On the last trip, it was me, a childhood friend, and a week of exploring. I timed returning to Taipei so that I would be here just as another childhood friend, Daisy, was here too. I landed at 6AM, got through customs and stuff in an hour, flagged a cab, and was in my mom’s apartment by 8AM. Last time, my aunt ordered a car for me, but this time I just did it myself because, well, I was gonna be a local soon.
My plan, as sloppily conceived, was to move to Taiwan to study Mandarin. On the last few days of our September visit, I hung out with a friend from college who had moved here from Los Angeles three years ago. Robert didn’t know much Mandarin when he arrived — he spoke Taiwanese growing up — but had been taking classes at National Taiwan Normal University (“Shida”) since then. And when I met his fellow classmate, who had been studying Mandarin for a similar amount of time, I was very impressed with their skills. That planted the seed.
Things I didn’t expect to say, like ever, especially at thirty-six: “Mom, I want to move to Taiwan to go to Chinese school!” I mean, Chinese school during our childhood was a necessary evil. Each Saturday for twelve years, we spent slogging our way through extra lessons that none of us were enthused about. Mainly, I skipped as much class as possible to play basketball and football during the breaks. Cheating was rampant in class, as neither the teachers — some of whom were our friend’s moms — nor the students seemed overly committed. Also, what would be the punishment be? Detention? Chinese school was already one long detention as far as we were concerned.
Having actually been born overseas, George and I were placed early on in the second highest Chinese class level, one stratum below the older FOBs who immigrated at a later age. In theory, we were all in the advanced classes, but those kids were way better than the ones from our class. Attending a dozen years of Chinese school did have one major benefit though: all of our current group of San Diego friends are mostly culled from those years. Our shared GroupMe is even titled “中文學校.”
Daisy had been in Taipei a week already, but her cousins worked by day so that was the void I would be filling. After taking a short rest, we met up for lunch and I showed her the beef noodle place I raved about after my last visit. Then we went to Da’An and Yongkang Street to Smoothie House, because, well, mangoes. And then it was time to rest because eating is exhausting. The beauty of familiar friends is when you can both just be like “okay, let’s go home and sit on the couch and nap.”
To wrap up the night, we took the subway down to her cousin’s house, near Dapinglin, further south than I’d ever gone on the metro before. We got a bite at Formosa Chang, a chain restaurant serving traditional Taiwanese food and notable for their braised pork rice (lu rou fan). The Formosa Chang logo features the bearded face of its founder, who basically resembles a lumberjack. So I mistook it for a white dude.
Afterwards, we walked back and I met the cousin Daisy was staying with, who happened to be a recreational race car driver. Tire sales by day, incredibly fast and expensive car driving by, well, also day.
My plan, as sloppily conceived, was to move to Taiwan to study Mandarin. On the last few days of our September visit, I hung out with a friend from college who had moved here from Los Angeles three years ago. Robert didn’t know much Mandarin when he arrived — he spoke Taiwanese growing up — but had been taking classes at National Taiwan Normal University (“Shida”) since then. And when I met his fellow classmate, who had been studying Mandarin for a similar amount of time, I was very impressed with their skills. That planted the seed.
Things I didn’t expect to say, like ever, especially at thirty-six: “Mom, I want to move to Taiwan to go to Chinese school!” I mean, Chinese school during our childhood was a necessary evil. Each Saturday for twelve years, we spent slogging our way through extra lessons that none of us were enthused about. Mainly, I skipped as much class as possible to play basketball and football during the breaks. Cheating was rampant in class, as neither the teachers — some of whom were our friend’s moms — nor the students seemed overly committed. Also, what would be the punishment be? Detention? Chinese school was already one long detention as far as we were concerned.
Having actually been born overseas, George and I were placed early on in the second highest Chinese class level, one stratum below the older FOBs who immigrated at a later age. In theory, we were all in the advanced classes, but those kids were way better than the ones from our class. Attending a dozen years of Chinese school did have one major benefit though: all of our current group of San Diego friends are mostly culled from those years. Our shared GroupMe is even titled “中文學校.”
Daisy had been in Taipei a week already, but her cousins worked by day so that was the void I would be filling. After taking a short rest, we met up for lunch and I showed her the beef noodle place I raved about after my last visit. Then we went to Da’An and Yongkang Street to Smoothie House, because, well, mangoes. And then it was time to rest because eating is exhausting. The beauty of familiar friends is when you can both just be like “okay, let’s go home and sit on the couch and nap.”
To wrap up the night, we took the subway down to her cousin’s house, near Dapinglin, further south than I’d ever gone on the metro before. We got a bite at Formosa Chang, a chain restaurant serving traditional Taiwanese food and notable for their braised pork rice (lu rou fan). The Formosa Chang logo features the bearded face of its founder, who basically resembles a lumberjack. So I mistook it for a white dude.
Afterwards, we walked back and I met the cousin Daisy was staying with, who happened to be a recreational race car driver. Tire sales by day, incredibly fast and expensive car driving by, well, also day.