Memorable Accomodations

I have a fond memory of my brother, tipsy on bowling alley beer and being awake in the wee hours in between night and morning, breaking in half a piece of bacon, discarding the end with the long, black hair spiraling all the way around it, and happily crunched the other end. We were sitting in a Denny's- a 24-hour Florida diner chain whose commercials at the time boasted meals for $3.99. He shrugged and said, "If you're going to eat at Denny's at 2:30, you have to be ready to make some concessions. We split- and thoroughly enjoyed- the free English muffin that came as a conciliatory offering.

Traveling in hostels and budget hotels, I often remember these sage words and usually can take the inevitable concessions in stride.  

Today's concession: the door on my sea view bungalow on a small Vietnam island, which appears to have been built as a prop for a set rather than an actual, functioning security measure.

It's no so much the gap between the frame and the door, which highlights the pitiful, primitive lock, that surprises me. It's the fact that the door quite easily pops out of the sliding track, which is just two raised bars of wood. 

It's the small things that make travels vivid.

Can I have my greens and eat them, too?

It was in Brooklyn, not too long ago that I became enamored with organic, whole, and whenever possible, local foods. Hitting the farmer's markets became a weekly ritual and my bike was used more for trips to the coop than leisure or exercise. This food culture, or conglomerate of food subcultures was also easy to find in cute restaurants around the city. And, likely quite annoyingly, I even became preachy about it to my family.

While this obsession with certain types of foods is still pretty new, it was deeply entrenched when I made my way to Asia, and posed challenges to my usual open, I-have-to-try-everything-once-

in-the-name-of-authentic-cultural-experience approach to eating while traveling. I have thrown back fried insects, various indiscernible (and texturally diverse) animal parts, and mystery foods from every group, and even things i wasn't supposed to actually eat, with only the fear of not eating it in the correct way. Chicken's feet are a delicacy in Chinese cuisine? No problem! But the chickens are probably raised in a cramped commercial farm and pumped with antibiotics? Yikes! Ok, no problem, in this Buddhist-dominant part of the world it's easy to go vegetarian (and without simply making fake meats). But then, many vegetarian menus feature a lot of soy, which is so frequently genetically modified. Vegetables abound here, but Taiwan is on the short-list of worst offenders for pesticide use. And not speaking Chinese further complicates my quest for the kinds of foods I like.

Before coming over to Taiwan I found a handful of organic restaurants reviewed online. One review was for a chain of small groceries that often have prepared foods, if not small restaurants within. And I was delighted to find that there are a variety of such markets, both chains and seemingly independently run. I fact, I've gotten pretty good at spotting the ground nut powders, grain crackers and dried fruits and nuts in window displays that these places usually feature. I don't even mind that the stuff is a bit pricey. I do, however, mind that a lot of the products come from the US. Certainly it is not always the case, but I so often I have to choose: avoid pesticides and antibiotics in my food, but require a ridiculous amount of petrol to get it to me, or go with the locals, but eat it without really knowing where it came from or what's in it. Even the local non-organic fruit shops, while much cheaper, feature items proudly bearing USA or Chile stickers.

So the search continues for foods that are indigenous and grown without chemicals.

Saying hi to the other white guys

I stand out as a minority here. Especially in my first few weeks, I was always surprised when I saw another white person. I found myself torn between wanting to acknowledge them- Hey, look, I'm white, too!- and wanting to avert my eyes and dissociate completely- You don't exist. I'm the white person here.

Now it's just a quick note in my head, such as this morning while jogging: Is that a white dude up ahead? Yup, white. Don't stare. Only just as I was turning off the path to head to the pull-up bar, he swerved in the same direction and we came to a stop in front of the bars right at the same time. I cracked up at the thought of how it might have even looked like a synchronized white exercise routine from the outside. Then I exchanged my first knowing smile, nod, and "Hey" with a fellow Caucasian and tried not to feel too self-conscious as we did our respective work, side-by-side on the bars. 

If the goal was to improve circulation, I think this masseuse overshot.
The post I was mentally composing, extolling the delights of cheap Thai massage, just lost some steam.
Apologies for the graphic picture.

Farm to Table...Sometimes, Maybe.

The Taipei Artists' Village is a cute network of interconnected staircases, with studios,  small galleries, cafes, and even a small hostel smacked in among apartments along DaoNan river.

Expecting just art spaces, I was thrilled to see the title "Farm to Table" printed [not ostentatiously] on top of the printed menu hanging on the door. It was late at night and they were closing down, so it was added to my list of things to do and talked about frequently...until today.

I would love to write about the farm to table offering I enjoyed when I returned to the Treasure Trading Cafe, as it is properly called. But I can't because they didn't have any today. They couldn't tell us when they would have any. You need call ahead and reserve maybe, but they couldn't tell us when to call either. Noted, I am relying on a college-age cafe employee to communicate details to me in my language. But there was no expression of, "Sorry, I don't know how to explain it to you, I just don't have the words." He really didn't know. I guess it should be exciting that the meals come from a nearby farm, and thus are reliant on what's available each week, but that excitement is mitigated if you never know how to try it.

On the bright side, it is a very cute location if you'd like to sit and have some tea.

Dress Code

I was just informed that my cropped pants do not meet the school's dress code. Pants are allowed now for the winter dress code period, but they must be full length pants.

This from the institution that puts young boys in shorts with knee socks.

I shake my fist and proclaim, "Injustice!"


The offending pants:


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Compensating for Illiteracy

No vocabulary for office supplies and an inability to write the characters if I did know the word.
Nobody around in the office where you get supplies from to pantomime to.

...but I did have a pencil. Sorted.