I was in Japan last month. They drive on the wrong side of the road. You know what the strangest thing about that is? When you are walking down the street, and you look at the driver, and they are doing something completely inappropriate, like brushing their hair with both hands, or folding a huge map. Then you realize that person is not the driver. The guy in the other seat is the driver.

OK, so I still haven't posted pictures from that amazing trip, but I will soon. It was another Ceramics Workshop I attended in Mashiko, Japan, run by the very funny and talented Steve Tootell. He featured Matsuzaki Ken, a deshi of the National Living Treasure Shimaoka-san. Matsuzaki Ken demonstrated coil and wheel-thrown pots.

I gotta get some pictures up....

I can remember only that I was rushing around trying to check off work my high school students had completed. I looked up at the clock and saw it was just a little after noon, and I still had the majority of the class to cover. Then the building started shaking. "Earthquake!" someone shouted. You are frozen for a second. I looked up, and the light fixtures hanging from my ceiling are swaying back and forth. "Everybody under the tables! Backs to the windows!" A few students still looked around, amazed. "UNDER THE TABLES!!" I shouted, loud enough to make the remaining few crouch down. Then we waited, as the building continued to shake. It didn't stop. It was like nothing I had experienced, not like the smaller shakes I had felt these past two years. It kept going. The motion was not a violent rocking, but it felt oddly like a giant was gently shaking the foundations of the school. Back and forth we went, in this gentle, rolling motion. But it was not fun - it was unnnerving. A student began crying. Others were even talking to each other - that's how long it was going on. Later someone said it was almost an entire minute.

When it had finally stopped, we slowly got out from under the heavy tables (Admittedly, I have always been happy I have such thick, heavy tables in my room for just this reason). The pipes overhead had stilled, the fixtures no longer swaying. But my legs, for the next ten minutes or so, continued to feel this phantom sway. I kept on asking if others felt it, and a few did.

This was the biggest quake since the fabled 9/21 quake in 2000, which had been the worst quake in 100 years. It'll be fine with me if we don't have this particular experience again in the near future. Didn't I mention something about an earthquake in my last posting? A bit prophetic.

So, what do you do when you are bored? How about install an 1100 lb stone Buddha head in your living room? That's around 500 kilos for those of you in the metric world. So we bought this thing on an impulse buy in Jatujak Market in Bangkok. It was just beautiful, although the one we saw was actually a fountain. We decided to install this without water, as it's a bit too humid here in Taipei to put a huge cascade of water in one's apartment. Probably a good choice.

The installation process went amazingly smoothly. Essentially two men installed it. I was decoration. They bolted a four or five foot long piece of angle iron to the wall, and the Buddha head rests on that, while being bolted at the top. So we haven't had an earthquake in the past 24 hours, but feel free to call after the next reported one, and I'll tell you if the Buddha survived or not.

It looks gorgeous, and I'm also happy to have our living room back, as the thing laid on the floor for nine days wrapped in dirty moving blankets, displacing most of our furniture. Nice to have floor space again. It's been over 24 hours and our living room remains relatively clean!

Pictures are what you want to see, so take a gander at these. Hope you enjoy!

I just had this memory of my childhood. A reporter from the local paper came to our fourth grade classroom to report on some school event. He took my picture, and said it'd be in the paper. I was thrilled. At home, that very day, I sat at the dining room table, paging through The New York Times. An older sibling walked through the room, and, seeing me looking through a newspaper, asked me what I was doing. I explained my picture was going to be in the paper. He responded "Not that paper!" I watched them leave the room. A moment passed. I continued looking.

I came home last night to a note taped to the door saying our back faucet was leaking. I woke up this morning to the same note taped to my alarm clock. "Leaking" was crossed out, and "spraying" was penciled in. Clueless on how to call a plumber, I asked the lady downstairs, who happens to own several apartments. I held up my electronic dictionary, which displayed the characters for "plumber". Her and her husband both looked at it blankly. "What do you want," she asked. I said a man to fix the pipes. "Oooh", she said, "It will be very expensive." But she made the call, and, within the hour, the guy arrived on his motorcycle. Everyone takes their shoes off at the door here, and this includes service people. So he took his shoes off, heads to the back door, puts them back on, and goes outside. He looks, then says something in Chinese, which I guess was "I gotta go buy a part", because he left.

When he returned, we had to go to the rooftop apartment where the shutoff valves are conveniently located. Good thing the neighbor was home. Several trips back and forth through their apartment, and eventually the new pipe held. The guy was here for over an hour. I still remember him walking through our apartment with his shoes in hand, taking the utmost care they wouldn't drip on the floor. Alternately, I recall once a plumber standing in my apartment in the United States, holding the snake he was just using, and watching it drip onto my carpet.

Megan and I were going through our money. I was envisioning running out to the bank machine to get more. But we had a few thousand NT$, maybe US$175, so I figured we'd be okay.

The bill was US$15.

Wednesday afternoon, and I keep waiting for the other side of the storm to come, but so far there's nothing. The eye passed over us around 11:00 AM or so, and later Megan and I ventured out to take a look. Foolishly, I forgot to bring my camera. We ended up going back so I could get it from the apartment. I shot a few pictures, then discovered my battery was dead. How annoying. So, anyways, you can have a look at the few pictures I took before the battery went dead. Just click here.

Ok, a little strange here - I woke up, heard, as usual, the wind whipping, and realized it was in dreams only that I saw my neighbor's building lay open like a sardine can. Foggy, but awake now, I got up and opened the bedroom door, but it pushed in on me as I turned the knob, and I felt a rush of wind into the room. The back bathroom window was open, and the air in the apartment was adjusting to the change in air pressure when I opened a room. Last night that window let air in away from the force of the wind, but the storm moves clockwise - now it is the back of the building that is being buffetted. Our back porch windows are covered in a fine spray of water, and it's difficult to see out there. Yet objects are okay on the porch - a large plastic recycling bin still sits where we left it, a garden hose atop the dryer (people keep their washers and dryers on their porches here).

We are in the second radius on the Navy's graphic. That means we are experiencing 50 knot winds, about 58 miles per hour. So imagine standing on the roof of someone's car as they are driving 58 mph down the highway, and that's what it feels like to walk down the street here. It is hard to tell where we are in terms of approaching the eye of the storm, but according to the satellite image, it appears to be getting close. But as it gets close we will enter the innermost radius where the winds are 80 knots, or 92 miles per hour.

But at least it's light out, and we can see what is going on - it makes a difference in terms of comfort level. Seems a bit quieter on the back porch - I'm going out for a look, and will check back later.

OK, still here, although now it's dark out, and the wind is howling pretty good. I watch the reflections of the ceiling light flex back and forth on the surface of our glass sliding doors. The doors go not to the outside, but merely to the balcony, where there is another set of windows.

The bedroom windows were getting hit pretty hard, looking as if someone was spraying a firehose against the glass, the view outside reduced to an Impressionist painting. Two buckets on the window sill catch the rapidly dripping water. Our windows extend out from the face of the building, and above the windows is a curved, hard brittle plastic "awning". The rain rattles down pretty hard on that and it's really loud. For that alone we may sleep in the back bedroom tonight.

We just taped the windows - better safe than sorry! I saw them flex a bit, so I thought it'd be prudent. It's howling out there! OK, I better get dinner started before the power goes out! Good thing we have a gas stove!

Typhoon Aere is edging towards Taiwan. This could possibly be our first real typhoon. We've had threats, even a few typhoon days, but this one doesn't appear to be veering from its track. Already the large tree whose uppermost branches used to sway in front of our 4th floor window has blown down, lifting the adjacent wooden deck at a crazy tilt, spilling potted plants everywhere.

Much to Megan's concern, I drove my red Vespa up to school. TAS is on a bit higher ground, and they have a very large, dry underground parking garage protected by a rolling metal door on the outside so I doubt any serious water gets in there. The ride up Chung Shan Bei Lu was dicey, with pretty strong gusts of wind coming in from the cross streets. Yet I wasn't the only one out there. There were a few other scooters, and a fair amount of cars. Most of the businesses were closed, the metal gates down on them.

After I safely stored my scooter I figured I'd see if Shi Dong Market was open. Was it ever! This is the wet market near school, where I do most of my food shopping. I have never seen it so busy. People were stocking up on all sorts of food, but it was a much more convivial atmosphere than in the States, when people are buckling down for a snowstorm. Vendors working as fast as they could, filling bags with produce, fish mongers hawking their stuff. The place was hopping. I left some of my bags by the front door to the market, along with my plastic poncho, confident no one would bother my stuff - they didn't.

Walking home, arms full, the thin yellow poncho kept me fairly dry. I bought it for about a buck - a disposable, shin-length, very thin yellow plastic poncho. I discovered the benefit of its transparency, as I could see even with the hood blown against my face. Couldn't neccessarily breathe, but I was able to see.

So, here we are holed up, plenty of food, could use some white wine for the clams, basil, and fettucine I was going to cook for tonight. The brunt of the storm should start to hit us in about fifteen hours. Should be rather interesting. I'll keep you posted.

A Saturday night and we are back in Taipei. We have been away since June 9th, and something was so very familiar about coming back this time. We are still experiencing "firsts" - first walk up Chung Shan Bei Lou, first time back in the building (Megan doesn't walk up to the 4th floor with me anymore! - over to 2nd!). All is so very familiar, like slipping on an old, comfortable pair of shoes.

We awoke early this morning, and decided to scooter up the mountain for a hike. We were up there by 7:30 AM, seeing all the early morning folk. We parked the Vespa at the head of the trail for Chi Shing Mountain. We were hardly off the scooter when we heard magical singing, something ethereal and moving. A chorus of female voices contraposed by a heavy male voice. We both looked at each other and wanted to see the source. We walked up a trail expecting to come upon some Buddhists praying, but instead it was four women and a man, singing for the sheer pleasure of it, and doing nothing but laughing between songs. They sounded like angels.

We hiked up the mountain trail, immediately becoming warm in the overcast environment. The wind blew strong, but we didn't feel it as we climbed the stone steps clinging to the side of the mountain. We passed people on their way down (was it even 8:00 AM yet??) and they greeted us with "zao's" and "good morning's". At the top we sat upstairs in the pagoda and faced the wind. We closed our eyes and clouds brushed across our faces. We smelled the sky. We ate milk crackers and drank cool water. We had a mealy asian apple. But it was all fine, a beautiful beginning to a Saturday morning. Back down in Taipei there were classrooms waiting to be unpacked, but we sat instead among the metallic-sounding insects who took haven in the trees. Why be anywhere else? We were there absorbing it all, looking out at an Italianate landscape. We were leagues away from America, and it felt fresh and exciting. But how do you explain?

We descended, and I stopped in at the hot springs for a quick soak. Brief as it was, it felt foreign and fun to sit among old Chinese men soaking and talking in the rusty-smelling water. My bandanna was my towel. All in all, an experience not to be had in the States.

So we remain torn still, more or less thinking we might go home, yet probably forever with doubts. How do you make a decision like this? I wait for whispers from someone, anyone....

I was zipping down the back road on my red Vespa today, a quick jaunt home for lunch on my day off, when I saw him - the knife-sharpening guy! I swear I hadn't seen him in a year it seemed. Back then he sharpened my Swiss Army knife - the one I've had for twenty-five years - and he did a great job. So I stopped and burbled something in Chinese, but I was too excited to make any sense. I scooted home, got my ten-inch Henkel chef's knife and went back to find him, just as he was packing up, but he agreed to sharpen my knife.

A large, burly guy, he flipped on his generator and kick-started his grinding wheel. He spent a good five minutes on the wheel - my knife hadn't been sharpened in over two years. He handled the large knife with a finesse that can only come from years of doing this. He'd stop occasionally and give it a dip into cool water. He moved from the grinding wheel to a silicon carbide sandpaper wheel, flopping down a pair of sunglasses with side shields. The wheel made a low buzzing noise as he pressed the blade to it, and he stopped often to give the edge a critical look.

He turned off the generator on his truck, killing the power to the grinding motor. He then straddled a seat with a worn, tilted work surface in front of it. Opening a draw in the stand, he took out three grinding stones and dropped them into a bucket of water (these are water stones - different from oil stones). He selected the coarsest stone first, placing it on the tilted surface, and took the knife, giving it the most delicate and gentle slice directly on its edge - the blade perpendicular to the stone. So very gently he did this, and just once, enough only to remove the burr from grinding. He then proceeded to move the blade back and forth against the wet stone for several minutes. He stopped, once again removing the burr from the second side, and continued with the gentle grinding motion.

Three stones - two of them double-sided. Five different surfaces he honed this knife on, not counting the grinding and sanding wheels. Occasionally he'd stop and draw the knife through the wood on the stand, again giving a skeptical eye to the blade, touching it with his thumb. The whole process from start to finish was probably 15 minutes. This was by far the most careful and thorough sharpening this knife had seen - and I've owned it since college.

Finally he gets up, looks in the back of his truck, grabs a plastic shopping bag and scrunches it up in his hand. He holds the blade horizontally and makes this kind of zippy back and forth motion against the crumpled bag. As if by magic, ribbons of plastic seem to float on the blade of the knife, dance momentarily under some haze of static electricity, then blow off into the breeze. He grabs a sheet of paper and slices it effortlessly into thin strands of ribbon that, again, flutter away.

Holy cow, was this thing sharp.

Tonight, cutting onions, it basically fell through the layers. I couldn't even pull the knife a half length, it was cutting so fast. As I cut garlic for my greens, the garlic was sliced so finely I had to PULL the remaining garlic in my hand off the blade due to suction!! The greens were nothing. And, I have no idea if this was related, but the veggies all smelled wonderful! No crushed, torn leaves, just clean, open slices and juice glistening along edges.

I'm sorry, but you just don't find this along the street living in the States. And for US$2.50! This is what I like about living here...

Finally I am getting some Vietnam pictures up on the Web. And before all fades to memory, I should tell at least a small story from the many experiences we had. And most of our experiences seemed to center around the children - smiling, curious, happy children. I recall one, nose pressed against the glass of a small French restaurant we were eating in. She was selling gum, and she just had that special smile. After we were done eating, and we left, she followed us around a bit, even though we didn't want any gum. We had fun joking, and her English was not too bad. Later Megan and I decided to stop at a small sidewalk cafe to eat some ice cream. We saw the little girl again, and she gave us a broad smile. We motioned to a small plastic chair and convinced her to join us. The waiter thought it a bit peculiar, but brought over the menu, and the girl ordered a dish of ice cream with fruit on it. And the three of us sat there in the warm Vietnam night, listening to the traffic and sharing small thoughts. Her name is Hwa. She is eleven years old. It can't be easy chasing down tourists to sell them sticks of gum, but perhaps she'll remember sharing a dish of ice cream and some stories with us.

Somewhere in the pictures you'll see a group of children who we met on the Mekong Delta. Well, we met lots of children, but I remember well this particular group, because a few of them began making for us little gifts from banana leaves and bamboo leaves. They were really pretty good at it, and they even were trying to teach us to make some as well. Honestly, I couldn't make them as well as they could, but I was impressed with their patience in teaching. It struck me that the kids I know aren't so intimately involved with their environment. These children from the Delta spend their days outdoors, and they really seem to be so happy. There joy shows in their faces. You'll see it in the pictures. I've broken it up into two batches. Here are just a few pictures from Saigon. And here are several more from The Mekong Delta. I'm still working on the Cambodia pictures... sorry!

You know what I like about Taiwan? Paper towels. Paper towels here are, well, just paper towels. There are no huge market struggles played out in newspaper and TV ads, comparing tensile strength, and which paper towel can support a teacup when wet, and which one has nylon mesh or kevlar reinforcements or whatever. The paper towels here are kind of small, not particularly thick, and they wipe stuff up then you throw them away. Nobody cares.

That's what I like about Taiwan.

I know, I gotta post Vietnam and Cambodia pictures. Soon.

One morning, with much focus, I was determined to iron several shirts. I think I ironed eight that day. Each and every time I iron I think of two people: John Stalzer, my former college roommate, and John Henry, my nephew. The first John ironed many shirts at a time in my life when I wore only clothes that never saw an iron. I was self-employed, and wore soft worn T-shirts and blue jeans every day. The first John pointed out that the easiest parts of the shirt to iron were the parts that never showed, especially when you wore a jacket.

I remember my nephew Jake (the second John) because he would sit on my mother's bed and watch me iron at a point in my life when I did have a job that required ironed clothes. At that time I didn't own an iron, so I brought my shirts to my mother's house to smooth out the wrinkles from washing and make them look presentable. Jake kept me company, and I made him laugh. I'd make the sound of an animal, and he'd guess the animal. It made ironing shirts much easier.

That particular day a while back when I ironed so many shirts, I was very pleased. I felt I really accomplished something. Like money in the bank, I had shirts smooth and wrinkle-free. But that was so long ago. Those shirts hung pristine, were worn, were washed, and became wrinkled again, and again after that.

We are never quite ahead, and it's silly to think we can get ahead. We just are, in a place and in a time. It's best to be content with what we have and where we are, and not to lose too much time hoping to be further along than we actually are.

I guess it doesn't hurt, though, to have a few warm shirts in the closet.

Sometimes it's good to describe place. I'll describe where I am right now: I am in a small Internet Cafe in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Overhead a fan blows my hair into my face. Another fan is at my feet, blowing air around,and yet another fan is in front of a Confucian (?) altar with two glowing Chinese lanterns around a figure inside of a fake gold shrine. Signs are scotch-taped to the walls with prices of connecting in US Dollars, and Riels, the Cambodian unit of currency (the price is $1.25 an hour)(the woman just smiled when I pointed out the lettering on the door says $1.00 an hour...).

The woman is lying down in a lawn-chair-type reclining thingy to my left. Her feet are bare, toenails red, and raised up in a neighboring chair. Some strange music show is playing on the TV near her with well-dressed men and women dancing in a line on a stage. This is interspersed with shots of a guy sitting on a fence wearing a yellow button shirt and khahkies (sp?) while he sings. The music is pretty odd, kind of India, kind of China. I guess Cambodian!

Several cases of water bottles waiting to be sold are stacked in a corner. There is a fold-up mattress against a wall,and strange shiny blue curtains on all the windows, which are tinted.

There are also two large pictures of the woman herself, I suppose a type of glamour shot, with the woman full-length superimposed on a tropical background. The poses are exactly alike, except she is wearing different outfits in each.

This keyboard is very hard to type at, as the fake wood counter it is on is unusually high, and my rattan chair unusually low. And, as I said earlier, my hair keeps blowing around.

It's eleven oçlock at night (can't seem to get the apostrophe to work),and a bare-chested dark short guy just walked in. I think he works here. The woman is sleeping,despite his banging around. The door is open now, and the hot night air blows in, as the traffic of motorcycles and trucks flows by.

My time is almost up. But here is a moment from my life posted for all to see, just in case you were wondering what is happening in a very distant country on the other side of the world at this point in time.

We are in Can Tho, Vietnam. It is hot, and the streets have quieted down some. 9:30 on a warm April night, we are along the Mekong River (just a half a block away). We have been in Vietnam for three days, and today was the most adventurous. We've hired a driver and guide, and spent the day on boats along the various tributaries and canals of the river. We walked through small villages along sandy paths, squeezing to the side for the occasional passing motorcycle or bicyle. I was taking pictures of little kids with my digital camera, and showing them the image. The screams of delight were amazing - they had never seen anything like this. Smiles, waves, from everyone who passes.

Here in Can Tho there are virtually no cars - the fifth largest city in Vietnam. The streets are instead filled with small motorcycles. There is no limit to what one person may carry on their motorcycle (I'm watching geckos crawl up and down the wall of this Internet Cafe as I type). I have seen lumber, floor fans, boxes piled high, gas tanks, and families of four (and five!) being transported on motorcyles. OK, so I've seen some of these sights in Taipei, but here even more so.

We are in a Communist country, but in government only. It's a free-market system here, yet still visibly poor economically. There is blessedly no hunger. Still, our guide talks about the huge advance in people's lifestyles since the days when the government ruled the marketplace. He says it's amazing. He spoke of the days when the government issued each family a meter of fabric per person PER YEAR to make clothes from. Whatever color they had on hand, that's the color you got. And this was not terribly long ago.

I want to type more, but this connection is pretty slow, it's late, and we have had a long day. I apologize for the lack of polish in my writing, but no time for rewrites. I must say, we are in a very foreign country! Odd to feel the French influence! Some of the architecture and some other cultural clues - fresh bread sold in shops! Not your usual Asian staple.

OK, I will make this short - more explorations on the Mekong tomorrow,and a boat ride into Cambodia on Wednesday. Our love to all....

We had just finished dinner in a funky backpackers' hangout. Open-air and multi-leveled, tiny lights strung in the trees, lots of wood, rattan chairs and old statues, with huge paintings of goldfish on the walls, it blared steady music. We had cold bottles of Singh beer on the table to chase the incredibly fiery fare we were eating.

Up the narrow street we went afterwards, squeezing aside for motorcycles, tuk-tuks, and the occasional car. On the side of the road a VW Microbus with its roof cut open and side window replaced by a counter had been converted into a sidewalk bar. Just up at the corner a vendor was making a type of crepe, from dough, not batter. He lifted a ball of the sweet soft dough from under a lid and flattened it against the counter with the heel of his hand. Flipping it a few times, he placed a pat of butter on the hot concave griddle and laid the pancake on top of it. An air pocket formed underneath as the butter bubbled up. He quickly grabbed a soft banana and sliced it in his hand, letting the pieces drop onto the cooking crepe. Folding the sides over the banana, he flipped it, and gave it a few moments on the second side before sliding it onto a paper plate. He cut it into little squares with his spatula, then grabbed a can of sweetened condensed milk. Small perforations dotted one end of the lid, and he poured pearly streams of golden milk in zigzags across the top. Then he took a squeeze bottle of chocolate and decorated a bit further. Very hot, very sweet, very delicious, we ate it on the sidewalk with wooden skewers. The next vendor over was selling pirated CD's. Big speakers under the table began blaring Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive". We danced in the street, singing, fueled by the sugar, a few Singhs, and the energy that permeated the air.

We were in Bangkok.

Dirty around the collar, a bit shabby, and electric in its energy- it's an amazing city. Minutes later we were in the back of a tuk-tuk, which is a sort of cross between a motorcycle and a rickshaw. A tiny vinyl seat, some colorful lights, and a metal roof is about all it is. The driver, grabbing onto motorcycle handlebars, zoomed us down the streets of this city. The wind, the noise, and the vitality blew past our faces as we yelled to each other. Not sure I could live like this every day, but it sure was fun to visit.

I'll get some pictures posted soon.

Left a wonderful art opening tonight, walked across the street to a tea shop. I bought a tiny black teapot, earthy brown on the inside, with a tight-fitting lid. Just big enough to make a scant cup of tea. Megan fell in love with a, well, a large cardboard box. On the outside of the box in blatantly large letters, was printed the word TEA. Just below that it said Thailand, then some designations written in magic marker. We told the clerks we liked the box, and they asked if we would like to have it. Yes, I said, knowing Megan would be too shy to accept. I helped the woman slide a very large and heavy bundle out of the tight-fitting box. The package was like a giant block. She was eager to show me the contents, so she cut open the heavy brown paper wrapping to expose the tea within. The paper was thick and lined with a silvery coating, and held an enormous quantity of jasmine tea. I had never seen so much loose tea at once. The aroma was ethereal, flowery and soft, and filled the air around us. I wanted to reach my hands in, sift the tea through my fingers (which I don't think would have been entirely improper) but I refrained.

We left the shop, Megan nestling my tiny teapot, and I carrying this now-flattened large tea box under my arm. We walked downhill through Section 7, a part of town which always reminds me of our first days here. It was here where we first were temporarily housed while we apartment-hunted over a year ago, these streets our first view of Taipei. I remember those days, that first morning even, waking up and walking out into the bright Taiwan sun, finding our way in the daylight past what we had only dimly seen in the dark of night. How sudden it all was. We were in Asia. Just the night before we were descending, our heads cupped to the airplane window seeing a sight I will never forget: the full moon reflecting like shimmering glass, appearing and disappearing in the surface of rice paddies. Our lives touched down in this place more distant than anything we had ever experienced. And now we've let tender roots down to cling to soil which is still new to us, an experience at once precious and exotic, familiar and still surprising. We are in love with a life here, our marriage nurtured more or less entirely upon this foreign land.

Now down the street we strode in the evening air, doing the familiar single-file to side-by-side walk as we squeezed past scooters, skinny trees, up and down oddly-placed steps, dodging dog doo, mesmerized by the smiles of small children with their uniquely Asian smiles. The experiences don't stop. It can still be bracing and new, a combination that keeps you alive, observant and looking, aware of the distinct friendliness of the Taiwanese, the smell of incense drifting from the temples, the certain tempo of the language of passers-by.

Still I carried the large tea box under my arm, fingers clutching securely the plastic strapping. I felt the broad expanse of cardboard suddenly like a shield, as it blocked the headlights, like it could protect us from invasion, from oncoming traffic, provide us passage, like it could carry us home.

And home we were. Why was I suddenly thinking of tears I'll someday shed, the day I step away from here? The day I turn to look for the last time at the surrounding mountains that nestle my life, that delineate my tiny existence here. Making that impossible decision between what is a good life and what is the love of family. The choice is ridiculously unfair. The choice is not a choice, it is too difficult to be a choice. I want to be near my family, watch my nephews grow, dine with my mother on a Tuesday night. But some memories of home are also daunting, and deadening: a car commute to work, just enough disinterested kids sprinkled in every class to make teaching a struggle, shopping in giant stores with glaringly bright lights, products placed at eye level to induce my hand to buy. Driving everywhere to get anywhere. The peace and pleasure and quiet pace removed from your life, replaced by paper cups of coffee carefully designed to be consumed while you get back in your car and drive to the next destination.

Shop owners, at least in the smaller shops here, motion you to sit, have some tea, tiny cups for which it would be ridiculous to refuse a refill. So you sit, listen carefully with your best Chinese ear, drink another cup. In the market stalls women take the vegetables you've chosen, placing them on the scale, saying words to you, maybe about how to chop or cook, maybe the obscure name for this green, eager to see you prepare it in the best way. Their eyes smile as they show their thanks for your business with a handful of cilantro and bright arcs of spring onion placed generously in your bag. The pretty woman in the flower stall catches your eye, calls politely to you in Chinese, lets you know how beautiful the orchids are, what the colors will bring to your house when you step through the door.

How will I walk away from this life? Imagining is not so hard the days when I am tired or the hours at work far too long. But most days make me wonder what it will be like to leave a life where you have found the right mix of small pleasures, of a feeling of safety, joy and interest in the eyes of your students, and adventure a scooter-ride away up into the mountains.

Yesterday was the kind of Saturday we like to have here in Taipei. We looked out the window and saw the dark green of the mountains of Yangminshan outlined against a blue sky. There are days when the mountains are totally obscured by gray, so this was a winner - a Saturday, no plans, and a gorgeous sky.

We did our best to get our rear ends out of the house in a timely manner - always a challenge for us. Throwing a few things into a backpack - camera, a book or two, some Boursin cheese, and a pair of pocket hammocks we had purchased but never field-tested - we got ourselves out the door and onto my red Vespa.

First stop was Backerai, our local German bakery for some onion bread to pair with our cheese, 7-Eleven for some film, grabbed Megan's camera from school, and we were soon climbing what is known as Gallery Road, making the steep ascent up into Yangminshan.

On the way up to Cultural College we rounded a bend and saw a man and woman along the side of the road selling oranges underneath a worn umbrella. The oranges, most with a dark green leaf or two still attached, were divided by size. We inquired about where they were grown. The woman pointed behind her to a rickety wooden ladder against a steep wall, and said "Go look" (in Chinese, of course). Up the ladder we climbed, through a wooden doorway in a tall fence, and found ourselves standing in a hillside orange grove. The couple's three kids were tumbling in the dirt beneath the trees, laughing and suddenly noticing our presence. They ran down the hill to check in with mom.

We took a few pictures, made our way back down the ladder, and purchased a bag of oranges to complement our picnic. We said thanks, hooked the bag to the front of the seat, and continued the ascent. The oranges in the bag felt cool against my ankles as they jostled about.

We stopped at the "lookout", a stretch in front of Cultural College that offers a great view of Tien Mu and into downtown. Taipei 101, the tallest building in the world, stood tall against the mist. It is virtually alone in the skyline.

After a look at the map, we headed up even higher, not stopping until we made it to a mountain pass known as The Saddle (most of these names Westerners have made up - I have no idea what the Chinese names are). There is a battlement left over from, I think, Japanese Occupation. The view is limited by two encroaching mountains, but there is a definite feeling of altitude. We figured we would take a short hike up the path to look down at the fumarole, a vent in the earth from which hot steam escapes. We decided to leave the backpack with our provisions on the back of the scooter.

The stone path wound through thick brush on both sides. It was clear a team of workers or a machine had recently cut back the flora. Up and on we went, until finally we came to a series of wooden lookouts that gave a great view into the steaming rocky crevasse. After a few pictures we headed down to get a closer look.

There was a visitors center with a small snack bar. We had popsicles of some unknown and difficult-to-pin-down flavor (mine seemed to have nuts in it - Megan, some sort of berry something). We did not try the tomato-flavored one we saw on a poster. The Chinese truly treat the tomato as a fruit. You find it alongside slices of apple and papaya after your meal in restaurants, and candied on a stick from streetside vendors.

Closer to the vent we wandered, meeting a group of college (?) kids that were rather tickled to meet two Westerners. They insisted we have our picture taken with them. They happened to be near a burbling puddle of mud - heated from the earth below. Sulphur fumes rose up in clouds of steam from small vents here and there. I should point out there were no warning signs or fences keeping you from these incredibly hot vents. Only the giant fumarole was fenced off.

One of the group somehow produced a dozen eggs (actually, ten - they come in ten-packs here); where she had it I don't know. They cleared the pit of stones with a pair of chopsticks, and plopped a few eggs into the bubbling gray mud. This was highly entertaining and curious to legions of folks passing by, but we were certainly not the first. Eggshells were on the ground near the pit, residue from previous attempts.

You can have a look at the videos at the end of this post to see the cooking process. It's rather interesting. We received one hot gray/black egg as a parting gift. I later made the alarming discovery it was undercooked.

Back onto the Vespa (no one stole our backpack), and down the far side of the mountain we went. Traffic was fairly busy because of the cherry blossom season occurring for the next couple of weeks. Down, down, until we finally stopped at a roadside park with some covered decks. It was time for a rather late lunch.

We decided to try our pocket hammocks (there was actually a lady there using one already!). I managed to tie one up, a little low, but Megan and I both managed to sit in it, our butts touching the floor of the deck. Still, we were able to lean back comfortably. The entire process was witnessed by a large group of Chinese who were thoroughly entertained by our hammock installation, particularly the children. We fielded a few questions, and mostly spoke to the kids who probably couldn't understand our bad Chinese anyway.

It quieted down after we ate, and I tied up the second hammock. We both got out our books, lay in our hammocks facing now the other side of the mountains bathed in late afternoon light. Swinging gently, I immediately and without delay fell asleep. Megan soon followed. She awoke to the sound of chanting, coming from perhaps a temple somewhere in the valley. She caught the sun descending behind the peaks.

I woke, neck stiff, and a bit amazed realizing how deeply I had slept. We gathered our things, gave a little water to some stray puppies who discovered us, and made our way back home. We stopped only to buy some cala lillies from an old woman along the road. They sit upon our tea table in the other room.

These are the kind of relaxing Saturdays that make it all worthwhile. Have a look at some pictures. Here's a shot of the guy cooking eggs, and another of him testing the water.

So, time ticks by. I walk down the street and think of things to blog. How much do I actually record here? Relatively little. Actually a fraction.

I wanted to write about Chinese New Year. The biggest holiday of the year - schools close for a whole month. Kids still aren't back yet. Our school, being an American School, only got a week off. Most businesses close for that week. Tien Mu was a dark and lonely place. I went to one (quasi) supermarket that was open and the fresh produce case was completely empty, except for the saddest of cabbages.

And then it ended. One night, the stores reopened! It felt like a carnival walking home, lights in every shop. Still not a whole lot of people on the street, but enough to make it look somewhat normal. People passing you, sharing new year's greetings - a really nice time of year around here.

Interestingly, the Chinese seem to be big proponents of "Out with the old, In with the new!". There are actually official trash days just before CNY where people toss out all sorts of stuff. Entire street corners are filled with broken chairs, fish tanks, old appliances, and some darn interesting stuff as well! I just missed scavenging two large beautiful wooden chairs with inlaid stone backs and intricate carving - some lady already had dragged them onto a cart. Gotta be quick around here.

So, I'm actually writing to post a few pictures of the arrival of our tea table. When you say tea table, most people think of a dainty table next to perhaps a delicate seat. This tea table weighs 350 kilos, about 770 lbs. It's carved from a solid slice of a boulder, and sits atop two massive tree trunks, surrounded by six stools, also tree trunks. The wood is a type from Mainland China, with a beautifully gnarled surface. The wood is incredibly dense, and each stool weighs about eighty pounds. Typing away at my calculator here, the entire set adds up to about 1500 lbs, almost 700 kilos. Anyone want to help us move?

So, the concept here is that you sit at this tea table to prepare and serve your tea. The Chinese do a great deal of warming cups, rinsing tea leaves, etc., that involves a generous amount of water. Most of this water spills over cups and out of spouts, or is simply discarded. A tea table is an incredibly ornate repository for all this water and tea. At their simplest, a tea table is a simple bamboo slotted platform for your teapot, to, well, a stone tea table. We opted for the stone table.

Ours has water buffalo carved into it, lolling about in the cool mud of a river bed. The river bed is where the tea water flows into, and the water buffalo look happiest when swimming in a river of tea. A little valve at one end of the table allows you to drain the water into a special bucket on the floor. The more you use the table, the darker the stone becomes with the tea giving a patina to the surface. It starts out looking relatively plain, and becomes darker and more beautiful with age. You are supposed to "nurse" the table with tea. It is amazingly relaxing to sit there and sip tea, painting away with Chinese brushes the buffalo in the river, the tree stump, the broken cart, and the muddy banks of the river. I dare say it's exactly what I need after a hectic day at work.

So, perhaps you'd like to see just how an 800 pound slab of stone is delivered to the 4th floor of an apartment building. You can click here to see the pictures. And I'm not sure if you can see or not, but some of these guys were barefoot.

Back in Taipei and absorbed quickly into life at hand. The time with family a deep but fleeting pleasure. Still, I would not miss Christmas for the world. Forty-two Christmases at home - haven't missed one yet. There is something about being home with the excitement and the rushing and the food and my family close by - I think I'd sooner miss a summer home than a Christmas home.

Small and big memories mark the trip. Christopher Paul running up to me at Mike and Mary's, shouting "Uncle Duff!" and leaping into my arms to share some giggling story. I had not seen him in a year. I had never heard him say my name. Listening to Pete the Cleat hold the floor, clearly and earnestly delineating the rules at Uncle Tim's Pizza Party. Sitting with Mom, just the two of us, alone at breakfast one very early morning in the pale winter light. Making my way across a crowded living room, wine glass and plate in hand, sidestepping gifts, nephews, enveloped in the loud warmth of family chatter. Being with Kelley and Throop, standing in their kitchen eating appies, wine and talk at the dinner table, relaxing later in the living room. Lunch with Kel at Rye Ridge Deli, eating almost every pickle in the bowl. Seeing Sean Patrick bigger than I remember. Hugging John Henry. Cocktails at Carl's new place, looking as comfortable as if he'd lived there for years. A second year at Rick's for my birthday, champagne and a crackling fire in a wonderfully warm house. Spending time with Megan's family, realizing the closeness I feel to them is due to how similar they feel to our family, joking between siblings, nieces and nephews abound.

Megan and I lead a charmed life here in Taiwan. A beautiful apartment. A safe city. Mountains and terraced farms a bike ride away. No commute, but a walk to work. Buying our fish and our vegetables not from some overly-lit and enormous supermarket, but from vendors lining the streets and stalls. Going out to eat for twenty bucks. Making good money and being able to save for a house. Working with unbelievably well-behaved, fun, and engaged students at one of the top International schools in Asia. And experiencing a language and a culture few back home have ever seen.

But the cost of all this is distance from family. A sacrifice for the short-term, but too dear a price to pay for the long haul. We experience separate lives - a life home in the summer, a life here for the school year, punctuated only by Christmas. Thank god for e-mail and telephone.

June seems a long way off, but a lot will happen between now and then. A week off for Chinese New Year this month, A trip to Kuala Lumpur in March, Bangkok in April, and planning a trip to the ruins at Angkor Wat in Cambodia for later that same month. Maybe Viet Nam. Then May, then back home in June. The time will go quickly.

This was ultimately to post some pictures, so here they are: Franco Christmas you can click here. Collins' Christmas you can click here. And just a few from Uncle Tim's Pizza Party.