I am looking for a human being.

Diogenes

In this chapter, I…

• Change my attitude toward dating
• Enjoy more successful dates, this time rife with envy
• Experiment again at a bar
• Visit Yangmingshan national park for fully bloomed cherry blossoms
• Suffer my third and bloodiest hiking injury on this trip
• Reach my first conclusions regarding love

List of volunteers at the hostel:

• Ewan, 21, an aspiring architect from Bristol with a buzz cut, a deep voice, and a piercing look, like the rugged version of young Ewan McGregor
• Toby, 28, a graphic designer from Manchester with brown hair parted in the middle, who’d taught English in Hachinohe in the past
• Brother Neal, 75, a dubious Taiwanese volunteer who we called Big Brother Neal. Looks and acts like the Taiwanese version of Argus Filch

19 February 2024

• 11:00-13:00 shift

Successful Date #1

My sleep had taken a toll over the last few days. In the absence of partying, it was thoughts that were keeping me awake. Talking to people in my head, making speeches that remained unsaid.

I decided to change my attitude toward dating. I would no longer eschew pain. Hurt feelings were, much to my frustration, a vital repercussion of intimacy. From now on, I would embrace them.

Dating in Taiwan had proven successful enough for me to elevate it. With a ticking clock (flight to Israel) and too much uncertainty (would I ever come back?), this pursuit felt more urgent than ever. So I would allow myself to get attached, and channel all my energy toward dating.

My affair with romance had budded on 21 February 2023, and now blossomed into a flower. I would get to the bottom of this ineffability even if it traumatized me. Which it already had. But each time, it had also born fruits and taught me a lesson.

I hereby ventured into Tantalus’s playground.

After my shift, I tried to take care of my student visa application for Japan. But I was too preoccupied to even open the language school’s email. The best dating week of my life had culminated in silence.

Then I got invited for lunch in Ximen. With a 28-year-old Taiwanese graphic designer who had relocated to Canada nine years ago, and returned for the holidays. He had celebrated his birthday here a day before me.

Nearly identical birthdays; a shared passion for visual art. We ate a squid noodle soup. He had a strong jaw, perfect skin, and a dentist-approved grin.

It was an impromptu hangout before his train to his hometown. I’d showed up gloomy, crestfallen, distracted. But he raised my spirits.

“I was with a friend before I came here,” he said. “We prayed at the matchmaking temple.”

“There’s a matchmaking temple in Taipei?”

I told him about Yasui Konpiragu shrine in Kyoto, where I’d prayed for good relationships in November. He informed me of the local, Taoist version on Dihua street.

“So you prayed at a matchmaking temple,” I said, “and then texted me?”

He laughed.

“Yes.”

I wondered why he managed to alleviate my heartache.

He spoke a lot about Canada. Life in Toronto, per his description, sounded like heaven. He raved about the nicety and frankness of Canadians, their respect of boundaries, and their diversity.

“I’m very direct when it comes to relationships, to the point of being blunt,” he said.

Over there, there was no ‘standard’ and ‘deviant’. People of colour weren’t automatically considered foreigners, the way white expats were in the East; nor were queers abnormal. He said that Toronto was even more open and liberating than Taipei, boasted a better nightlife scene, and didn’t discriminate.

It was also friendlier to artists, who could actually make a living, and enjoyed four distinct seasons in magnificent nature. The entire population of Canada equalled Tokyo’s, hence cities weren’t too densely populated, either.

“Sometimes you’re alone, because people are used to doing things by themselves, like going to the movies,” he said. “As I get older, it bothers me less and less.”

All my life, I’d deemed Japan my Eden. In the past three weeks, I’d begun envisioning myself in Taipei. Now, Toronto sounded like another galaxy.

“Is there anything you don’t like about it?”

He didn’t need a moment to think.

“You can see people inject heroin in the streets,” he said. “Drugs are a problem. And the taxes are very high.”

“But nothing that mars your everyday life.”

He shook his head.

“Toronto is my home now,” he smiled.

This surprised me more than anything.

Recently, the Ukrainian girl I’d met in Kyoto in April, who had become one of my closest friends, had decided to relocate to Japan at the same time as me. We’d discussed our chances at integrating into Japanese society, versus always feeling like an outsider. I would never get to feel at home, I’d said: always the exception to the norm, whether in Israel, or in any country I would move to.

“How do you define home?” I asked as we slurped noodles.

“Home is where I want to live,” he said.

He didn’t feel like an outsider; didn’t feel different; didn’t feel like the odd one out. Toronto was so racially and sexually diverse, that one could no longer hold prejudices about ‘native’ and ‘normal’.

I found myself distracted again by hopeful thoughts about the future and disgruntled emotions about the present. The right place for me existed out there – in Japan, in Taiwan, in Canada, who knew where – yet money and a weak passport barred my way. The species with the most agency in the world loved restricting itself.

Fried squid slid down my throat as I forced a smile. He had found comfort, stability, fun. His enthusiasm was so infectious, that I grew envious: of his looks, his profession, his Canadian partying habits and dating history; his freedom of movement and remote-position lifestyle. He had discovered his promised land at 20, while I at 28 – and I had yet to settle there, I would soon eliminate my progress, and go back to Israel.

At 17:00, he left to catch his train. I knew that for him, this was a meaningless way to fill an afternoon.

Why, after so many dating disasters in Japan, Korea, and Israel, Taiwan was breaking the mould? I wasn’t falling in love with every new person that came along – my mind didn’t just forget and move on – but I was enjoying almost every outgoing. Something about the mentality here fit me.

I bought a kimchi scallion pancake as delectable as my afternoon. The rest of the day was spent staring at my laptop, unable to make any progress with my to-do list, let alone write. Chatting instead with the queer staff member in my hostel, we discussed dating in our countries.

“When I go back to Israel,” I said, “I’m going to become a Buddhist monk. I won’t be able to date there, nor would I want to.”

Then I found myself receiving the replies I’d been craving over the past few days.

The Date that Slipped Away

Heron and I particularly texted for hours. He still wouldn’t meet me. He kept teasing me in a flirtatious manner, while I repeated in grander and grander sentiments how much I ought to see him. To meet right away, he posed certain risky conditions, which I refused.

“Maybe we can meet when you are back from the south,” he said. “Or maybe before you leave Taiwan.”

“No,” I replied. “I want to see you now.”

“I am flattered.”

I waited for another message, which didn’t come.

“AND?” I texted.

He repeated his sentiment.

My hands clenched into fists.

“I don’t want it to be a one-time thing,” I said. “And I would like to keep seeing you. I even stopped going to bars and clubs.”

“I was a bit disappointed when you went to those,” he said, “since I made time for you (knowing that I would get very busy).” He’s also counted on meeting during his New Year’s vacation, while I was in Donggang.

“I’m sorry I let you down. I didn’t mean to. And I didn’t realize it would become harder to meet.”

He accepted my apology and continued to tease me about tonight. But only under his condition. Which meant that he wasn’t too busy.

“How am I supposed to go to bed after this?” I said, heart racing with anger. “You frustrate me as much as you thrill me. I won’t let you finish this week without seeing me.”

Even this didn’t do the trick.

“I don’t think it’s going to work out,” he said. “But maybe it’s the best that it remains a fantasy.”

It was half past midnight. I was tired, per usual. Yet I couldn’t unwind. To him, I seemed to exist not as a person to spend time with, but as a sexual plaything.

“You got my hopes up that we could meet tonight,” I said. “It just felt like you were teasing me without being serious about meeting.”

Somehow, he’d gone from playing a flirtatious game with me, to just playing.

“I’m not teasing,” he said. “What’s the point? I have already met you twice. Just wasn’t sure whether you are serious.”

“If I like someone,” I said, “I want to see them a lot more than twice.”

I went to bed at 2:00, physically and emotionally drained.

Today’s highlights: the squid soup lunch; kimchi scallion pancake.

20 February 2024

• 11:00-12:00 shift
• Lunch @ conveyor belt sushi!
• Taipei Xia-Hai temple (20m)
• Bar at night

Successful Date #2

Today after my shift I had lunch with a thirtysomething guy. Brad, in head-to-toe designer clothes, the brand he was working for. Tanned skin; a trimmed, nigh-invisible goatee; silver jewellery; and a magnetic resting face. I could never pull off his outfit. He radiated effortless swag.

We walked to a Taiwanese restaurant I’d saved on my map, and accidentally entered the next-door Japanese restaurant. Train-set conveyor belt sushi, chawanmushi, green tea, tempura shrimp, fried tofu, squid sashimi, and my first taste of a fish chin (extremely tender). Before we dug in, he closed his eyes and prayed.

“I like your ring,” I said, pointing at a silver one with a black heart on his index finger.

“Thanks,” he said. “My husband got it for me.”

“Your what?”

I wasn’t aware of this small piece of information.

He was in an open relationship. Since the beginning, before their marriage.

“It gives you freedom,” he said. “But you also need to make rules, otherwise it can be dangerous.”

I recalled last week, and how it irked me to know that a third person was with someone I liked.

“Don’t you get jealous?” I asked.

“We talk about it before and ask for permission,” he said. “The other day, when he didn’t come home and I woke by myself, I told him not to repeat that.”

We ate slowly, focusing less on sushi and more on each other. Our conversation was profound and patient. He divulged some childhood trauma, which had led to separation anxiety. Recently, three years of meditation had culminated in a tear-streaked breakthrough.

“I always tried to be strong, but now I know I can be weak,” he said. “It’s a lot easier for me to cry.”

I’d gone through a similar process. From acting strong in Israel so as to hide my shyness and never crying, to opening up in the Far East and building my confidence.

“Sometimes, if I like someone too much and I know it’s not going to work, I cry in front of them,” I confessed. “It always ruins it.”

We continued to talk quite candidly, eyes gazing into one another while slowly dipping fried fish in soy sauce. It was always remarkable how I could have this sort of interaction with someone I’d just met. Those were the kind of people I sought.

It was even more astonishing when this happened with someone who was my physical opposite. He possessed the looks that allowed one to be cocky. Yet his demure disposition offset his tough expression.

“One time someone saw me in the street and asked, ‘You like to have sex, right?’” he said. “That’s what my face says.”

He envied my “good boy” (per his description) face, because that way, I could surprise others. Whereas he – airport security always checked his bags. When he went to clubs, he drank while observing people and keeping a straight face. Only when drunk did he smile and dance.

I always envied this type of person. 

“When I go to clubs, it’s hard to approach someone, because they don’t see me this way,” I said. “I bet you have it easier.”

He maintained his envy of me.

“We can switch, you know,” I laughed.

After two hours together, he had to leave.

“That’s okay,” he said when I reached for my wallet. “Taiwanese hospitality.”

If anything, I’d chain myself to this playground simply for such pampering.

Taipei Xia-Hai Temple of the City God

I spent my afternoon in Dihua street, my third time there, now empty after the New Year’s market had been terminated. Taipei Xia-Hai temple of the city god, who protected the locals, opened with a golden statue of him guarded by lions with a golden ball between their teeth. Inside, sculptures of humans with coal black skin and wide noses wore formidable silver crowns.

The alter presented two dozen small, black-incensed statues of bearded deities, including the Matchmaker, a wise old man, and one of the most famous marriage deities in Taiwan. I prayed to him using three candle sticks.

After this, I walked back to Ximen through Zhonghua road, illuminated for the Lantern Festival. Installations included cities from Japan and Korea, such as Aomori apples and Jeju tangerines.

Successful Date #3

At night, I went out to my usual bar in Ximen with the staff member from yesterday. Even on a Tuesday, it was intense: a guy tied with ropes was hoisted on a wooden beam, his entire body contorted grotesquely; a girl was chatting without pants on; a naked guy was pleasuring his friend.

Four Asians guys wearing matching Hawaiian shirts, black shorts, and small side bags sat on the table next to us.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said. “Why are you dressed the same?”

“We’re very good friends,” they said.

They were flight attendants from Melbourne in their early thirties, originally from Japan, Vietnam, Malaysia, and Thailand. I grew excited at speaking Japanese again, and talked to them while the staff member met a middle-aged couple from Israel (from Israel! Here!). The flight attendants encouraged me to try new things, which I could get away with only here. Seoul and Tokyo were tamer than Taipei.

At 1:00, we left the bar. We snacked on fried chicken, egg tofu, and sweet potato balls at a takeout stand in Ximen. They were all goofy, shooting silly videos of themselves, acting like the tight-knit group of friends completely open with each other that I wished for myself.

Then I found myself alone with the Thai guy. We’d been focusing on each other throughout the night. Somehow, without noticing the time, we talked until 4:30.

There was nothing we didn’t confess or discuss. Our hopes and dreams. Our fears and insecurities. I wished I’d documented more of our conversation.

“I never expected to turn thirty this fast,” he said, for instance. “Soon, I’ll be a shrivelled old Asian who’s still single.”

He had celebrated his birthday on February 17, a day after me. Over the past week, I’d learned that February 13, 15, 17, and 20 marked the birthdays of people I’d recently gone out with.

Having just turned 29, I felt the fear in his voice. We spoke softly and intimately into the small hours of the night. Why was I having such heart-to-heart exchanges lately?

He liked his job and the aviation lifestyle. He had his own place, a supportive family, great friends. Only love was missing.

“People want to date a flight attendant because it sounds cool,” he said. “Then they see that I’m not home for five or six days every week.”

It posed a dealbreaker, such a flighty lack of routine. Most people sought a nine-to-five workweek, while he was in the air on weekends.  

It made him sound miserable. I understood him. But I also doubted I’d achieve his other accomplishments by his age.

Today’s highlights: the Japanese lunch; bar at night; street food with the flight attendants.

21 February 2024

• 11:30-12:30 shift

An Awful Date

I woke for my shift after 4.5 hours of sleep. In the afternoon, I met a 26-year-old guy from Ximen who was working at the drag club I’d visited. It was one of those encounters I detested from the first moment. He looked sleazy, and I struggled to exchange even one word with him.

When he mentioned his boyfriend, I wanted to shoot myself in the head.

“Are you in an open relationship?” I asked.

“Well,” he said. “It’s complicated.”

I left right after.

The flight attendants wanted to go to a hot spring together, but were busy sightseeing. I didn’t want to further crash their trip. And Hope had cancelled tonight because he was sick.

I fell asleep at 19:00. One year ago today, I’d met the Japanese guy in the digital detox ryokan, and felt something for the first time.

Today’s highlight: morning with the Thai flight attendant.

22 February 2024

• 9:15-10:05 Ximen station to Yangmingshan bus number 260 陽明山公車總站公廁
• Yangming park (1h)
• Qixing-shan trail (Miaopu entrance) – going up to the main peak (1h)
• Qixing-shan – peak (20m)
• Qixing-shan – going down from the east peak (1h)
• Lengshuikeng hot spring (20m)
• 14:45-15:20 Lengshuikeng to Jiantan station bus number 小15, 15:25-15:45 transfer to Taipei main station bus number 260

Yangming Park

I woke at 7:00. For my last day off from the hostel, I took the bus to Yangmingshan national park.

Barren cherry blossom trees lined my walk up a road for fifteen minutes to the visitor center (no shoulders; taking another bus would’ve been better). I crossed the parking lot opposite the road and descended to Yangming park, where fully bloomed cherry blossoms provided a nice surprise. They were few, compared to Japan – but late February marked the local flower festival, with visitors and musical performances.

Mt Qixing-shan

I climbed back to the visitor center (the trail was easy to miss; I followed the second parking lot signs written in Chinese). Then Qixing-shan trail (Miaopu entrance) led me to Qixing-shan (elevation 1,100 meters), Yangmingshan’s highest peak.

The trail was comprised of simple stone steps. The weather was known to be volatile here. It was sunny and drizzly at the same time, then misty.

Complete silence. Gentle raindrops and the rustling of leaves. Sulfur was reeking my ascent, and the sweat damping my shirt. It had been a month since I was alone on top of a mountain in nature.

At 14:55, I collapsed on a bench by lantern number 45. Climbing without a break, without drinking or eating anything since 9:00, and worried about sunset, I was ready to quit and sleep on the trail, like the lost guests.

It was dead quiet.

I had a few rice crackers and sweets in my bag. My fingers hurt from the cold while trying to unwrap my snacks. But I thoroughly enjoyed this respite. It had been a while since I’d had a moment to myself on a mountain deep in nature.

“Temple Life” (12 January 2024)

With no one to occupy me but my thoughts, it occurred to me how stupid I’d been. Yet again. I’d opened up and got ghosted in return. Yet again.

I forced myself not to scowl. Rinse and repeat.

The main peak was so foggy, that the visibility was zero. Raindrops were shrouding my lenses; I barely registered the group of elder Taiwanese who had finished climbing the opposite trail. My fingers hurt for the first time since January 12.

I moved to the east peak for the trail down. Like the main peak, it was more rocks than scenery. With the rain intensifying and my glasses a puddle, I slipped on the rocks, and hit my tailbone, left side of my back, and top of my head.

“No–” I blurted while falling, foreseeing my injury in less than a second.

I crashed on the ground. Rocks lit three wounds on my body on fire.

Screaming. The pain was sharp. My head was in a daze.

Mud had drenched my phone and hands. My arms shook as I tried to stand. This took at least a minute.

Back on my feet, I couldn’t stay in one spot or think. I wobbled on the rocks as I continued to scream. The Taiwanese elders had already descended the trail I’d climbed before continuing to the east peak. I was alone on a mountain, engulfed by fog and rain, unable to stand straight.

I broke into wails. I couldn’t stop crying. My eyes couldn’t see anything. No tears came out – and yet I was bawling like a baby.

I climbed toward the sculptures and stood on the edge of the cliff. A fiery valley and a misty port below me. No inscription made it impossible for me to unravel the Boddhisatva’s identity – yet making it all this way, with a sprained ankle, after everything that had happened to me since March, immediately became one of my biggest accomplishments.

I may have lost the game of society. I may have lost lovers and friends. I may have lost the big race. But I won this moment.

Back on the observation platform, the steepness of the descending path explained why I had crashed. In a state of spiritual euphoria, I had failed to heed. Now, I reached the site of my injury at the entrance to the third temple in one piece.  

Everything here was abandoned. A carpet of yellow leaves was the sole marker of time. This wasn’t a cave temple, though. As Sky had remarked, it paled in comparison.

When I hurried to the road down the mountain, I recalled something I’d been meaning to do.

「生きています！」I screamed into the valley. Then I burst into sobs.

I couldn’t stop it. I was whimpering like a wounded dog. Everything gushed out in that moment. Death and misery and loneliness. Life.

“The Temple that Changed My Life” (9 December 2024)

I stayed on the east peak, moaning and sniffing. There were no other sounds. My great uncle had died in a hiking accident in the 1950’s after slipping on rocks next to his children. I realized no one would come to my aid, and that my sole escape was down.

So I started slowly down the trail. Slowly. The stone steps were slippery with rain, and there were at least five times where I almost fell again. My back hurt and my head was pulsing. I was groaning with each step.

Lengshuikeng Hot Spring

After an hour like this, I reached Lengshuikeng hot spring. A free and smelly open-air bath. Just what my body needed.

Yet it was full to the brim on Thursday at 14:00, with Taiwanese elders yelling and stretching like on my birthday. They made a ruckus reaching for a water basket next to my head. When I touched the top of my head, blood drenched my hand.

I hated hot springs in Taiwan. And I couldn’t linger, either. I scrapped the rest of my hiking plans and took the bus back to the city.

The driver raced down the winding road. The bus jumped up and down the mountain. In Japan, they always drove gingerly.

I returned to my hostel. A long, hot shower; lunch; and lying down. My head stopped bleeding at some point, and I had no symptoms of a concussion – but my back was smarting so much, that I couldn’t walk, crouch, sit, lie, or climb the ladder to my upper bunk. How would I go around the south while carrying my luggage starting tomorrow?

Then my couch-surfing host for the next two nights cancelled at the last minute. Since I was going to a festival in Yanshui, every accommodation in the area was booked.

A few hours of a tense search for a hostel yielded one last bed in Tainan. I changed my plans for tomorrow. It would cost me, but at least I wouldn’t worry about accommodation. This sort of thing had happened to me several times in Japan. Another reminder of how one couldn’t rely on others.

After three incredible, back-to-back dates between February 10-14, I would leave Taipei tomorrow without recreating them. Why did the best end unrepeated?

Eres had disappeared, Hope was sick, and Heron had followed the Korean student’s footsteps, even after I’d agreed to his condition.

I could already tell that Heron would not play games with me the way the Korean had. Back in July, he’d promised to meet again and stay in touch, pretended to be busy, disappeared, and replied only after I’d left Korea. Heron seemed too shy and sincere to ghost anyone.

“Falling for Valentine” (February 10)

I’d grown attached knowing this would backfire, so I could only blame myself.

With my month in Taipei, the epicentre of partying and dating in Taiwan, now over, I felt like I was leaving the playground to the countryside.

As I went to bed, my head resumed its bleeding. Blood issued alongside three conclusions.

• It was possible to like, and be in love with, multiple people at the same time.
• It was possible to stay in love with someone you knew wasn’t right.
• There was no such thing as a ‘good boy’.

At least I hadn’t died atop Qixing mountain. I could’ve fractured my spine and suffered a concussion. In some areas of life, I still had luck.

Today’s highlights: cherry blossoms in Yangming park; climbing Qixing-shan.

Stray observations:

• Bus times in Taiwan are completely unreliable. Including the real time screens at bus stops. Best to just go to the bus stop and pray.