I overslept the first day I tried to go to Peng-hu. I’d spent the previous night looking at maps, travel websites, airline schedules, and so forth. I set my alarm for 8am, but I don’t even remember it going off. I’d been in Taiwan a month and a half, and was living in a one-room apartment above the Rao-he night market. I joked with some friends back home that I felt like I was living on the set of Blade Runner. It sounds exciting until you think about it, nobody in that movie looked very happy.
I came to Taiwan with plans to travel, soak in the culture, see new and amazing things, and learn about a land far from the one I call home. That never really happened. I quickly learned that my travels were limited by the hospitality and patience of others. I couldn’t speak their language, and for the most part they couldn’t speak mine. To add to that, a hurricane had passed over the island a few weeks ago, destroying several of the places I’d planned on visiting, and turning most of the southern part of the island into a disaster area. I asked some of the friends that I’d made about alternative travel spots, and a few mentioned Peng-hu, “the Hawaii of Taiwan.”
The clincher for me was that two friends had said that they’d rented a car when they had visited Peng-hu. The islands are never crowded, so traffic isn’t as bad as Taipei. It had been over a month since I’d driven a car, the longest stretch I’d done since getting my driver’s license at 16. I missed driving down Texas highways, or even across town to visit some friends and get something to eat. You don’t think of these things when you start traveling, they sneak up on you in the form of homesickness a few weeks later.
The next day, I got up at 7am in spite of only a few hours sleep. I took a quick shower and went downstairs to take the bus to the airport. My plan was to grab something to eat and hit up the ATM at the 7-11 by the bus stop, but when the bus arrived almost immediately after I got there, I decided I could get something to eat at the airport. No telling when the next bus would come.
On the advice of some friends, I hadn’t purchased a ticket. They told me the local flights worked the same way as the trains. They never filled up, and everyone bought their tickets and waited for the next plane to take off. I couldn’t believe it was that easy, but sure enough, when I got to the airport they had a seat available and I was on the plane within twenty minutes.
It was while buying my plane ticket that I discovered that Peng-hu was another Chinese word that, no matter how hard I tried; I could not say correctly enough that anyone could understand me. After saying it several times to the poor girl at the counter while getting the same friendly, yet deeply puzzled look in return, I gave up and wrote the name down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She repeated something that sounded nearly identical to what I just said, but was probably miles away to a fluent Chinese.
There’s a reason people say it’s hard for Americans to learn Chinese, it’s because it is. Our mouths get spoiled on lazy vowel sounds and slurred southern accents. Their sounds are sharp and deliberate, full of precise vocalizations without any easy English equivalent. The best metaphor I can come up with is it’s like being an accomplished guitar player trying to jam with a sitar player. Not only are the notes from your western scale useless, the notes he plays are so similar, they blend together to the untrained ear. I grew up fighting some of the usual childhood speech impediments, and I’d forgotten how frustrating it can be to say something and not be understood. To make things worse, in the name of ‘saving face’, the locals will pretend not to understand me, rather than facing the shame of responding with less than perfect English.
The flight was less than an hour, and I dozed through most of it. They did the flight announcements in Chinese and English, possibly just for my benefit, as I didn’t see any other foreigners on the flight. Shortly before landing, we were politely warned not to take pictures of the airport, because it also served as a military base for the Taiwan air force. They’re worried that spies from the mainland will pose as tourists and scope out their defenses. It seemed silly to me, but they take things like that very seriously. It’s easy to forget that Taiwan is disputed soil, with thousands of missiles pointed my way on the beaches of mainland China.
After arriving at the airport, I tried getting some money from the ATM machine, and got an error message. I tried the other machine across the lobby, no luck there either. I had brought about $80 with me, and had spent half of that buying the plane ticket. I went to the help desk to ask for a map and some advice. The man there didn’t speak English, but was nice enough to call someone who did. He said that there were a few banks in town, and I might have better luck there. I also asked about renting a car or scooter. He took me to the rental desk and helped me translate. They asked for an international driver’s license, and I didn’t have one. I hadn’t anticipated this before I left. I didn’t think I’d need to drive, and didn’t think I’d want to. My translator told me that there were rental shops in Makung, the island’s largest city, and that they would be more lenient with me. He pointed me to the bus stop, and I thanked him and went outside for a smoke while I waited.
After taking the bus into the city, I went to the 7-11 to get some snacks and something to drink. 7-11 had been having a promotion all summer: buying two drinks gave you the opportunity to draw a token out of a colorful bucket covered in pictures of their cartoon mascots. The tokens usually had discounts on the drinks, but this time I won something else, a tiny cup of vanilla ice cream, complete with a tiny flat wooden scoop, like something you’d get for dessert in summer camp. Amused, and a little surprised, I sat on the curb outside and ate my ice cream.
After eating, I checked my copy of Lonely Planet: Taiwan for the recommended sights to see. After finding my bearings, I started walking through the city to the nearest spot. Makung looked like a pretty typical beach town. Few of the buildings rose above three stories, though some of the hotels near the bay were taller. The streets were busy, but not crowded, and everything was clean and brightly lit. It was a refreshing change from Taipei, and aside from the Chinese signs everywhere, didn’t look too different from a beachside town in Florida.
My first stop was a deliberately old timey alley full of souvenir shops, surrounding four small holes in the ground. It was supposedly the site of a well that a goddess gave to an army training on the island to keep them from dying of thirst. My guide booked called it the “Well of a Thousand Soldiers.” Kind of like the bible story of loaves and fish, I guess. It was quiet when I first arrived, then a busload of tourists appeared. They lined up at the well, taking turns dipping a red plastic bucket into it, and washing their hands with the water, while shooting pictures of each other posing and smiling. It was almost like a ritual. They could tell their friends back home that they’d washed their hands in the Well of a Thousand Soldiers, then bought some souvenirs and got back on the bus. The four holes all led to a single pool of water a few feet underground, and the water they were drawing was much too clear to be coming from an actual well so close to the ocean. The whole place reminded me of the many sites in Florida promising to be the genuine Fountain of Youth that Ponce De Leon had searched for. The tourists didn’t seem to care. I think they didn’t worry about the history of the spot or its authenticity. They wanted a story they could take back home.
After walking to the edge of the city, I found what looked like a very old fortress structure. I walked up some stairs and into what looked like a neglected neighborhood. It must have been at least 50 years old. The buildings were old and crumbling, but without any graffiti or garbage surrounding them. And the place was completely empty. 
It was quite unsettling. It wasn’t until I walked through it until I discovered that I was in another tourist spot, aiming to show how the city looked when it was a military base during World War II. As I walked down the street back into town, I saw rows and rows of large metal balls with cat faces painted on them strung across a fence beside the road. I have no idea what they mean, and there was no one around to ask.
As I walked through town, I started looking for a place to rent a scooter. I saw a shop with rows of scooters parked outside, and, assuming it was a rental shop, went inside to try my luck. I told the woman at the counter that I wanted to rent a scooter. She looked at me for a second with obvious discomfort, and then gestured for me to wait. There was a door in the back of the shop, and I could see several people behind it lying on couches watching TV. She left, and then came back with a young girl, maybe 10 years old.
The woman said, in slow, uncertain English “You rent motorcycle?”
I assumed she meant scooter, and nodded. She handed me a form written in Chinese and made a gesture with her hand, holding her thumb and forefinger a few inches apart, which I had found was a universal gesture for “Show me your ID.” I handed her my Texas driver’s license, which she glanced at and handed to the young girl. The girl, disinterested, looked at it for a second, then nodded to her mother and gave it back to me.
The woman asked where I was traveling from. I said Taipei. She asked “You drive Taipei motorcycle?”
I responded “I’ve driven American motorcycles.” This was a lie. I had never driven any kind of scooter or motorcycle, and hadn’t been on a bike of any kind in over a decade.
She asked again. “You drive Taipei motorcycle?” She was trying to figure out if I’d ever driven a scooter before. Driving a scooter in Taipei would be a sign of mastery. Scooters outnumber cars in Taipei, yet they share the road with cars, buses, taxis, and bicycles, weaving in and out of traffic at breakneck speeds. Yet I never saw a single accident in my two months in Taiwan.
The young girl, looking bored and eager to get back to whatever she was doing, said something to her mother, probably about my license that seemed to answer her question. She had me write my name and cell number on the form, then asked for $400NT. She said I should bring it back this time tomorrow. It was about 3pm. I had illegally rented a scooter for 24 hours for only $12 US.
The woman and girl walked me out to the scooter I had rented, It was silver and in surprisingly good shape. She showed me how to unlock the seat to get the helmet out, and told me I needed to put gas in it soon. I put the helmet on and sat down on it, and as they walked away I realized I had no idea how to start the thing. Embarrassed, and knowing that it contradicted my “Taipei motorcycle” story, I called the two back over, and sheepishly asked how I start the engine. The woman looked terrified, and I expected her to grab the keys from me and hand me back my money. The young girl explained, mostly through gestures, that I have to hold both brakes down and push the starter. I started the engine, and started to back out into the street. The woman put her hand on my shoulder and said, concerned for my safety and for her scooter, “Drive slow.” I nodded and took off down the street.
I spent about 30 minutes driving around town, getting used to the scooter. Balance came easy when I was moving, but I had a little trouble stopping at lights. I had to resist the urge to put my feet out to help stop, which I quickly learned did little or nothing to keep me from moving. After I felt confident enough, I found a street leading out of town, and headed out. It was around then that I noticed that the speedometer and odometer didn’t work. I also noticed the gas gauge creeping towards empty, so I stopped at the next station I found. All the gas stations in Taiwan are full service, so I just stood by the scooter while the attendant filled the tank. It cost me $100NT, or about $3 US, and lasted me until I dropped the scooter off the next day.
I stopped by a 7-11 for a smoke and checked the map I’d gotten at the airport. Peng-hu is a chain of islands that curve up then back down, like a horseshoe. They were connected by four-lane highways, with another highway looping around the largest island, which is where I was. I decided to drive around the main loop to get a feel of things, taking detours every chance I could. Since it was a weekday, I was the only vehicle on the road in most of the places I went. I would occasionally pass an old man on a bicycle, and a few times saw carts on the side of the road pulled by massive beasts of burden.
The towns in Peng-hu had a similar sadness to them. They were completely covered in concrete, roads met concrete walls and pale gray concrete buildings. None of them looked old, but not nice and certainly not comfortable. All of the people in the towns seemed to be fisherman, and maybe a few farmers. I didn’t see any other industry on that part of the island.
Each town was built around a massive temple. They towered over the other buildings at 4 or 5 floors high, most of them painted bright yellow with red and gold trimmings. I had found that they were all nearly identical inside, full of statues and alters, candles and incense. Outside each temple was an oven with a tall chimney, also brightly colored, for burning offerings of fake paper money. I was wary to go inside of any of them, and even more wary of taking pictures. I imagined how rude and insulting it would be if an Asian tourist stormed into my grandmother’s Baptist church during Sunday service and started snapping photos of people bowing their heads and singing hymns. My guide book noted how many temples there were in Peng-hu, and I wondered the same. Even the smallest town had one, most had two or three. I wondered what kind of schism had developed to necessitate two temples, nearly identical to my eyes, built across the street from each other.
I drove through a town at the northeast corner of the island, and found parking lots and brown signs that seemed to indicate a tourist destination. I parked and walked toward the beach, to find two wooden structures with benches built in, surrounded by tiled patterns, facing the ocean. I discovered later that it was built to view the sunrise, something the island was famous for. Three BMX bikes, like the kind I had when I was a kid, were parked outside. I walked up to the benches and found three boys, no older then 12, horsing around. They froze when the saw me, smiling and looking at each other. I smiled and said hello, and the boys waved back. Two of them started goading their friend, and he nervously shouted “Hellohowareyoudoing!” I replied “I’m good, how are you?” He just smiled and stared at me, I don’t think he understood what I said. The boys started giggling and one of them pointed at me and yelled “Michael Jackson!” I think it was the only other English word they knew. As I walked to the beach I saw them take off on their bikes. I wondered if they knew how lucky they were, growing up in a place like this.
As I walked to the beach, what I thought was white sand revealed itself to be millions of pieces of white coral, the kind my mom would collect. I picked a few pieces up and put them in my bag.
My guide book said there was a hotel in the same town, called the Sunrise B+B. I drove throw the narrow streets until I found it, the only building in the city with wood paneling, painted bright blue. I walked inside and asked if they had a room. They seemed surprised, I guessed that they don’t get many American tourists that show up without making reservations. I spoke to the owner, a deeply tanned Chinese man whom I’m ashamed to say reminded me of Star Trek’s George Takai. He asked where I was from, I replied Texas, and he immediately asked if I was a Longhorns fan. He said that he and his wife had both gotten their graduate degrees at University of Texas. Small world. I told them about my trouble using the ATM machines on the island, and they said that they’re all run by the same bank, so if I couldn’t use one, I probably wouldn’t be able to use any. I was able to pay for my room with my credit card, and they said that I could buy my ticket home the same way. They recommended getting online and reserving my ticket as soon as I could, which seemed silly to me considering I had bought my ticket that morning without any trouble. I walked up to my room, laid on the bed for a few minutes, then headed back out.
One of the most frustrating things about traveling, in Asia or anywhere, is that you keep getting pointed to ‘interesting’ or ‘historical’ locations, only to find them hopelessly watered down or whitewashed.
Even more frustrating is to find something genuinely interesting, but to be unable to find out what it is, or what it means. Just south of my hotel, I found a gutted building just off the beach. It looked like it might have been an army outpost, but it was dilapidated and didn’t even have a sign in front of it. Not far from that, I found a field of freshly cut grass with large marble statues of rabbits and tigers scattered across it. Again, no explanation why.
Secure in knowing where I was staying that night, I continued driving around the island. I’d gotten comfortable with the scooter, and the great feeling of mobility it gave me. I hadn’t driven anything in a month and a half, and the ability to get on the scooter and just GO was surprisingly soothing. I came to an open stretch of road and sped up. The speedometer was still broken, but I probably cleared 60mph. I was having a blast.
I continued north on the highway, crossing a low bridge to another island. I saw a park of some kind ahead on my right, with five or six huge white propellers coming out of the ground. I stopped and had another smoke, and checked my map. The sun was setting, and most of the attractions on the island were closed for the day. I watched a lady walk through the rocks that were exposed by low tide, picking up shellfish and putting them in a bucket. I decided to head back to my hotel. I still hadn’t eaten an actual meal all day.
As I headed back down the highway, I realized that the sun was setting quickly, and that I was about to miss a tourist rite of passage that even I was not immune to: the sunset photo. I veered north onto a smaller road, heading to one of the sad little towns I had visited earlier. I drove through the town, past old fishermen with permanent suntans walking home at the end of their day, and arrived at a pier. The sun was dipping behind a small island maybe a mile out in the ocean. I got out my camera and started shooting. A plane flew directly over the setting sun, the black smoke it emitted distorted the orange evening light. It was perfect.
The sky was nearly dark when I got back to my hotel. I dropped my bag off in my room then went back downstairs. The owner and his children were watching a soccer game on TV. I asked him if he could recommend some good places to eat nearby, and he circled a few places on my map. I stopped at the closest restaurant. It was empty, aside from the owner and his wife. They both seemed surprised to see me there, and I discovered that they didn’t speak a word of English. The owner gave me a menu with pictures, and I pointed to two dishes, that looked like breaded fish. The wife sat me down and brought me some tea to drink. The owner went to the back, then came back and walked out the front door. He returned a few minutes later with some fresh fish wrapped in paper. I imagined that it had just been caught a few hours earlier. Maybe 15 minutes later he brought me my meal. One plate of breaded balls of fish, another which tasted more like squid. Both were covered in an orange sweet sauce, with crumbled peanuts sprinkled on top. I may have been starving, but it was some of the most delicious fish I’ve ever had, and one of the best meals I’d had during my trip.
I drove back to my hotel, parked outside, and walked around the nearby pier and had another smoke. Some kids were kicking a ball around outside of the temple in the middle of town. After getting the rush taking pictures of the sunset, I decided to get up early to see the sunrise at the viewing platform I had visited earlier. I set my alarm for 5:45am, laid down, and tried to relax. My skin was starting to burn from spending a day riding around in the sun, but I didn’t mind. I eventually dozed off, to a fitful sleep full of strange and uncomfortable dreams.
I woke up with my alarm, got dressed and walked outside of my room. The sky was already light. I walked to an open window and saw the sun hanging a few inches above the horizon. I had missed the sunrise. Disappointed, I took a few pictures from the window and went back to sleep.
I woke up again around 8:30am, showered and went downstairs for breakfast, which consisted of a delicious but not quite filling ham and egg sandwich. I spoke to a guest, who showed me a rash he’d gotten from running into some creatures while scuba diving. He asked me if I was going diving, or to the beach, and seemed surprised when I said I wasn’t. I’d gotten the same reaction from the owner the day before. I grew up in Florida, and spent a lot of time around the beach, so I guess the novelty had worn off for me. A few hours sitting in the sand, bobbing in the waves, and I’d be left tired, waterlogged, sunburned, and in need of a long shower. I was anxious to get back on my scooter and see the rest of Peng-hu, so no beach for me. My skin had turned a healthy shade of pink overnight; I made a note to myself to stop somewhere and try to find something resembling sunscreen.
I drove north, past the small island with the windmill park I had visited yesterday. The bay that had been full of rocks had turned into clear blue water overnight. The tide must have risen at least five feet.
My first stop of the day was the Peng-hu aquarium. Aquariums are another favorite photographer destination. The subjects are stuck in tanks, and are usually brightly colored and well-lit. Most of the signs were not translated in English, so I made my way around, taking pictures when I could. There were lots of families there, and a busload of dark-skinned kids in soccer jerseys. The aquarium had a decent setup, considering where it was. They even had a glass tunnels in the largest tank, with the fish swimming above and around us. Very cool.
Not too far up the highway, I stopped at a souvenir stand at the end of the Trans-Ocean Bridge. While the name would imply that it’s a massive architectural wonder that spans the pacific, it’s actually just a mile or two of road that connect the furthest island of Peng-hu to the others. It seemed to be one of the top tourist attractions, I saw tour buses stop and unload dozens of people, who took turns posing for pictures next to the arch at the end of the bridge
I bought an orange ice cream cup at the souvenir stand and sat on the steps and ate it, then headed to my next stop a few blocks over. It was an old temple, and the trees outside of it had been cultivated into an archway that completely covered the courtyard. Large groups of people stood and listened to a tour guide tell stories, in Chinese, naturally. Other people just lingered, enjoying the shade on a hot summer day. 
I peeked inside the temple itself. It was lit by vertical columns of fluorescent lights, giving the temple a disjointed sci-fi vibe. I sat down at a bench and checked my guide book again. My next stop would be something called the ‘whale cave’, across the bridge, at the end of the island.
The whale cave was located behind another museum, which explained the islands geological history. I decided to skip it. The museum was at the top of a cliff at the edge of the ocean. Beyond the cliff was a bay of impossibly blue water, lapping against brown rocks on the shore. I walked to my left, over an intricate wooden bridge, to a gazebo overlooking the bay. A young woman was sitting there alone, sadly gazing at the sea. I walked back, she looked like she wanted to be alone.
I followed a path to the actual whale cave. Local legend said that it was formed when the sea picked up a whale and crashed it into the cliffs, forming a hole. It was not an actual cave, just an arch of rock beaten down by the sea. It also looked nothing like a whale. I took some more pictures, the climbed on top of the arch and took some more. I’d gotten complaints from some friends that I wasn’t in any of the pictures I took. So I set my camera on a timer, rested it on the rocks, and, for their benefit, took a few cheesy self-portraits. I look thin in the pictures; I’d lost weight in the last month and a half, both from walking and hiking more than usual, and from eating two meals a day at best. My hair hadn’t been cut since the week before I left, and it had grown into a shaggy brown mop on top of my head. My arms were starting to turn red.
I hiked back down and made my way back to my scooter. I stopped at a booth and bought something to drink. I was starting to run low on cash, and reminded myself again to try a few ATM machines if I saw them.
My next stop was going to be a lighthouse at the far corner of the island. I drove down the street, through small towns, then through larger towns. I drove past temples, 7-11s, schools, and houses. I drove past a tall green fence with barbed wire, and guessed there was another military base behind it. I drove on the sides of cliffs, and thought about stopping to take pictures, but didn’t. I’d spent my whole trip looking at things through a camera, but to what end? Is this what tourists do? Line up at pretty things and take pictures? At that moment, the experience seemed so much more vital to me. After weeks of living in a crowded dirty city, walking through alleys and taking trains, buses and cabs to get where I was going, I’d forgotten how liberating it can be to turn a key, start up an engine, and DRIVE somewhere. Maybe this was something embedded in the American spirit. Separated by huge stretches of empty land, we invented machines to move us there, and accepted them as parts of ourselves. To us, to me, that was the embodiment of freedom. Not just a word we print on our money, a phrase our president says on television. Choosing where you want to go, and then going there, on your own schedule, by your own command. At that moment, I felt free.
After following brown street signs subtitled in English that pointed out the tourist destinations, I found a town built on the side of a hill, overlooking a fishing harbor. I circled it twice, through narrow empty alleys and gaudy yellow temples. I took a detour that led me to the top of the hill past rows of cemeteries, until it dead-ended at another military base. I turned around before I could meet the gaze of the suspicious guards manning the gate.
I could have asked for directions, but I’d gotten tired of meeting the same suspicious, confused expressions of someone that doesn’t understand what I want from them. It made me homesick of a place where I could talk to people, ask them questions, learn from them. A month after getting a diploma with Journalism written across the top, and I couldn’t interview someone if I wanted to. I decided that if I couldn’t find this lighthouse myself, it wasn’t worth finding. Two more circles around town and I gave up. I drove back up the hill, and back to the main island. I told myself I didn’t need to see anything. Just driving was exciting enough. I saw a group of scooters on the side of the road. There were maybe twenty of them, and about twenty Asians standing next to them. They were young, younger than me, and it looked like they were on the island for the same reason I was, to get out, get some fresh air. A few of them waved at me as I drove past.
My scooter rental was going to be due in an hour or two, and I decided to go ahead and return it. I couldn’t find anything else in my guide books to see or do, and wasn’t about to start checking out things labeled ‘nightlife’ or ‘fine dining.’ I drove back to Makung, and spent some time driving around looking for the place that I’d rented it from, and was reminded that just yesterday I’d never ridden on a scooter before, and of the wobbly hour or so I drove down the same roads trying to get a feel for it. I found the store, parked the scooter, and handed the keys to an old man at the counter. I didn’t see the lady or the girl that had helped me yesterday. He nodded at me and I walked off.
My stomach started to rumble, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and after skipping a meal yesterday, I needed to eat something. I found a bank, and again, couldn’t get money out with my card. I had about $25 left in my wallet. It was looking unlikely that I’d find a working ATM anywhere, so I decided it was time to leave.
I found a bus station, and was told that I’d missed the bus to the airport by maybe 5 minutes, and the next bus would leave in a few hours. I found a cab, circled the airport on my map with a pen and handed it to the driver. Like a New York cab driver, He seemed to circle around town a few times before driving to the airport, and I was helpless to do anything about it. The cab ride cost about half the money in my pocket.
There were maybe four different airlines flying to Taipei at that airport. I went to the counter of the one I’d flown in on, expecting to buy a ticket and hop on a plane. The girl I spoke to seemed confused at my request to buy a ticket, then left to find another girl. She told me, in surprisingly fluid English, that all flights to Taipei were booked for the rest of the day, and I should have booked a ticket in advance. I explained my financial situation to her, and that staying another night wasn’t really an option for me. She seemed to pity me. She walked in front of the counter and asked me to follow her to the other airline desks. They were all booked too. She led me to the standby list, and explained that if there were any open seats on the flights then they would fill them from the list. I wrote my name down, it was the only English writing on the page. I was number 25 in line.
I sat and waited amongst the other stranded travelers. The next flight was due to leave in about 45 minutes. Just before the flight, an attendant took the list and started speaking in Chinese. She called a few names, marked them off the list, and put it back on the counter. There were only two empty seats on the flight. I found the standby lists for the other airlines and put my name down. They were all filling up fast, people were writing their names on the margins, then adding numbers on the back of the page. One of them numbered up to 50 people.
I went to the restroom, and got a look at myself in the mirror. My face and arms were bright red, and starting to sting. A sunburn is like a hangover, payment for too much fun without thought of the consequences.
The next flight left in an hour. I looked through the snack shop for something to eat. The best deal was a box of 8 individually wrapped cookies for two dollars. I bought that and a soda, and sat back down. An hour later, the next flight came and went, and a few more names were crossed off the list. Things were starting to look grim. There were only four more flights to Taipei that day, and the standby list had grown to two pages long. I waited, watched the Asian families sit and wait, carrying boxed souvenirs, scolding their children for wanting to run and play. The adults looked tired, resigned to their fates. Some got up and left, but not enough to push me to the top of the list. I found the Asian girl again, and she said she wanted to help me, even if it meant flying me home on another airline. She suggested trying to get a flight to another city in Taiwan, then taking the train home. I’d be able to use my ATM card, and could stay the night somewhere else if I had to. It seemed like a plan.
She had enlisted another friend to help her, and I followed the two of them as they went from one counter to another asking if there were any available flights. I felt like their pet project, but I was so tired and sick from sunburn that I couldn’t bother caring. They finally found me a flight to Tainan, a large city in southern Taiwan, a few hundred miles from Taipei. The women screamed and jumped up and down, more excited then I was. While the attendant printed my ticket, I asked the girl about herself. She said she was born in Peng-hu, and was studying English at School. It was so hard to find anyone fluent enough to have a conversation with. She smiled and shook my hand, and I walked towards the gate.
I dozed on the flight, trying not to feel sick. I was almost certain that I had a fever. When I arrived in Tainan, I got a few hundred dollars out of the ATM machine and found a help desk. The train station was on the other side of town and the next bus wouldn’t leave for a few hours. I had the girl at the desk write the name of the station down, and I went outside and found a cab. The ride cost me $25, and the high-speed train ticket cost nearly as much as my flight. The lights in the train were too bright to see the countryside through the windows, so I put on my headphones and tried to sleep
I arrived at Taipei’s labyrinth of a train station and wandered around looking for the local train to my neighborhood in Songshan. I heard someone call my name. I turned around and it was my friend, the person who had invited me to Taiwan, who I had barely spoken to in weeks after we’d fallen out over some petty disagreement. Out of the millions of people in the city, I ran into her at the train station. “You are very badly sunburned!” she said. Asians don’t burn the way whites do, so I probably looked like a leper or something to them. I told her I wasn’t feeling well and had to go, and found my train. One stop later, I got off and walked to my apartment, stopping at the store for a large bottle of water and a bag of cheddar popcorn on the way. I made my way up the stairs to my tiny apartment, tired, achy, and nauseous. I’d been gone for less than two days, but it felt like weeks. Too exhausted to eat, I collapsed into bed and fell asleep.
Thanks for reading. I've still got a few videos to finish and post, and I may write some more stories down the road.
