Our Vacation

A recent holiday witnessed a small party of friends taking a trip to Taroko National Park. These friends were gracious enough to let me join the party. To express my gratitude for my compadres' generosity, I will not use their real names in this blog. I will conceal their identities by referring to them henceforth as Derich and Nelley, Kaland and Kaydlin, Roanna, and Don. Nelley and Roanna, who we may call good chums, found excellent accommodations for us at a hostel named "Amigos" in the city of Hua Lian. Considering the fact that I have now used the word "friend" or its synonym six times in six sentences, you may rightly conclude that the company on the trip, and thus the trip itself, was on the whole quite congenial.

Having introduced the characters of this narrative and hinted at the nature of their relationship to one another, I am now compelled to describe the setting. As I stated above, our objective was Taroko National Park. This is roughly an hour's bus ride from Hua Lian. Allow me to give you a glimpse of the park. Stand with me now at the edge of an expansive, forrest-lined meadow. Look at the swirling sea of grasses; here in the shadow of the great oaks they are a shimmering blue, while further out where the sun's rays dance upon their tips they flash a more greenish-gold. Like children making shadow puppets against a wall, so the clouds dot the meadow with strange figures. See Regal Buck--still, calm--imposing his majestic presence o'er his world. The wind now whips the grasses all to bend their heads before him. His only movement is a slight dip of his antlers in recognition of the honor due him. See also Dainty Fawn as he prances playfully about under the careful watch of Graceful Doe. Enter Comely Maiden. Her golden tresses are tied loosely behind her though certain rebellious strands drop down to frame her angelic face. Her flowing gown ripples along, seeming to provide all her movement. A flower basket, yet unadorned, dangles from her arm. The meadow's blossoms lunge toward her, pleading to be plucked by her elegant hand and planted in her basket. Gaze now upon Dainty Fawn as he presses his soft nose into that elegant hand. Golden Finch and Crimson Cardinal encircle the couple as the harmony of a choir of songbirds fills the air with a glorious anthem. Cast your eyes about this magnificent scene. Soak in its splendor. Capture it as a living memory. File this memory away to be recalled when life lacks beauty, wonder, and romance.

File it far away from anything bearing even the slightest connection with Taroko National Park. Let there be no intermingling of the two. The fanciful scene above is the east to Taroko's west, and "ne'er the twain shall meet." They are opposing poles, each rejecting every attempt by the other to encroach upon its territory. They are, in a word, as far apart as a first-grade class from a junior high class. Taroko National Park consists mainly of a gorge for heaven's sake. When have you ever seen Regal Buck, Graceful Doe, Dainty Fawn, and Comely Maiden come together in a gorge? Never.

Sheer rock cliffs. Narrow passageways. Torrential river. Dangling vines. Winding paths. Swinging bridges. Ominous caves. Sizable resort. These are the sights of Taroko Gorge. The morning after we arrived in Hua Lian, we took a small bus roughly twelve miles deep into the gorge, and then proceeded to hike our way back out. This left us slightly fatigued considering the fact that we had hiked about twice that far the night before in search of a little sushi bar. However, the weather was wonderful and the gorge was gorgeous. Here bald rock faces loom endlessly above you. There the river bounces off of boulders beneath your feet. Here clumps of trees and vines cling stubbornly to cliffs. There stones and pebbles threaten to drop from precipices above onto your head. The gorge is infested with monkeys. By infested, I mean that we saw about seven of them, that being the largest amount wild monkeys I have seen in one place in my life. As a matter of fact, they were the only wild monkeys I have seen in my life. We saw them from across the river about 150 yards away. Even from that distance I could identify them as being of the macacus cycplosis species. There were four females, two middle-aged and one adolescent, and three males: one elderly, one middle-aged, and one adolescent. They were the extent of the wildlife, not counting ourselves, that we saw in the gorge.

Having seen the gorge, we were left with a day and a half to spend in Hua Lian. We deemed it wise to fill this time with steamed dumplings and scooters. There is a famous steamed dumpling stand in Hua Lian, and we felt it our solemn duty to patronize the spot. It was easy to find. Or at least it was easy to find the stand's general vicinity. An line of people trying to acquire these dumplings snaked its its way through the city's blocks before reaching the outskirts of the town and then lapping the city three times. It is this long line that is the infallible sign of quality here in Taiwan. If ever, in your journeys in Taiwan, you see extraordinarily lengthy line, jump in it. You may ask what the line is for later. Note, however, that it is not the case that quality causes the long line but that the long line causes the quality. Upon seeing such a line, people automatically and without reservation assume quality. So unshakeable is this belief that even if a person stands in line for hours only to receive vile fare, that person will assure you it is the best vile fare you will find anywhere. Starting a successful business is quite easy. All you must do is pay a bunch of friends to line up outside your establishment for the first few days, and soon there will be long lines for you product everyday. An effective advertising campaign might make wide use of such slogans as "Leonard's Soaps and Baked Goods. We have the longest lines in town!"

The steamed dumpling stand did indeed have the longest line in town. Standing in line, however, was not the only way to get the dumplings. Potential customers were given a choice; they could stand in the line for five hours to purchase dumplings to go, or they could eat in and get their dumplings in fifteen minutes. We took the most reasonable route of standing in the line for three hours before abandoning it in favor of eating in. We consumed roughly three hundred dumplings a piece before rolling back out into the street. As evidenced by the line, the dumplings were good. Of course, they were not as good after only a three hour wait in line as they would have been after a five hour wait, but we were all in agreement that we did not need our dumplings to be that good. The stand is worth a visit. If ever you find yourself in Hua Lian, I suggest you take them up on the invitation given in their familiar and catchy jingle:

"Zheng's Homemade Dumplings, yummy, yummy!

Please slide them down into your tummy!"

We wanted to see more of the surrounding area, so we decided to rent some scooters to putter around on. After a bit of looking, we were able to procure four scooters that fit our purpose. Actually, we found three scooters and one motorcycle, thus breaking up the general democratic feeling of the trip and instituting something of a class system. There being seven of us on the trip and the bikes being able to carry two a piece we split up into pairs with one left on his own. Lord Derich and Lady Nelley took the motorcycle. They were attended by Kaland and Kaydlin on one scooter and Don and Roanna on another. I trailed along in solitude. The name of my scooter is worth noting. I scooted about on a Yamaha Fancy Jog. This name is truly remarkable in that it was quite antithetical to my experience on the bike; neither I nor the bike was fancy, and nothing like jogging took place. What did take place was a pleasant afternoon of riding around Hua Lian. Those of us with a zest for life even took the bikes out for a late night spin along the river. Unfortunately, some of the group lacked a zest for life and stayed at Amigos. To shield Derich and Roanna from embarrassment over their lifelessness, I will mention no names.

Don left us that night, so I reluctantly turned in my Fancy Jog and teamed up with Roanna for our final half day. This turned into the most enjoyable portion of the trip. We had heard rumors of a scenic coastal road that headed south out of Hua Lian, and we decided to hunt it down. We found it, and it was worth the whole trip. Roads winding around the edges of mountains that plunge down into a beautiful blue ocean. Monstrous waves throwing their full weight against craggy cliffs only to be repelled each time. Tunnels swallowing you with darkness before spitting you back out into the beautiful scenery that is Taiwan's east coast. Dense, tropical vegetation to one side and the vast expanse of the ocean to the other. Small fishing villages flashing by. All of this we experienced on a perfect spring day. It is good to be reminded sometimes that I live on a tropical island, and there are benefits to that.

I will admit that I was a bit anxious about operating a scooter for the first time. The idea of zipping around narrow streets teeming with cars, scooters, bicycles, and pedestrians was slightly unsettling. The idea of flying around hairpin turns on what I perceived to be a somewhat clunky two wheeled vehicle with someone sitting behind me also gave me some little concern (for those westerners who doubt the verb "flying" is properly associated with scooters, you would be surprised. The may not move along at the rate of your sports bike, but many of them will take you at a very nice clip.). I am proud to say that I passed this test with flying colors. These colors mainly consisted of a deep purple and yellow painted liberally about the chin and throat area. The wind was quite fierce at times, especially when emerging from a tunnel, and my helmet was not fastened on tightly enough. The helmet was a bowl-like affair with a chin strap. When a good gust would come up, the bowl would fly back off my head, and the chin strap would slip down to my throat, keeping me from losing the helmet altogether. This predicament raised two concerns for me. First, my chin strap was choking the life out of me. Second, I worried that I was throwing out something like a parasail and creating too much drag to maintain my desired rate of speed. Roanna was more concerned about the first of these two problems, since at that particular moment my health and wellbeing were of no small consequence to her own. I also suspect that she did not appreciate being beaten in the face by a bowl. Thus, she took it upon herself to place the helmet back on my head at regular intervals. After a while I stopped to fix the problem by cinching up the chin strap a little tighter. Unfortunately, I was too zealous in the tightening process. Just after we got back underway, I realized that my teeth were being fused together and my jaw would never work properly again. There will forever be scars on my chin where the strap dug its way to the bone. One must pay for beauty somehow, though, and I counted it a trifling thing to lay my throat and mandible at Beauty's altar in order to see the sights I saw that day.

When the ride was over, we gathered our belongings, bid farewell to Amigos and our scooters, and boarded the train back to Taipei. It seems, though, that after such a marvelous three days I left part of me in Hua Lian. Most notably, I left the part of my skull that we could not dislodge from the bowl. But that, too, is a trifling thing in light of the delightful memories I took away of time with friends.

A True and Accurate Report

Throughout its long, storied history, this blog has ever only had one writer. I have jealously guarded the pen, never once yielding it to another soul. The time has come to break with this longstanding tradition and briefly step aside for another scribe. My decision to hand the pen to someone else is partly based on the fact that my arm is still recovering, making typing a little difficult. It is also partly based on finding another man whose talents deserve to be recognized and appreciated by an astute readership. I discovered this gem among the many reports on the events that surrounded the breaking of my arm. The author labors under the moniker J.T. Fitzpen and is a nascent talent in the sports writing world. You will see that he does have a strong tendency towards dramatic sensationalism, but I am sure that this will be overcome with time. I am sure that the reader will forgive the few sins of a writer who is still in his authorial infancy and appreciate the clarity and precision of detail that he presents. Here, then, is his article.

Over a decade after he had shocked the baseball world by walking away from the game he loved in order to engage in what he considered to be "more important pursuits," T.J. Thigpen quietly walked back on to the diamond. No one at Taipei Riverside Park who watched his tall, graceful, languid form climb slowly up the mound last Sunday would have ever guessed he had been gone so long. Numerous comments were bandied about the press boxes concerning how good Thigpen still looked in a uniform. These comments were followed by laughter at the idea that he would look any other way; not just because he always looked good in anything, but because he was back where we were used to seeing him. It was as if the Mona Lisa had been absent for a long period and was now being restored to its place. He was at home.

Thigpen went through the same pre-game warm up routine that had prepared him for so many outstanding performances in his younger days. Between warm up tosses he would restructure the mound to fit it to his liking. After the throw went down to second, he went to the rosin bag, turned his back to the plate, nodded to each of the men in the field, and spent a few moments gazing out over the wall in center. When Thigpen turned back to the plate he wore a calm, almost drowsy, expression that belied the importance of the game, both for his own career and for the team itself.

That expression would stay with him throughout the game. He remained placid after his first pitch blistered the outside corner, bringing a roar from the crowd. Two pitches later he froze the batter with a nasty slider, giving Thigpen his first strikeout in over ten years. The most emotion this elicited was a couple of quick blinks and another trip to the rosin bag.

Thigpen sailed through the first three inning, showing no signs of rust. He later said that his arm felt fine throughout.

"I was expecting it to start getting a little stiff since it had been so long since I had done any serious throwing," he said, "but it wasn't giving me any problems. I certainly didn't see it coming."

What he didn't see coming did come, however, on a 0-2 count with no outs in the fourth. In the middle of Thigpen's smooth, familiar motion a loud snap, much like a thunder clap, reverberated through the stadium. A close observer might have noticed a brief line of confusion crease Thigpen's brow. This vanished instantly, though, and he resumed his usual calm demeanor as he held conference with his catcher and pitching coach.

"For just a second I didn't know what happened, but I realized pretty quickly that I had sustained a spiral fracture of my humerus about a third of the way up from the elbow."

This didn't seem to bother him that much, however.

"I was just about to call the catcher out to let him know that the velocity on my pitches was most likely going to decrease slightly, and that I might not be able to place the ball with the pinpoint accuracy to which he had become accustomed."

The catcher did not need to be summoned. He was already on his way out to the mound.

"I immediately knew some was wrong," the catcher said. "I had called for a fastball outside, but this one just caught the inside corner. It was almost a ball, and I sprinted out to see what was wrong."

It turned out that the sight that greeted him there was a little unsettling.

"His arm dangling at an unnatural angle. It was kind of gross to be honest."

What followed was the only thing that seemed to rattle Thigpen in the slightest. He was told he could not continue pitching with a broken arm.

"I didn't think it was that big a deal," told the press. "It was just a broken arm. It was not as if it was a potentially lethal injury. I could tell it was a pretty clean break, too, so I didn't think anyone would mind me finishing the game.

However, the rule book stood in his way. According to the official Taipei Baseball Association rule book, a player with a serious injury must leave the game. Section III, Article 2, paragraph 1 states:

In the case of the having of very bad luck in the body of a player, the unlucky man must depart the game and look for attention for health. Unluckiness in body include ripping of ligaments, blinding of eyes, cracking of bone, or death. Game officials has response to produce water and any others necessary for comfort and wellbeing of unlucky man.

This still didn't stop Thigpen from protesting.

"It was right there in black and white, I guess," he admitted. "I just couldn't help arguing a little. I understood their position, but I wanted to play. They were very nice to me, and kept trying to give me water."

In the end he did win a little a small victory against the rule book. He was allowed to finish out the inning while waiting on the ambulance to arrive.

"I asked them if they would let me at least pitch until the medical people got there. I promised to throw left handed if it made them feel better."

It turned out that Thigpen's left arm is faster than Taipei's ambulances. He set down the next two batters in quick succession and had to wait ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive. This, however, was fine with Thigpen since he didn't want to leave the game anyway.

"I thought they would at least let me stay and watch the game out. I was going to take the bus to the hospital later, but they threw the rule book at me again."

This time it was Section III, Article 2, paragraph 2:

For unlucky man must be production of quick medical car. Quick medical car have to scurry him to hospital to restoration for him of lost happiness.

With the arrival of the quick medical car, Thigpen left baseball once again. And once again the baseball world was left wondering if this was the end. Had baseball's brightest star, long hidden by the clouds of devotion to other causes, finally burned itself out here in Taipei? Had this Hector met his Achilles? Had we just watched Bowie finally succumb in the Alamo?

These questions stand unanswered right now. Maybe Thigpen won't return. Maybe he will rise again like the phoenix from the ashes of his latest defeat. Maybe like a boxer bludgeoned by the fist of fate and nearly counted out by the course crowd around him, he will summon from a rich reservoir of resolve the power to punch back. Maybe, just maybe, he will come back home one more time.

As I said at the beginning, this is a slightly over sensationalized report. As you can see, however, Fitzpen has a way of grasping and presenting the salient points of a game. I have heard that Fitzpen himself has been unlucky in body. Something about an injured arm too, which makes the story even more impressive if he typed it with a hurt arm. Maybe he called upon a rich reservoir of resolve. Maybe he summoned the sustaining strength that comes from a passionate pursuit of principles and purpose. Maybe I should take the pen back now.

a break in the action

i am sure by now that you are sick of the constant media coverage of my broken arm. espn has devoted itself over the past 24 hours to the event. yes, the reports are correct. i broke it pitching. i threw a fastball and snapped my humerus in mid motion. it might possibly be the case that i throw too hard. it is more likely the case that i should drink more milk. either way, the non-functionality of my right arm makes some things difficult--things like blogging and showering. therefore, i will take a break (yes, a pun) from these things for the next few months as the arm heals. when i return i will give a full report on how i broke my arm (all the things espn hasn't told you) and on how many people i have knocked unconscious with my fragrant aroma.

(for those who haven't quite figured out how to read this blog yet, you can believe about fifty percent of what i write on a good day. thus, when i say i won't shower or blog for a while, half of that is correct. i'll let you figure out which half.)

Across the Bounding Main

One may wonder why it has been a while since this blog received a fresh injection of life. [editor's note: the author here is exceptionally precise in his use of the indefinite pronoun "one", as there is little hope that such wondering as is mentioned extends farther than his own dear mother.] The truth is the good ship TPot has been at port for some time while its captain has gone in search of new and improved merchandise to bring aboard. In this search, the good (?) captain has been forced to reevaluate the general tenor of his targeted cargo. "When the citizens of foreign lands," he thought, "first glimpse the billowing sails of my old bark, what thought should spring to mind? What hope should fill the breast? What expectation should flood the soul?" After such reflection, he decided that perhaps new cargo should be added to the old.

As the briefest perusals of previous freight lists will show, the TPot has heretofore devoted its holds to strict and accurate reporting of the facts of life in Taiwan. It has sought to shun stereotypes and bring to port only the truest forms of culture. Thus, the dry, journalistic flavor of its past imports. However, the captain has come to realize that stereotypes are not all bad things. They exist, in fact, because there is some truth behind them. More than that, they are in some way necessary things, providing a needed level of cultural categorization and added support for the traditions on which our habits and customs hang. Over the past few weeks, then, the captain has flung himself into the expansive embrace of Asian stereotypes.

Notice that it is to Asian stereotypes that the captain has devoted himself and not just to Taiwanese stereotypes. This is because he is cognizant of the fact that the astute Western mind that will be the consumer of his goods understands that there is no appreciable difference between the various Asian cultures. This Western mind is so broad and hearty that it is hardly fazed at all by the miracle that the worlds largest continent in both area and population has maintained cultural uniformity throughout the millennia of its acknowledged existence. Thus, to understand Korea is to understand Mongolia; to live in Japan is to live in Vietnam; to speak Taiwanese is to speak Nepali. It is quite astounding, really, for the person living in any Asian country to realize that he or she is actually living in about fifty countries at one time.

The captain found that living the stereotypical life was rather time consuming. There was much to be done. He must, for example, become proficient in mathematics and certain scientific pursuits. More than this, he had to persuade his parents to be overbearing and demanding, pushing him in his scholastic endeavors. Added to this, he was forced to master the gaming world. He had to learn to design video games of his own and spend hours honing his skills on the offerings of other game designers. All of this, as difficult as it may have been, was only the beginning.

He realized that he would not be satisfied with only contemporary Asian stereotypes. No, stereotypes never really die, and even the most aged ones must be given their due. Being in Asia, it is precisely the elder statesmen among the stereotypes that must be given the most honor. Thus, he sought to integrate the old with the new. He started by growing a ponytail and drastically receding his hairline. He then donned the Asian farmer's straw hat and shuffled off to build a giant wall to keep invaders away from his highly secret uranium enrichment facility. He worked thirty-one hours a day before returning home to his yurt. He then changed into his kimono, clipped his bonsai trees, and meditated for a few hours while standing in various impossible positions. After this he sat around and shuffled his copious amounts of U.S. dollars and bonds, trying to decide which ones to dispose of. He savored the cat he roasted for dinner, which he washed down with yak's milk. The next morning he rose early to read sagacious proverbs and write haikus. He then practiced five different disciplines of martial arts and spent time catching flies with chopsticks. He climbed Mt. Everest. He now patiently awaits the time when he can commit hara-kiri.

The captain has also taken up calligraphy, which has meant regularly riding his elephant down to the stationary store, where he has discovered a little known aspect of Asian culture. When Asian people are in need of inspiration and a good, hearty cheering up, they evidently turn to notebooks. This is the only explanation for all the magnificent sayings that are found on notebooks in Asia. The cover of nearly every notebook is devoted to an attempt to inspire, instruct, or encourage. It quite moving to compare the downtrodden, tearful visages that enter a stationary store with the glowing, uplifted ones that leave. They are a boon to native English speakers as well, if only in the fact they tend to sport the finest examples of that language. The captain has found that he can hardly leave the store without five or six new notebooks bought simply for their English. It seems that most of these notebooks come from Korea (not that Korea is really different from any other country in Asia), and he now believes that Korea must be a paradise of truly divine English usage. The TPot has delivered a few loads of notebook sayings, but the captain feels that a few more would be encouraging.

To begin simply, one notebook has emblazoned, quite appropriately, across the top "Notebook." Under this title it provides this extra information in brackets [That begins and ends on a delightful]. What is truly inspiring about this notebook is the intriguing mixture of mystery and hope. On the one hand, the dangling "delightful" leaves us hanging. On the other hand, we are comforted by the hope that the notebook will be filled with a delightful something instead of depressing, crude expressions.

Another notebook presents us with both an inspirational saying and inspirational spelling. It states, "Not the fruit of experience, but pxperience itself, is the end." This same notebook contains a Chinese character which it translates as "risibility". The brilliance of this notebook is that it is risible enough to laugh at itself.

The final offering comes from a notebook entitled "Change for better day". It gives us this uplifting morsel:

To enjoy from the sad situation is a must for living. To lighten the weight, with smile, a growth and a way of treating you good. To fight or not, to stand or not, no criteria to follow up. To be free from the mentally suffering, the tactics decides it's result. May the season bring you the very things that will make your dreams come true. Wish you a blessed year and a joyful new year. So many affairs to life, therefore, learning how to make the worst of better is a compulsory lesson. Let happiness and wishes tune up to your tomorrows. Run the new records for those fresh days.

The captain puts the one line in bold to let you know that this is his wish for you--that you learn to make the worst of better. This is exactly what he has been trying to do in his pursuit of stereotypes, and he is not sure but that he has succeeded famously. He hopes that every time his good ship slips into your port in this upcoming year of the rabbit, you will make the worst of it. Just use your expansive Western mind.