From Asia to Europe

Phew! I’ve just looked back to notice that it’s been a good couple of weeks since I’ve made any progress here. Fortunately though, I have the understandably distracting World Cup to blame for the dead air. How can one even think of ‘blogging’ (sounds dirty) when she’s busy parading around as an Argentina fan while scanning all squads for fresh meat (and talent)? To properly do so takes an all encompassing effort and disregard for anything else of consequence, ie. work, sleep, diet, and ‘style’. To prove my point, a short narrative:

My flakey kindergarten soul Zoe gave me a cross-eyed glance this morning during a water break and shot me a mischevious smile:

Zoe: “Teacher, why do you always wear that shirt?” (short pause) “Do you wash your clothes?”

I have only myself to blame for insisting that they develop a sense of humour (MY sense of humour) towards school. Evidently, I have some room for polishing up. That, or I should plan to leave here with my ego in tatters.

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Some World Cup stories:

(Qualifying Round, USA vs. the Czech Republic, 0-3)

American Tina, Swiss Mirjam and yours truly find ourselves at the ‘Deluxe Sports Bar’, as token foreigners in the crowd. Harrassment for our bar stools, reserved for another party, entices Tina to pull out her B.S. tactics in Mandarin, sales and foreign ignorance. She is successful and we keep our plum spots infront of the screen. The half time ‘show’ of dancers down the bar sees Mirjam making a new friend as Dancer A, in between hip thrusts, bends down to exclaim “Nice to meet you!” to her before continuing down the bar. Mirjam, though only subtlely elated, earns her name ‘Friend Magnet’.

Later in the evening, we are invited to the VIP room by a very drunk Mr. Peter, owner and connoisseur of (seemingly) Taipei and the Far East. Re-entry to the VIP room after a bathroom break involves patting down the wall of a lengthy hallway in an embarrassing fashion, praying to find the secret door. Inside, beer flows like water and the food is memorable – my favourite being ‘fish legs’, announced after my umpteenth drink. A curious red button sits on a coffee table all the while and produces some interesting effects when pressed: a parade of helpers with beer, food, and underage dancers. We get in touch with the OCD in us and use the button like a joystick, as the staff find it increasingly difficult to maintain their shiny smiles.

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(Quarter Finals, Argentina vs. Germany, 2-4 P.S.O)

Rebecca, Elliott (housemates), Mirjam and her boyfriend Hans, Rebecca’s friend Justin, and neighbour Pete all cram into a 2m squared barspace to take in the game. American man beside me is out to impress and is overly forthright about his role as a venture capitalist here during the past decade. I spot a fly on the wall and take interest. My singlehood continues unthreatened. There is a Taiwanese woman dressed up as a proper ‘frau’ for her German boyfriend, acting more as a masseuse than fan during the match. I feel a mix of pity and curiousity. I suggest to Mirjam that, coming from ‘the area’, she’s not keeping up her end of the relationship, with her feet outstretched on a nearby barstool and Hans standing behind her.

Our group is an even split of support for both teams, and the women of the clan go home disappointed that our Latinos can’t dive their way to victory. I feel contempt for the squeaky Taiwanese woman in German colours beside me who is in a full prayer during the penalty kicks. I want to push her from the barstool but resist the urge by pounding on the bartop and shouting ‘ARGENTINA’, in disruption of her moment with Football God.

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( Quarter Finals, England vs. Portugal, a loss for England at any rate)

Off I go with neighbour Pete to Carnegie’s, the less-than-reputable foreigner-Taiwanese hookup bar with the match projected on the wall. It’s shoulder to shoulder England fans with a smattering of Portuguese in discreet places. I jockey for a view behind a Taiwanese cougar who decides to sit on the bartop for a better ‘view’ – without room to push or pound, I divide my energy between supporting England and shooting her dirty looks. I meet Pete’s friends Francey and Rich, who are an American-English couple with tarnished dreams of teaching in Greece, who ‘ended up’ in Taiwan. While I can describe Rich as an overly stressed English fan, the pressure is lost on Francey, who looks around uninterestedly and explains that she is orginally a belly dancer from Queens NY. I decline with a polite “You first!” when she suggests that we should dance on the bar after the match.

Cristiano Ronaldo pounds the final nail into the coffin for England and I lose sight of the tragedy momentarily while he and I share a moment through the screen.

Shortly after, I get the hell out of dodge as the token Portuguese fan nearby cheers to himself while surrounding English fans poise empty pint glasses suggestively in their hands.

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Buring the candle at both endsedly, Laura.

Pre-afternoon coffee time found itself a spectator to Yonghe’s finest fashions yesterday afternoon. With one ‘strut’ down the catwalk (crowded avenue), my rather ordinary day then took a swift leap into the extraordinary. A brief history shall set the scene:

On virtually every street, alley and nook in Taiwan, there can be found troops of elderly entrepreneurs who make a small wage collecting recyclables. Ancient, rickety, and rusted out pull or push carts serve as their collection trucks. As in good Chinese fashion, they tend to stock these glorified wheelbarrows well beyond a safe capacity, taunting both gravity and passing vehicles.

Now be it senility, their obstructing pointed (‘coolie’) hats or a combination of the two, they tend to regard traffic lights only as a ‘suggestion’. As such, major and minor arteries are prone to blockage as our dear urban gardeners pause their barrows mid-intersection to chase runaway bottles.

Already, they are a great show for foreign rubber-neckers.

During my brief coffee repose yesterday, and to my great delight, pushing the local Yungyuan Rd. cart was Yonghe’s answer to fashion designer Alexander McQueen.

Imagine if you will, a rather generously ‘voluptuous’, middle-aged Chinese (Taiwanese) woman, hair unkempt ‘au naturel’, skin thinly coated a la car exhaust, spine curved from years behind the cart. Now imagine this loosely elegant woman in loud conversation with herself, eyes scanning up and down the street like a hungry chicken, cart narrowly missing parked cars and children.

Finally, try to picture a garishly colourful Hello Kitty bedspread, like a neon safety uniform. Take a piece of rope, tuck it under the top end of the bedspread and now tie it tightly around the woman’s chest, cinching her massive ‘udders’ in two, Hello Kitties and other body parts falling around her much like a strapless wedding dress would. Situate her behind her cart.

10 out of 10?

This was the fantastic sideshow before me. As if this wasn’t enough, at one point her ‘wedding dress’ began to droop, sparking a priceless reaction: in a quick save, she paused mid-road, hunched over, yanking her robe towards the sky with several quick jerks, in a full chicken dance, underarms flapping like flags.

The kicker is that, as per the Yonghe grapevine, she is apparently quite well off from doing this since she was a young girl. She boasts not one, but two properties! (Structure and location underdetermined.) Additionally, she may be the token Taiwanese non-consumer as she acquires all her fashions – and furniture – for free.

I can’t wait for her to flaunt her – gasp – summer collection’s swimsuit, which I’m told is quite the sexy number.

Impressedly, Laura.

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