Days 7 & 8: Eternal Spring Shrine of the Spotless Mind

DANSHUI

After hotpot on Tuesday night, Winston and I bumped into a British acquaintance of his, Phil, who recommended that I visit Danshui, a coastal town north-west of Taipei, where the Taipei Strait feeds into the Danshui River. He said he had been there with friends on the weekend and watched an amazing sunset. With no plan in mind for Wednesday, it seemed like a good and cheap (NT$50 – about AU$1.75) idea.

On the train, an old, partially toothless guy in a dirty polyester suit seemed to take an interest in me and started asking me questions. By the kind translation of the lady sitting next to me, he managed to recommend that I visit a coffee shop in Danshui which has a marvellous view over the bay. I would never have picked him for a café-dweller but I’m glad he was.

After a walk along Danshui’s charming waterfront promenade, replete with carts and stores selling extra-tall soft-serve ice creams, I reached what I assumed the old man had been speaking of, and was only mildly disheartened to realise that it was, of course, a Starbucks. I ordered a latte and a blueberry muffin and took them up to the first-floor outdoor balcony, which looked directly over the water towards Bali on the other side of the river mouth.

Why there were seats available on this balcony, while people sat inside typing on their laptops, remains a mystery to me. Rarely have I experienced a moment of such bliss, where every element is just right: the cool, salty breeze rolling off the water; the warm muffin and sweet coffee; the jazz standards playing over the speakers (including excellent sax renditions of ‘In the Wee, Small Hours of the Morning’, ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ and ‘Misty’); the blanket of mist making Bali a Brigadoon. Just one of those simple, sweet moments life offers us every now and then. I was very grateful for the toothless train guy.

I spent an hour or so wandering around Danshui, admiring its old streets and trendy, wacky souvenir stores aimed at the weekend getaway set.  I also stumbled through its crowded street market, which duck and wove through back alleyways, offering all manner of curious fruit and vegetables, and any cut of meat you could imagine, including the local specialty: wild boar.

Despite Danshui’s charm, I happened to know that hot springs were not far away and had been intrigued to visit them for some time. A key part of Taiwan’s tourism industry, hot springs bubble up all over the northern half of the island, but the epicentre is Xinbeitou, north of Taipei and on the way back from Danshui.

XINBEITOU

A notable calm rests over Xinbeitou, along with a subtle hint of sulphur. Despite this, my first vision of the city was of a woman lying umoving in the middle of an intersection, her scooter lying scratched-up beside her and ambulance workers fussing over her. It seemed unfair that this oasis of calm was the only place I should see the damage wrought by Taiwan’s mercenary driving habits, when thousands of similar incidents must surely occur daily in the big smoke.

Still, unable to offer any more assistance than was already being plied, I carried on towards the hot springs of Guangming Road. With no particular destination in mind, I soon came across one I had read about in the tourist guide, called Long Nice Hot Springs. The first bathhouse built in Beitou, Emperor Hirohito visited on his grand Taiwan tour, and it was initially used for wounded Japanese soldiers. During the Japanese occupation it was nicknamed ‘House of Three Cents’, but for me it was the House of the Still-Reasonable Sum of NT$90.

The man at the door seemed keen to make clear to me that it was a ‘public bath.’ When I squinted at him, he used the word: nekkid. Ah! I see. Yes, one of those. But we cut a deal and he said I could wear as many clothes as I wished.*

Inside, the bathing room was much smaller than I expected, and quite busy. Still, the sound of running water and the steam rising from the small pools maintained the aura of tranquillity. I first tried to shower, as I had read was customary, but was stopped by a naked man who directed me straight to the pools. Not in a position to argue (never do so with a naked man), I zipped over to the pool and sat on the edge, just warming up my feet. Once they had adjusted to the considerable heat of the water (around 42 degrees), I sat on the first step, heating up to my waist, then a few minutes later went in up to the neck.

My first thought: anyone who argues that it is humane to kill a lobster by throwing it into boiling water is either lying or deeply misguided. There is a reason the hot spring guidebooks throw around terms like ‘cerebral ischemia’, ‘cerebral haemorrhage’ and ‘cornea damage.’ They are hot springs, designed to cure all manner of ills, but it’s certainly a case of no pain, no gain.

I repeated this process twice, never remaining fully submerged for more than four or five minutes, and soon began to feel deeply peaceful. I sat on a wooden bench to dry off (the towel I was given was the size of a regular handtowel and as thick as a dishrag), letting the breeze cool me down. As I did, the calm really set in. To experience such calm on a daily basis, as many hot springs visitors must, would surely do wonders for the health. On the train ride home, I nearly fell asleep, so soothing was the hot spring’s effect.

A brief nap back at the hotel restored my energy and I headed out in search of dinner. The Taiwanese certainly have their favourite haunts: some places had queues along the street while others remained relatively unpatronised. I stumbled across a quiet place enticingly named ‘I like food and coffee’ and somehow knew it was the place for me. I took my seat for one and a chubby little girl (presumably the owner’s daughter) sat diagonally opposite from me, playing with a bead puzzle and singing sweetly. A local couple brought in their poodle, which sat up at the table while they read their newspapers.

I pointed to my dish of choice on the menu (ever careful to choose places with illustrated menus) and stumbled through a request in Mandarin for a bottle of beer. The waitress wandered off and returned with a number of different beers for me to choose from. Victory was mine! If I could order beer in Mandarin, I felt, I could do anything! Elated, I ate the delicious bowl of crumbed pork (with an egg cooked over the top) and drank my bottle of Taiwan Beer. And, as the restaurant’s name would suggest, a cup of excellent coffee followed the meal. So satisfying.

I headed home for an early night, knowing that the next day was going to be a big one.

*This is a lie.

HUALIEN, TAROKO GORGE and TAROKO

After an early start, I headed out to meet Winston at Zhongshan Station for our 8:15 train ride to Hualien (via Taipei Main Station), near the coast south-east of Taipei. He had, in his way, been quite adamant that I must not leave Taiwan without seeing Taroko Gorge, Taiwan’s most prominent natural landmark, and I had been surprised by his assertiveness on the matter, but soon began to see that he had an unspoken stake of his own in the trip. His concern on the train platform at Zhongshan that we stand at the right doorway for the train resulted in maniacal pacing for something close to two minutes, calculating the relative distance between the doors and the escalators at Taipei Main Station, to ensure, apparently, that we would not have to walk three steps more than were absolutely necessary.

When we found our Traditional train (V-Line equivalent for friends back home) at Taipei Main Station, he ushered me into the nearest carriage then disappeared to the front of the train. I stood waiting for him for a while and eventually saw him bustling towards me down the aisle of the next carriage, pencil and notepad in hand. He signalled (using words as infrequently as possible) for me to follow him into the next carriage and proceeded to scan the ceiling for the carriage’s serial number. He noted it down and moved on to the next one, repeating this for twelve carriage-lengths.

When the train finally pulled away, he noted the time in a spreadsheet he had carefully drawn up in one of his notebooks and did the same every time we passed a station, rigorously cross-checking with the official timetable issued by the train company. If we passed a station a minute late or a minute early, I could be sure of an up-to-the-minute report.

I asked him if perhaps the train trip itself was part of his reason for wanting to take me to Taroko Gorge and he admitted guiltily that, yes, it was part of the reason. I told him it was fine, but that he could have been more explicit about his obsession with trains, rather than attempting to hide it from me like a dirty little secret. It is not in his nature, however, to communicate so directly.

I spent most of the two-and-three-quarter hour trip trying to relax despite his constant time-checking, note-taking and seat-hopping. More than once I felt like a parent with a needy, difficult child. Thankfully, there was enough visual splendour outside to keep me interested, and my mp3 player was a godsend. I listened mostly to music by Alberto Iglesias, which lends itself beautifully to world travel.

No sooner could we disembark at Hualien than Winston had raced up the platform to the front of the train to watch the engine changeover and document it step-by-step on his camera phone. We waited an hour or so for the bus to Taroko Gorge and, when it arrived, I was careful to take the front seat, aware of Winston’s tendency to motion sickness. On the bus, a baby started crying, deeply disturbing Winston’s peace of mind. Initially he just groaned and rolled his eyes, but when another infant began screaming, he became so disgruntled that he turned around to look at the mother and let out a loud ‘Sheeeeesh!’ I’ve never felt so patient and tolerant. I asked him, ‘What are you going to do? Throw it out the window?’ then carefully backtracked to reassure him that I did not intend it as a recommendation.

After an hour on the bus, we arrived at Taroko Gorge. It was hard not to be struck by its natural beauty, but we were only at the entrance. The gorge is much bigger and more splendrous than can be witnessed in a single afternoon, especially on foot. I followed Winston towards a road tunnel that led under a mountain. I don’t know, reader, if you’ve ever walked through a tunnel under a mountain before, but it’s an eerie experience. The echo when a car or bus roars through is quite deafening, and in the silence there’s an unmistakable air of anticipation, waiting for the next vehicle to howl past.

When we reached the end of the tunnel, Winston proceeded to walk along the narrow edge of a road that appeared to wind around the base of the gorge. Naturally, I asked him where the walking track was. He informed me that this was the walking track. Despite my wimpy protestations that a 10-20 centimetre gap on the side of a road leading directly beneath unstable marble rockfaces did not constitute a walking track, I followed him.

What I saw of the gorge was predictably breathtaking: a striking red suspension bridge, small Buddhist shrines carved into the landscape, big brown wasps’ nests perched high in the branches of dying trees, and, of course, a string of overwhelming views of the mountains rising over a kilometre into the air.

I couldn’t help feeling a little horrified, though, by the café and tourist shop that had been set-up directly opposite the Eternal Spring Shrine, one of the most serene places imaginable. Built in 1958 to honour the 212 people who lost their lives in the construction of the Central Cross Island Highway, the shrine has been destroyed twice by natural disasters. The huge landslide that scars the mountainside directly above it seems to suggest it will never be entirely safe, and that maybe nature (which made the construction of the highway so difficult in the first place) likes it that way.

A Stand By Me moment followed when we were walking through yet another tunnel, this one the most narrow, and a tour bus roared up behind us. A woman walking a few metres behind uttered what must have been a Mandarin expletive, while Winston and I clung to the dusty rock walls for dear life. We got out of there as quick as we could.

We eventually got back to Taroko, the village at the entrance to the gorge, and had a couple of hours to spare before we could leave. Winston seemed to blame me for this, though I was not to know our walk would be over so quickly. We grabbed a drink at a 7-11 to kill some time, then walked towards Taroko train station, passing on the way a local karaoke bar, the likes of which I would have expected from eastern Europe, not eastern Taiwan. An old drunk woman was howling into the microphone while a batch of drunk gents swayed along to her unconscionable wails. The ‘music’ echoed down the street. It was 4:30 in the afternoon.

 

It was quite a walk to the station, and Winston was not going to let it dirty his shoes. He leapt over even slightly damp ground in order to keep his soles clean.

We sat for a moment in what was called the Asian Cement Garden, but was actually a spot designed to attract butterflies. We spotted some beauties, but they didn’t want to land. We had to make do with watching their bright red and yellow bellies swirling through the air.

We caught a train back to Hualien and I enjoyed a bowl of dumplings in a very tasty beef broth, along with some fried tofu. We stopped by a sweet shop and I purchased a local specialty (apparently a remnant of Japanese occupation) called mochi, a variant on the classic jam donut. Mine was made from a red bean dough wrapped around a ripe strawberry and dipped in icing sugar. It was good and sticky, but fairly bland. I imagine it’s the kind of thing locals might eat as comfort food.

Winston slept (mercifully) all the way home, while I listened to music, mostly Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark. ‘Just Like This Train’ sounds better when you’re actually on a train.  

Slept at least nine hours after 36,658 steps for the last two days. 

Days 5 & 6: Photos

1. Not really the kind of thing one needs embroidered on the back of one's top, surely?

2. The Dandy Hotel exterior.

3. Every brightly lit sign spruiks a different bar. (And this is just one of three near-identical lanes near the Dandy.) The paucity of bottle shops in Taipei would have you believe they're light drinkers, but don't be fooled.

4. Look closely for the rows of pot plants at street level.

5. The Paris end of Zhongshan North Road Section 2. Easily the nicest street I've seen in Taipei. Chiang Kai-Shek used this street to get to work every day during his time in Taiwan. All traffic would stop and bystanders would salute as he made his way to and from the Official Residence in Shilin. Not bad.

6. Good, if grumpy, coffee.

Days 5 & 6: Observations on a culture

33,279 steps around central, eastern and northern Taipei over the last two days have given me an opportunity to formulate some thoughts on this curious city and its people. So rather than giving you a rundown on every step I took, here are some general observations gleaned from my traipsing.

1. Taipei hates itself.

For all the effort it puts in to creating little glimmers of beauty here and there (see Days 3 & 4 photos), Taipei hates its own appearance and is deeply insecure about its cultural identity. Angela wanted to get out of Taipei because she thought there was nothing beautiful here. Winston refuses to call himself Taiwanese because he accepts the idea that he and everyone else (aside from the indigenous population who live mostly to the south of Taipei) is fundamentally Chinese, having migrated here from the mainland only one or two generations ago. 

And if one considers the work of a country’s artists as a reliable barometer of its self-perception, a visit today to the Taipei Fine Art Museum revealed a depth of self-loathing so palpable it left me quite depressed. Though I struggled to actually find any section of the gallery other than the ‘Art Experience’ zone (featuring mostly installation-style pieces), I saw enough to tell me that Taipei’s (and, indeed, Taiwan’s) attempts to reconcile its own identity are a long way from full realisation.

One particularly haunting series of paintings by Hua Chien-chiang was called ‘Weightless Generation,’ in reference to the current generation of young people (around the age of what we might label Gen Y) raised as the ‘masters of tomorrow’ but relegated to invisibility by a crippling lack of employment opportunities. The paintings depict this generation as mere outlines, floating uncertainly in a golden ether, distinguishable mainly by their clothes and, most prominently, their sneakers, but not by their physical being.

Another installation featured a version of the Taiwanese flag made out of bubble wrap, and came with notes from the artist explaining how no one has reverence for the flag anymore, that it is just a symbol of the country, not of its spirit, as used to be the case. One painting overlaid a dull brown traditional, folk-style painting of a village with brightly painted signage of prominent brand names in Taiwan, such as Starbucks, Mercedes-Benz, Coca-Cola and 7-Eleven. As works of art, of course, they lack subtlety, but they offer unmistakable evidence of Taipei’s discomfort with its position between worlds: the old and messy but self-assured Taipei, and the new and shiny but soulless Taipei.

2. Eating Taiwanese food is like learning a new language.

There is such diversity and unpredictability to the way food is served in Taipei. It’s easy and extremely cheap to have very tasty meals, such as this fried chicken on rice with pickled vegetables (not that different to the dish from Yu’s Teahouse in Hawthorn that spurred me to come to Taipei in the first place). But one is never quite sure what to expect from the flavour of the dishes and when one finds out, it’s often difficult to describe them, as they are so foreign to a Western tongue. In this chicken, for example, there is a distant echo of cinnamon along with the salt and pepper. And the orange fluid in the cup: somewhere between cough syrup and Cottee’s fruit cup cordial. (I think it might be some sort of cumquat juice variant.)

Winston took me to the ShiDa night market and introduced me to genuine Chinese-style hotpot. In his typically frustrating way, he refused to tell me how to eat it then laughed at me when I did anything he thought was incorrect and lambasted me for copying his method. And he took great delight in not telling me what I was eating, pretending he didn’t know the English names for things until I had taken my first bite. Thankfully nothing was as exotic as it first appeared. The intestinal-looking things are just tofu skins and the brainy-looking things just taro and seafood dumpling. Once I got into the rhythm of this completely alien way of eating, it became most enjoyable and quite delicious. The ‘snowy’ (streaky) sirloin steak strips were particularly tasty.

3. Ratso Rizzo wouldn’t last a day in Taipei.

So what if you’re walking here? Taipei’s drivers couldn’t care less. Right of way goes to whoever gets there first, and when you’re up against an army of motor scooters and angry taxi drivers, you don’t stand a chance if you’re riding Shank's pony. They will not hesitate to honk if you’re in the way, and will often honk as a way of saying ‘look out, I’m coming through.’

Not only has this Merc managed to block a lane of traffic, it has also skilfully obstructed TWO pedestrian crossings. (An additional statement about Taipei’s attitude towards wealth?)

A walker’s woes are amplified by the fact that the only available walking space is often that that extends from stores onto the street, the height of which can differ from store to store, so one has constantly to keep one’s eyes on the ground to avoid tripping up an incline or stumbling down one.

4. A Taiwanese bride looks best perched in a tree. Apparently.

A symptom of Taipei’s newfound shininess is the wedding store, which not only offers newlyweds clothing for the big day, but will also arrange the photography, functions and any other specific requests. Some stores place folio-sized sample books at the doors to entice young couples wanting to use the big day as an expression of both their love and their unique personalities. This may involve climbing a tree or lounging about on a baby grand on the beach (which I could understand if you were marrying Lang Lang but, really, who is?)

Days 3 & 4: Photos

1. The subtle influence of atheism?

2. Bold advertising

3. The Jade Market

4. National Concert Hall

5. Attempts at beautification

Days 3 & 4: Winston, Angela and the Modern Toilet

I should’ve known from the moment I boarded the plane at Hong Kong Airport that my presence in Taiwan was not going to be swallowed easily. Upon seeing me – apparently the sole Westerner on CX546, and a big one at that – the lovely flight attendant let out a ‘Hello, Sir!’ that was at least an octave higher than her Mandarin greetings.

A late-middle aged couple took the seats next to me and I smiled at the lady. People usually assume I won’t want to say hello to them when they sit next to me on a plane, so they avoid eye contact as long as they can, as this lady did. But I stared her down and gave her a warm ‘hello’. She said ‘hello’ back and laughed the laugh that says ‘I’ve got nothing else to say to you.’ But she scraped together a thoughtful ‘you happy?’ which I mulled over as if she’d asked ‘Are you happy, truly happy, with the direction your life is taking?’ when really she just meant ‘how are you?’ (The literal translation of the Mandarin greeting ‘ni hao’ is, apparently, ‘you good?’ The gulf between goodness and happiness is lost in translation.)

The baggage claim at Taiwan Airport revealed to me just how much of a fish out of water I had become. Not only did it appear that I was the only Westerner on my flight, but that I was the only Westerner in the entire airport. Having only ever travelled to foreign countries with fellow Westerners, this was an entirely new experience for me. I felt an enormous sense of responsibility to represent the whole of Western society in the best possible way, desperate to employ the tiny gaggle of Mandarin phrases I had managed to commit to memory.

Of course, not one customs official, queue wrangler or bus ticket seller would dare address me in Mandarin. Not ol’ Whitey McWest. My pathetic hsieh hsiehs (thankyous) were met with baffled indifference. I eventually managed to purchase a bus ticket into Taipei and made it to my hotel without getting even slightly lost.

I was thrilled to find that the Dandy Hotel Tianjin is a stylish, thoughtfully designed and decorated place, with fantastic desk staff who, despite my months of practising for check-in, speak in mostly unbroken English.

After settling in, I gave another TravBuddy friend, Winston, a call and he popped around, quick as a flash. A Taipei local his whole life, Winston had agreed to show me around Taipei and join me for a few meals and maybe a daytrip down the coast. We hit it off immediately; this is one kooky character. With thick, rectangular black-rimmed glasses, neckphones and hoodie (featuring a cartoon version of no less than Che Guevara) I pinned him immediately as the quintessential Taiwanese hipster, but a few hours rid me of my preconceptions.

Darting around the streets of Taipei like a famished, coke-addled Sherlock Holmes, stopping suddenly every twenty metres to speed-read another menu, then tripping over his own feet ten metres later, he was a man possessed by the need to find good dinner. When we passed McDonald’s he told me that at 10 o’clock he would have to stop in and get French fries. When I asked him why, he explained that it’s just what he does at ten o’clock. Okay.

We finally decided on a well-known and –regarded restaurant named Hawji (which apparently translates as something like ‘good place’) and selected a few small dishes to share: a delicious omelette; bamboo shoots and minced pork in a Szechuan sauce; sliced Chinese sausage eaten with slices of raw garlic; prawn wonton noodle soup; and steamer (small) clams in a sweet and sour sauce. All were delicious except the clams, which were more salty than sour, and too sweet. We washed it down with some local beers, which were both good, but made Winston quite drunk.

On the walk home, we passed the McDonald’s and I asked Winston if he wanted to go in for his fries. He said, ‘You crazy? It’s nine thirty!’ then went home to his parents in Keelung, north of Taipei. He spends a lot of time deriding them as ‘unbelievable boring’ but seems unable or unwilling to work enough to become independent.

Sunday started with breakfast at the Dandy Hotel’s buffet: a bizarre spread for a Westerner to be faced with, including daintily arranged plates of pasta salad, coleslaw and potato salad, small bowls of daikon topped with tuna and fish roe, along with bain maries of fried rice, soft, streaky bacon, and what looked like custard but was labelled ‘eggs’, completely smooth and glossy. To my delight, when I cut into the eggs, I found slivers of rice paper (?) embossed with pictures of bright pink flowers. It was a bit like finding the dollar in the Christmas pudding.

I spent the morning hunting down some CD stores Winston had recommended to me, never abandoning my search for rare and valuable soundtracks. Unfortunately, the directions he gave me were a little off, but I did manage to find a couple of okay CD stores. Wandering the streets of Taipei alone, I felt quite stared-at. Indeed, in the course of the day, I could have counted on one hand the number of Westerners I saw and on one finger the number of 6’5” Westerners (including the one in the mirror).

Frustrated by my search for the perfect obscure soundtrack, I took refuge for the first time in my life in a Starbucks. Even before I could say ni hao, the lady at the counter had her English on. Hrmph. I ordered the smallest coffee available, which apparently is called ‘tall’.

After sitting a few moments to catch my breath, I heard a sweet, sheepish ‘hello’ from the next table and looked up to see the smiling face of a young local woman, nursing a couple of shopping bags but, strangely, no coffee. She seemed keen to try out her limited English and I was all too happy to finally be able to try out some of my Mandarin. Through the course of our stilted, comical conversation, I learned that her name was Angela, that she was a Mormon, a former nurse and currently a fashion model. She showed me a picture of a woman on the front cover of Elle magazine and convinced me it was her. It was refreshing to hear her speak of how beautiful she felt she was.

I told her I was from Melbourne and she remarked on the coincidence that she wanted to move to Melbourne. It soon emerged that she had recently broken up with her boyfriend (also her English teacher) and was looking for a husband. Her sister, six years her junior, had already married and had a baby on the way. It also emerged that she had no interest in Asian men because all Asian men between the ages of 18 and 38 were like children. She wanted to be a ‘boss’ while her boyfriend had wanted to keep her at home, or at least in a low-paying job. I realised she might be what Winston had warned me about: a white-hunter.

It wasn’t long before I got up the nerve to say, ‘Jee dien?’ (‘What’s the time?’) because I had arranged to meet Winston at a park some distance away. We got a photo together before we parted and that was as married as I will ever get to Angela.

Winston took me to see a couple of very crowded Sunday markets, but there was nothing there I was interested to buy: mostly wooden or jade trinkets, bad paintings, and faux-leather wallets. Still, they appeared not to be tourist traps as, if there were any tourists, I did not see them. We lunched at a divey little place in a side street that served me up a very satisfying plate of fried rice, perfectly textured and flavoured, and a drink of iced jasmine tea. The chef came out from the kitchen, apparently just to ask me where I was from. He told me (through Winston) that he was from Hong Kong and I explained I had just been there. A few moments later, the waitress brought along a big bowl of hot carrot and radish broth. Apparently, I had said the right things.

Reinvigorated, we set off to find the CD stores Winston had told me about. On the bus, a woman couldn’t help laughing at me. She explained to Winston that she wished she could have 15 centimetres of my height. I tried to gesture that she could have them if she wanted them, and I think it worked. Suddenly I was feeling more welcome and at home, even if I was only being appreciated for my freak value.

We spent about two hours looking at CD stores and I bought a couple much more cheaply than I could’ve at home. We went to look for somewhere to have dinner.

Winston knew that I was interested to go to a restaurant I had seen photos of called Modern Toilet and he saw that the time was right to take me there. It’s hard to explain the feeling of seeing in real life something you’ve only ever seen in a viral email. Those things usually seem so far removed from reality, but I can assure you that this place is all too real and, even though toilet humour is really not my thing, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

Perhaps the most disarming thing about the place is the nonchalance with which the waitresses slide onto your table a Thai coconut curry served in a miniature toilet bowl and cistern as if it were the most normal thing in the world. My favourite parts of the meal were my drink, cumquat and lemon juice served in a miniature black urinal, and my visit to the actual toilet where I found it difficult to shake the feeling that I might be damaging a piece of furniture or crockery.

Finally, Winston and I went to Taipei train station to sort out tickets for a daytrip to Hualien in the south, near which lies the apparently beautiful Taroko Gorge. At the station, we stopped to look at a small gallery of photos documenting Taiwan’s steam trains in the 60s and 70s. A number of people had stopped to look and admire the excellent monochrome images, one man even remarking to me as I took a photo, ‘It’s beautiful,’ his sincerity and genuine respect for this aspect of his country’s history genuinely touching. It occurred to me that something similar in Melbourne would most likely be either ignored or vandalised. It certainly said something about the pride taken by the Taiwanese in their surroundings. (This pride also evinced by the potted plants dotted around the city, especially near construction work, and the paintings of flowers on otherwise ugly fixtures and columns.)

For Winston, the train station seemed to offer genuine solace, mostly because he is fascinated by train timetables. He carries around with him two large green books filled with the things. After noticing some other peculiar behaviours, such as his careful arrangement of dinner items on the table and his open confrontation of drivers who dare to stop across the thick white line at a pedestrian crossing, I asked him if he knew about OCD. He said he didn’t but admitted he was a control freak. He wasn’t offended when I concurred; at least I don’t think he was.

After nearly 22,000 steps on my pedometer for the day (about 10 miles), I retired to my Dandy room and slept like a baby.

See next post for more photos.