Voilà. Just like that, and I'm back in chilly Taipei.
There is a vague yet comforting familiarity as the taxi meandered through the streets of Taipei last night. I am not able to name any of them, but it was the same route from the airport as in years past. There's that bridge with the beautiful lights, and, if my memory serves me right, a circular intersection would be coming up next. Sure enough, five seconds later, we would be making our way 180 degrees around it. And then there's that breakfast place called "Amazing Taste." I have not had the opportunity to confirm whether it lives up to its name, as my flights in to Taiwan have always arrived in late evenings. I suppose its presence after all these years does count for something.
For someone who left the country at age ten, my comprehension of the language is really quite good, bordering on impressive. I attribute this to the many wu xia (think Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon) novels I continue to read. What mortal doesn't dream of leaping meters (we're no longer in United States, so get used to the metric system) up into the air and flying atop bamboo sticks to carry on sword fights with the greatest hero of all time. I wished I had such skills last night as I waited for my luggage to appear on carousel 4.
You all know the routine - over a hundred people gathered around this stainless steel (or is it aluminum or some other sort of shining metal?) merry go-round after surviving hours of energy-draining and moisture-sucking flight with a snotty toddler, a morbidly obese man whose pannus drapes over into your seat, or a guy who can't stop coughing, triggering an endemic fear of avian flu of Boeing 777 proportions. I was the guy who couldn't stop coughing last night, but I swear it was allergies.
Anyway, back to carousel 4, everyone had their neck extended to catch a glimpse of the next piece of luggage that would drop. No, that one's pitch black, mine's got a rainbow belt around it. Yes, I think that next one coming around is mine - no, it doesn't have a Hello Kitty sticker on it. So the thought bubbles went as that perennial anonymously black suitcase passed around for the twentieth time without being claimed. Suddenly, the 90-year old man who had a seat just a couple of rows ahead of me pushed away the useless human blocks and carts in front of him, leaped up 0.25 meters above ground, and landed accurately 2.5 centimeters away from the revolving machine, in perfect position to grab his 25 kilogram (I'm sticking with this 25 business) valise and swing it up above his head for a perfect 10 landing. I wondered where he got his training - I recognize the leaping move from the school of the monks of Shao Lin.
Come to think of it, my section of the plane was filled with senior citizens. That's why I smelled like Bengay when I arrived home last night. Hmmm, there's still a hint of it. I know that a couple of decades down the line, a few tubes and jars of such ointments and oils would become more treasured and sought after than the latest line of Armani or Dior, but that's at least twenty years away, I hope.
I was in luck. My plain, sturdy, black suitcase that has accompanied me since my backpacking tour of Europe after college in 1995 appeared shortly after the perfect 10 routine. For a while there, I, as well as the other craning necks around me, was beginning to question if a visit to the dreaded lost baggage counter was in order. But all's well that ends well: I had my suitcase and the irreplaceably worn underwear and socks; a trip to the night market to purchase $100 NT (approximately $3 USD) underwear has been avoided.
Now I need to study the gourmet magazine sitting in front of me to figure out how I can eat my way through all 300 restaurants in the next two weeks. So til the next time.
Ciao, chow.
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