Just talked to my friend Ed. They are having a snow day back in Connecticut. Megan and I quickly logged onto some local news website back in Connecticut and started checking out the traffic cams. I cannot explain how immensely odd it is to be sitting in Taipei half a world away and looking at the traffic cam pointed at Route 7 in Norwalk, CT, watching wet snowflakes fall and cars go by with their headlights on. I'm looking at a guy in a red minivan driving southbound on 95. Does he have the slightest clue there is someone on an island off the coast of Mainland China looking at his car? How strange is that?

It's late November and we are still battling mosquitoes. Actually, I don't remember dealing with mosquitoes when we first got here. They seemed to have arrived in November. Regardless, they are ten times as quick as the ones in the States. Oddly, they'll hang out on a wall or ceiling often, not just buzz around the room. You spot one and line up a perfect slap shot and - whoosh - you miss. They bite fast, too. And often. Megan and I have new windows in our apartment, and the screens glide beautifully left to right in the window frame - so beautifully that a passing gust will ocassionally move them open. So, there you are, sleeping at night, when a high-pitched buzz or a sharp bite will awaken you. Then you realize the window is wide open, and you haven't a clue as to how many of the little buggers are actually in the room. You hide under the covers and hope for the best.

We have now purchased a gadget that I never imagined owning. It's essentially an electrified badminton racket. It has two "C" batteries in the handle, and you press a button and swing at a mosquito. I doubted the efficacy of the thing. How the hell could two "C" batteries do anything? I stuck the batteries in. I hesitantly touched the electric screen. I touched it again. I pressed it hard with my finger. Nothing. Hmmm. I had the batteries in backwards. I fixed them. I hesitantly touched it. I touched it again. I told Megan to touch it. I licked my finger and touched it. There was a crack and a flash - holy cow!! I don't lick my finger and touch it anymore.

Our first night with our electric badminton racket. Dinner by candlelight. I think I see a mosquito out of the corner of my eye - I jump up! (Our rule is, if you think you see a mosquito, you saw a mosquito). We turn on all the lights. I get the electric badminton racket. We look. We look some more. We begin talking out loud - "Well, guess there aren't any mosquitoes in here - guess we'll just go back to eating our dinner!" We look even harder. There he is! Flying across the room! I'm jumping up and down, swinging the electric badminton racket. Missed! Or maybe I wasn't pressing the little button. Wait! He's moved into the hall! We close all the doors in the hall, and squint up at the white walls. We spot him again! He's sitting on the wall, just five inches from the ceiling. I swing the electric badminton racket, not an inch over him. He doesn't move. I swing it again - he doesn't budge at all. I'm swinging it back and forth over him - ssswishhh, ssswishhh, ssswishhh. Megan says "Trap him with it!" "What?" "Just trap him against the wall!" Oh. I slowly lower the racket onto him. Crrraaaaack!! He is gone. GONE. Absolutely no trace of him. He's not on the wall. He's not even on the racket. Not a puff of smoke. Nothing. We both look at each other, amazed. Then I look down on the ground and see him pathetically buzzing around in circles on the floor. It reminds me of the guy in Austin Powers at Dr. Evil's table after Dr. Evil drops him into the fiery basement - "Somebody help me! I'm badly hurt!" So I lower the electric badminton racket onto the half-cooked mosquito again. Zap him a second time. He's still not dead. So I squish him with a kleenex.

I can't wait for more mosquitoes.

I remember last year I had this boy named Mohammed who transferred into my class in February or so. He was escorted to my class by a person who did not speak his language (it wasn't even Hindi - it was something even more remote). Mohammed spoke two words: He would give me a happy "Good Morning" when I saw him, and he would nod and say "thank you", often at slightly incorrect times, like after he just helped you move a stack of artwork. He'd be patiently waiting at my classroom door early in the AM at Norwalk High, and I'd arrive, unlock the door, and sweep my arm in a gesture inviting him to go first. He unfailingly returned the gesture to me, I'd nod, and he'd follow me in. His thank you's and good mornings were the basis of our relationship. He knew no other words.

I was not long here before I realized that, in fact, I was now Mohammed. I could nod a cheery ni hao, and slip out a sibilant xie xie (sieh-sieh) in recognition of a kindness. But that's all I could say. I suddenly felt what it was to be him, lost in swirls of language isolating you from the sea of people around you, unable to form even the simplest of connections.

Life is pretty interesting when you are immersed in a culture with a language as foreign as Chinese. And immersion is a not-quite accurate statement, when I spend so much of my work day at Taipei American School, where the language of instruction is English, and most everyone you meet speaks the language. But you step out the door, and life changes. Along Chung Shan North Road, the main drag, there are shops that have English-speaking help. Go down a side street and you step deeper into the culture. You look at a store and try and figure out what they sell - the sign doesn't help, so you look in the windows. Is this a tea house, or a restaurant? Are they still serving dinner, or just drinks? I think of how many signs I see each day, a placard at the entrance to a park, a sign in a store window, even a red sticker on our new stove - you look at the columns of characters and realize it is impenetrable - completely and utterly impenetrable. How could you ever crack their code? You open your mailbox - is it junk mail, or is it the water bill? You buy a printer for your computer - all the buttons are in Chinese. You face it every day.

You figure certain things out. I've figured out the character for meat. Being a vegetarian, this comes in handy - when they list it as an ingredient, but they don't always. Unfortunately it's the same character they use for fish "meat', which I do, in fact, eat. When I get on the bus, I know to interpret the first character over the driver's head - it tells me if I pay when I board, or I pay when I get off (I still haven't figured out the deciding factor behind these two options - odd and even days? the time? the whim of the driver?). I've studied the characters that mean vegetarian restaurant, and I have once or twice picked them out on a sign over my head. I often eat at restaurants displaying swastikas. These aren't hash houses run by skinheads; they're Buddhist restaurants. No pictures of Hitler hanging up, but one or two of the Dalai Lama. The swastika is their symbol, and the connection to Nazi Germany is a distant one in this Asian culture. You even see little squares of tofu in the market with swastikas on them. Very odd.

I will occasionally stare at signs in Chinese, like I know what I'm looking at. I begin on the right (I've figured that much out) and study the characters. I look closely. I try and find relationships or patterns. It's kind of like people who don't know anything about cars. You pop the hood and stare at the mass of rubbery tubing with your hands on your hips, and wait for some kind of illuminating knowledge to descend upon you. But I know far more about cars than I do about this written language.

Megan and I take a Chinese class - two now, actually. And it's just starting to gel, just barely. I listen now to conversations around me, hearing an occasional personal pronoun, or a question structure that I recognize. When I go to the bank or post office, and I take a number, I ltry to decipher the computerized voice that calls out the two or three digit number to tell you what window to approach. I read back the amounts off the cash registers at 7-11, and the cashier will respond with approval. But that's about it.

Our language class on Monday nights is weirdly entertaining. It is held at a junior high school a few subway stops from here - far from the expat feel of Tien Mou. We are a panoply of colors, cultures, and languages in that room: Canadian, Japanese, a couple from Chad, a few women from the Dominican Republic, a sherpa from Nepal, just three of us Americans. I used to sub for English as a Second Language in the States, and my class was much like this, different faces from different parts of the world. Now, instead of standing in front of the class teaching, I am in a seat, pursing my lips, making buzzing sounds through my teeth, puffing out soft syllables, all in an attempt to match the sounds of this incredibly difficult language.

Still, it occasionally works. And it's an amazing feeling when it does. It's a goal of mine to be able to convey at least some basic information by the time I leave here. Imagine. Being able to speak Chinese. That'd be nice.

Just back from a ride to Helen's. Helen's Jazz Cafe is noteworthy among cyclists here - a waffle stand that blasts old-time jazz classics, and serves great waffles and coffee. Actually, old shoe leather would taste great, once you arrive there. Helen's, and the numerous other stands that have joined her, sits atop a mountain in Yangminshan National Park. It's about a ten or twelve mile ride from school, mostly up. We zig-zag through the city past the baseball stadium, and wend our way through tiny neighborhoods with streets barely wide enough for one car, let alone two. Our group of lycra-clad cyclists attracts a fair amount of attention as we ride. We go past The National Palace Museum, and begin a slight ascent past these peculiar "fishing holes", commercial establishments where you sit around rather dingy-looking pools with a fishing pole catching fish, or maybe even shrimp.

We move off the busy boulevard finally, and a sense of peace and green descends upon you. Suddenly you are surrounded by trees - no more traffic, no more ugly buildings. You feel that southeast Asian feel, palm trees mixed in with the other greenery, sharp cliffs of rock jutting out from the dense vegetation. We climb and climb, passing hikers and walkers. The Chinese love exercise, and they have walking clubs that head out in the early mornings. There was quite a large number out on this Sunday, sun breaking through the clouds even as we rose high up into the mountains.

The road switchbacks, the curves sharp, dusty mirrors reflecting any oncoming cars. But your speed is slow, so you don't worry so much going up. We take occasional breaks, stretching, catching our heavy breaths and bringing them back to a normal flow. Chinese wave, say good morning, smile. Everyone seems in a good mood.

One last long ascent brings us to an up and down meandering, where we actually pick up speed here and there. Finally we arrive at a nomadic town of sorts - a meeting of roads, lined with red tents, food trucks, and tables and chairs along the roadside. Bicycles lean everywhere, motorcycles and a few cars parked as well. People eat, mingle, enjoy the view, which today is a bit cloudy. And everywhere is infused with the sound of jazz: horns blowing from the 20's and 30's, coming out of tinny speakers, washing over the tired and happy crowd. It's really kind of magical, this little happening, far away from the energy and bustle of the city far below. A retreat from the heavy air and the constant buzz of scooters. Open space does wonders...

We eventually climb back on our bikes, now wearing jackets against the cool mountain air, and zip up for the ride down. It is an exhilarating descent, wind flapping your jacket, the speed making your senses keen as your eyes move rapidly from the road under your wheels to the road up ahead. You grab a glimpse of the dusty mirrors, look for oncoming cars, relax the brakes and pick up speed again. Your wheels whir, your legs still and tense, leaning your tight body into the curves. The road is wide and clear in places, allowing you to take on a bit more speed.

And you are down before you know it, your friends gathered at the foot of the bridge, drinking water, talking. People arrive in ones and twos. Back onto the busy streets, back into the bustle that makes Taipei. We maneuver the busy streets, and, too soon, turn off in our own separate directions. I go home, exhilarated, arms and legs and body vibrating with the experience.

A couple of pictures here, or you can click here for a 2.9MB movie, which lasts about thirty seconds.

Hello all! This is the first "official" entry for all of you. I have set up this blogger so you can follow what exciting things are happening in Taipei here. Older entries are at the bottom of the page, most recent ones right here. I've had this up for a week or so, but just haven't advertised it yet. So, hope you enjoy.

Saturday morning, and I'm in my usual position in front of my iMac. Had the amazing experience yesterday of DRIVING! Hadn't driven in over three months, and never in Asia. Our friend Amy was house-sitting, and had to get her friend's car back to his house. Unfortunately, she didn't know how to drive a stick, and he lived way up in the mountains of Yangminshan. So I drove her back to our neighborhood, and we decided to leave the car here. Was fun driving, despite scooters surrounding me like gnats.

Finally have gotten the pictures of Japan up on the web. Yes, the word pictures is hypertext. Go click on it. To all my Mashiko friends, this is an incomplete, but pretty good set of pics. Hope you enjoy them. Sure hope this works - it's the first time I've attempted to create a link through this blogger.

Lots to do this weekend - lesson plans to create, and orders to make. Better get started!


Duffy