combining my love for photography and classical music, not to mention the opportunity to check out the skills of a professional cellist up close - how could I say no.  Besides, the cellist's husband just happens to be the star of my favorite Taiwanese sitcom from back in my high school and college days and one truly great comedic actor.  There were ulterior motives bouncing off every wall and ceiling when I accepted the task.

Now, I can't tell you what N's Fun really means, since I don't know it myself, but I can tell you 'twas Fun, great fun, to be up close and personal with other musicians, holding my Fuji X10 in hand and doing my best impression of a professional photographer.  As I hunted for the ideal angle to capture each musician while making a valiant effort to avoid the annoying, bright red banner posted just behind the pianist, I was also studying the right elbow of the cellist as she drew the bow up and down and the rhythm of the vibrato from her left hand and arm, thinking back to the more recent lessons I had with my cello instructor, Irina, which were too long ago.

Yes, I was eager to resume playing the cello and to reconnect with the frustrations of not having a smooth enough vibrato or a deep enough bowing.  I admit that I am a glutton for punishment, the type that comes inevitably from learning any and every skill, the continuing and never-ending struggle of always wanting to be better than you already are.  Not only a punishment, it is also an addiction, for nothing is more addictive than the exhilaration of being able to do something which you thought impossible one day, one hour, or even one minute ago.

Maybe I'm addicted to studying an instrument or a foreign language.  Maybe traveling itself is like an addiction.  The prospect of learning something new or finding someone new regenerates itself, even if it doesn't ultimately come true.

I can't say that I'm returning home tomorrow with a new set of best friends, a freshly completed script, or even the most unforgettable experiences of my life.  The significance of the past two months will only be measured by the person I will become tomorrow, next year, and next decade.  Who knows, maybe I am the exact same person as I was two months ago, plus five pounds.

At least I'll come back with a new skin.

the three sisters

You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your relatives.

Thank Buddha I couldn't choose my relatives; an indecisive Libra like me would have taken a whole lifetime to choose just one relative, debating whether a rich and generous uncle who happens to be a lousy serial gambler would be more beneficial than a beautiful and elegant first cousin once removed who lives up to her blond hair.  Instead, I got three aunts, my father's three sisters, who have turned out to be better than anyone I would have picked myself.

There are those uncles who love you and bring you the best Christmas present every year, for which you willingly sacrifice three hours of your life to sit through yet another devastatingly annoying dinner during which you listen to each relative talk in turn about his cheating boss, her gossipy neighbor, and their multi-talented children.  There are also the first cousins who live around the block from you who are the most suitable candidates to babysit your twin toddlers whom others have described as bratty but you know that the undeniable truth is that they aren't willing to recognize these incredible two-year-olds as anything other than geniuses.

And then there are my three aunts, three sisters whom I have looked forward to visiting every time I returned to Taiwan and who have never showered me with gifts but whose every advice, delivered with humorous anecdotes, and every gesture, given with the most comforting touch, tell me they care about me and want nothing more than my happiness and success.

Sadly, the second sister passed away last year, and the fractured trio's spirit has been wounded, but their humor and passion remain evident.

I am lucky to have had not one but three such people in my life (that's not counting the sisters' youngest brother).

How many do you have?

turning, turning

The mountains or the ocean?

Which is your choice for a relaxing getaway, an escape from your boring existence in which you regret every professional decision you ever made, always wondering what might have been had you chosen wiser, better, earlier?

Today I was reminded that my choice is the ocean, by default.

no, i haven't gone to europe, this is in taiwan

My cousin Phoebe took a couple of days off from work to take me to a mountain resort in central Taiwan known for its beautiful scenery of flaming maples, rosy cherry blossoms, and a sea of clouds in the midst of forest greens.  With names like "Monet Garden Resort" and "The Old England Hotel," the guesthouses in the region take on the style of European hotels in the Alps, sort of like an Asian Heidi visiting her grandfather in the Swiss Alps.  I had been looking forward to this trip since my return from Thailand.

However, the week long non-stop rain and the visit in February translated to naked branches of Maples and cherry trees with a wet ground full of muddied cherry blossoms.  On the drive up the mountain, we were both hoping for at least a hint of the sun to allow us a dry walk through the farm.  No such luck.  It was also at that time that I remembered one important detail about myself:  I have severe motion sickness in a car traversing through winding roads.  A couple of hours later, my stomach was violently protesting this trip.

If you've never experienced motion sickness, let me tell you that it is no walk in the park when your intestines are turned upside down and you feel as if your large intestines are making their way up toward your stomach.  Note to self:  no need to visit the mountains ever again.  I probably made the same promise the last time this happened, but memory of it has faded with the passage of time.  Perhaps a tattoo of "mountain = winding roads = puking to death" onto the back of my hand is in order.

In any case, Phoebe and I walked a couple of hours in the rain, imagining the view if the cherry blossoms suddenly stood up from the ground, bathed themselves in the rain, and flew up to reattach themselves onto the lonely branches.  What a beautiful sight to behold!

Instead, we were surrounded by misty mountain ranges and lush green vegetation, a perfect image of natural masculinity.

Who needs girly pink flowers anyway. 

Or silly hats with pink stripes and white hearts.

i left my heart

I've been back in Taipei for two days now.

It was cold, damp, and raining when I left her a month ago.  She has welcomed me home with cold, damp rain.  It's as if I never left.

Must find some way to live beyond it.

I miss San Francisco.

make chicken, not war

Last night, at 6:30 in the evening, the sun was setting at over 90 degrees Fahrenheit with a humidity index of 65%, I had the best fried chicken in recent memory.

Upon the recommendation of Paiboon, I visited the food stand of halal fried chicken and cold Thai noodles run by three Muslim women just up the street from my guesthouse.  Asked to get some take-out by his boss, Paiboon gave me a ride, which lasted all but 30 seconds, so no Wolverine hair this time.

As a self-proclaimed, but fully deserved, expert in fried chicken, I could tell immediately that this was some good chicken.  The skin crispy without significant coating, the color yellow from liberal amounts of cumin, these two-legged flightless creatures have been sacrificed for my enjoyment, and I was about to take advantage of it.

Right next to them were several pots of sauces for the noodles, one of which I recognized from a few days earlier as a green curry with a cucumber-like melon that was absolutely delicious.  I pointed to it, and after saying "fuk-kiaw, fuk," Paiboon began to giggle uncontrollably.  Hearing this, one of the women smiled and said, "fuck, fuck, fuck," then giggled as well.  She caught me by surprise, so I was laughing with them, although for a completely different reason, theirs being the similarity in sound between the Thai word for this melon and the apparent English word, mine the sight of this pleasant, hijab-donning woman uttering a series of English profanity with such jollity. 

After Paiboon left on his bike still giggling and muttering some long phrases in Thai to himself, I sat down to enjoy the chicken.  I was right, it was absolutely delicious:  the cumin gave it a unique but not overpowering punch, packing just enough heat to stimulate the senses without rendering me a perspiring mess.  I was in love.  As I bit into the crunchy skin and savored the tender meat, I watched the three women prepare food for more customers.  I remembered the recent news about the discovery of burned holy texts.

For whatever reason, some people in this world continue to feel the need to disrespect other people's beliefs, setting off an endless series of revenge.  They create laws based on their own religious beliefs to limit other people's freedom, while all the time complaining that their religious freedom has been compromised.

Make love, not war, it is said.  Forget that - there are enough abandoned babies in this world.  Instead, make chicken!  I say take all that anger you have toward people who are different than you and enter yourselves in a fried chicken competition.  Instead of burning sacred texts, heat up vegetable-based oils with no unsaturated fat.  Rather than guarding millennia-old secrets about the wrong-doings of your predecessors, learn the secrets of spices and coating techniques.  And as a substitute for throwing bombs, throw chicken bones.

The winner?  Those with the cleanest chicken bones remaining, after I have at them, of course.

1,237

I'm tackling the Tiger Cave Temple today.

Yet, I'm not interested in the tiger (there aren't any live ones anyway), the cave, or the temple.  What I am interested in is climbing the 1,237 steps to see the Buddha statue on top of a 600 meter high karst peak.  Since I am not joining any group tours nor can I ride a motor bike, my journey begins in getting to the Temple.

Remember the Song Thaew I took in Chiang Mai?  It is my friend here in Ao Nang again.  After consulting the guesthouse receptionist and a tour planner at one of several dozen tourist information centers in town, the consensus is that I should take a white Song Thaew to the Krabi bus station, then a red Song Thaew (on which side of the street I should embark is yet to be determined) to the main road leading to the Temple, then walk the two kilometers to get to the Temple.  Sure, I could take a taxi, but that would be 1,500 Bahts more and 1.5% as fun.

The original plan was to leave around 7:30 am so that I could get an early start to avoid the excruciating heat.  The average highs have been 90 degrees, and with the high humidity, it's equivalent to nearly 100 degrees by mid-day.  The plan was sabotaged by my procrastination which was picked up during residency in dealing with my classmates who were all perpetually late.  So, at 8:15 am, after a satisfying breakfast - I needed to fill my stomach to survive the climb, was what I told myself while gorging on toast, cereal, yogurt, eggs, sausage, and fruits - I set out to find a white Song Thaew.

Finding one wasn't the problem, as it turned out; convincing the driver to go faster was impossible.  There were just three passengers, so the driver stopped or stalled every two meters, hoping that more people would climb aboard.  The only thing that was climbing was the temperature, which was inching up by about one degree every 15 minutes or so, with each degree equaling one liter of sweat from me.

After finally getting off the white Song Thaew at 9:15 am, I frantically looked for a red one on either side of the street, which is the classic sign of a tourist in need.  Queue the motor bike driver.  A motor bike driver is pretty much a motorcycle taxi.  I have been approached by at least one of them everyday while in Thailand, and today was the first day when I was in need of one.  We agreed on a fee of 100 Baht for him to take me directly to the temple.  I put on the spare helmet, and we took off.

Fifteen minutes later, I finally arrived at the base of the karst.  The prerequisite photographic and videographic documentations complete, I marched the first step up.

there's a "10" in front of the "38"

Along the way, I passed by several other admirers of the Temple, some on their way up, some down.  Every now and then, a number indicating the steps already taken would appear on the rail.  The photo I took of this shows 38, my age, but there is a "10" in front of the 38 around the post.

At around 1,000 steps, the infamous monkeys began to appear.  Sure, the baby monkeys are incredibly cute and cuddly, enticing the inexperienced traveler to approach and pet it, but that would be a mistake, as would be feeding them.  Along the steps and around the railing, numerous monkeys lay in my way.  Since I had done my research, I knew that these monkey charge at the sight of any food or anything shiny.  They've snatched sunglasses, chips, and all kinds of jewelry from innocent or stupid (yes, there should be a distinction) people.  So I made a mental note to put away my watch and not to take out my camera when they were around.

Twenty-five minutes after I began my ascent, which included a few stops for photos and rest, I finally landed on step 1,237, about 1 kilogram lighter from the perspiration I had transferred onto my shirt.  I won't bother to describe for you what I saw - these photos and videos speak for themselves.

As everyone around me panted and puffed their way around the Buddha, I noticed that the monkeys had a sandal to play with.  Removing the shoes was a requirement at the very top as a sign of respect, so there was quite an assortment of flip-flops, sandals, and athletic shoes for these curious Georges to choose from.  The woman with one missing shoe innocently asked around, "Do you know how I can get my shoe back?"  Try praying to the Buddha.

cradled by the buddha

I didn't stay around long enough to watch the conclusion of this intriguing episode from the planet of the apes, as I wanted to get my flip-flops back on before the monkeys had further ideas and also needed to get back down by 10:30 to be on time for my return ride.  Just before leaving the top, a Swedish woman decided to enjoy a little snack.  Before she even took a bite, an adult monkey appeared on her left side, sitting on the bench with her.  She was alarmed and immediately tried to wave it away.  Then she noticed a second monkey on her right, upon which she screamed and got off the bench.  I told her to put her food away, but it appeared that she didn't understand my Swedish disguised as English.  I took step number one down and left her and the monkeys behind.

The person taking me back to Ao Nang was Paiboon, a staff member at the guesthouse who lives near the Temple and had offered to give me a ride since he goes to work around 11 am.  Paiboon is a chatty one, I found out shortly after I got on his motor bike.  As we chatted about the countries we live in, I was thinking two things:  I probably should be wearing a helmet, and I'm going to have the worst Wolverine hair yet.

some steps were 50 cm steep

Wolverine was how Tony described my hair the first day we arrived in Bangkok.  My stubborn, straight hair sticks straight out under three conditions:  under high humidity, when I sweat, and when I eat spicy food, which means that during my days in Bangkok and Krabi, I've been Wolverine - a nerdy version of it - not muscular, not sexy, and definitely not Hugh Jackman.

As my transformation into Wolverine took shape with the wind blowing against the short black wall my hair was forming while I rode on Paiboon's motor bike, our conversation turned to Obama and other leaders around the world.  We agreed that it is difficult for people in positions of power to accomplish all they hope or promise, due to political or socioeconomic circumstances that one individual cannot control.  Particularly when they go against nature, Paiboon adds.

I did not ask him to clarify what going against nature constitutes; in my mind, there were many ways to interpret this.  Sometimes my own actions seem to be going against what others describe as nature, yet nature seems to be helping me along.

I felt the wind against my face and thought more about my Wolverine nature.

a litter of tiny pups outside the temple