Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you.

Virginia Woolf, “Selected Diaries”

In this chapter, I…

• Experience my first earthquake in Taiwan
• Visit the Golden Waterfall and Jiufen
• Discover the meaning of love

List of volunteers at the hostel:

• (19yo, Canada) a reserved girl with blonde hair and blue eyes who likes to make bracelets.
• (20yo, the Netherlands) a guy with blond hair and blue eyes who majored in Ancient Greek and Roman history.
• (23yo, South Korea) a pretty girl with doll-like features who studies Chinese in Taipei.
• (27yo, Brazil) a funky guy with an afro, glasses, and tattoos, who likes to read manga.
• (29yo, South Korea) Jeong-Ho, a remote translator with wavy hair, round spectacles, and tanned skin, who drinks coffee and works out religiously.
• Brother Neal, 75, a dubious Taiwanese volunteer who we call Big Brother Neal. Looks and acts like the Taiwanese version of Argus Filch.

3 April 2024

• 11:00-12:30 shift
• 14:25-15:40 Ximen station to elementary school bus number 965
• Golden waterfall (10m)
• Remains of the 13 levels (10m)
• 17:10-17:25 golden waterfall to Jiufen old street bus number 856
• Jiufen old street (1.5h)
• 19:05-20:00 Jiufen police station to Songshan station bus number 1062, 20:05-20:20 Songshan station to Ximen station MRT (Songshan-Xindian line)

A Disasterous Earthquake

A magnitude 7.5 earthquake hit Taiwan at 8:00, the worst in 25 years. Several casualties, dozens of injuries. The MRT was suspended in the morning.

It originated in Hualien, thus roads in Taroko gorge collapsed. My original plan was to hike there today in the early morning, since I’d received a permit for Zhuliu old trail for both April 3 and March 27. Per Jeong-Ho’s suggestion, we’d gone together in March instead.

The national park called to ask if I was still alive. My name appeared on the list of hikers on the cliff in the early morning.

If it wasn’t for Jeong-Ho, I would not be writing this.

Meanwhile, a new volunteer had checked into the hostel two minutes before the disaster. A 20-year-old guy from the Netherlands with blond hair, blue eyes, and dark nail polish. Great way to land in Taiwan.

The number and origin of messages I received asking for my well-being astounded me. It took thick and thin to show who cared about you. Even friends I wasn’t talking to on a regular basis anymore.

The Golden Waterfall

After my shift, I took a long-distance bus to Jiufen. There was a chance of a 7.0 aftershock happening in the next two days. The bus kept reversing on the narrow, winding mountain road, to let other buses pass through.

I walked twenty minutes down the road toward a waterfall. Nets were keeping rocks from falling.

Then I reached the Golden Waterfall, which seemed more brown in today’s overcast weather, but nonetheless pretty. Green stripes were flowing down alongside water.

From there, I continued to an observation pavilion to the Remains of the 13 Levels, an abandoned mining plant overlooking the ocean. It seemed interesting, but not worth coming all this way, which was hard without a car. Plus, it was no longer accessible, nor would I venture into it in case of an aftershock.

Jiufen Old Street

So I took the bus to Jiufen, an old, hilly street famous for its atmospheric red lanterns and street food. An incorrect myth told that it inspired Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away. (Matsuyama’s Dogo Onsen had served the actual inspiration.)

I snacked on a peanut ice cream rolled in thin dough with coriander. The dough was thin, the peanut flakes added crunchiness, the ice cream barely hinted at vanilla, and the coriander added freshness, like a bitter mint.

The famous herbal rice cake and taro cake didn’t thrill me, nor did the local specialty, cold taro and sweet potato balls soup. I preferred the sweet red and mung beans inside the soup to those.

The narrow alleys with lanterns were romantic, especially at dusk, yet too crowded and touristy. Evidently, the earthquake had deterred no one. The stone stairs down to Amei teahouse were nearly a standstill, with a long line to snap photos of the famous exterior. As exasperated as I was by this choice of a final attraction on this trip, I ought to admit that the façade glittered beautifully.

A Magnetic Date

At night, I took the MRT to Nanshijao station. I nearly fell asleep after returning from Jiufen, but a local guy from there had been repeating how much he was looking forward to see me. I could never refuse someone who sought my company. So I met him and apologized in case I got sleepy.

His charm woke me at once. He had short hair, a rectangular face, a hint of a beard; large, black eyes, and tanned skin. He reminded me of Brad from February. Both were 36 years old and oozed swag. His perfume was the best I’d ever smelled. I thought he was magnetically handsome, yet he kept voicing this compliment at me.

Last night, I’d gone out on a date where the vibe was so off, that I couldn’t feign the passion the date had been expressing for me. This had happened once or twice since mid-February. I’d feared there was something physically wrong with me.

Now, transfixed in Nanshijao, I realized it was simply a lack of chemistry. Why did I share such mutual attraction with someone seven years my senior, while throughout the past week, with someone seven years younger than me?

I couldn’t understand it. Tonight went so well, that I lost the urge, even the ability, to speak.

To leave a writer speechless – that was a stroke of magic.

Today’s highlights: the Golden Waterfall; peanut ice cream roll; Amei teahouse; the date at night.

4 April 2024

• 11:00-12:30 shift

Shift at the Hostel

Today I taught the new Dutch volunteer at the hostel how to clean. I felt like I was passing the torch after a month and a half here.

Lunch curtesy of the manager included leftovers of my hot pot dinner with the Taiwanese couple, which she’d cooked. She’d also brought sun-dried fish paste, a Keelung specialty. It was the first time I savoured fish paste. The drying process had granted it a soft yet roasted flavour, almost as if grilled.

The manager and I had bonded so much, that a few days ago, she’d taught me how to say “I love you” in Chinese. (And in Taiwanese sign language.) She also asked me to write about my trip in Taiwan and send her photos to share on social media.

Dessert was lemon cake, another Taichung specialty courtesy of Luciano. So delicious – as if I needed one more reason to miss Taiwanese cuisine.

An Awkward Date

At 16:00, I met a 36-year-old local originally from Tainan with whom I’d been texting since my first few days in Taiwan, in late January. I hated leaving without saying hi to him and disappointing someone who had shown a sustained interest in me. He wore a baseball cap, round frames, and stood slightly taller than me.

He treated me to fried popcorn chicken in Ximen, just like the Taiwanese couple’s deli in Nanshijao. The chicken, fried squid, green beans, egg tofu, sweet-not-spicy tempura were all heavenly. This also included my first French fries in Taiwan, which were not as salty as in the West.

I found it a bit challenging to keep the conversation afloat. He was nice and polite, working at the law department in the government. Yet he didn’t seem to share any hobbies with me.

At 18:00, we had drinks at the Red House. My choice of a hot sangria surprised him.

“Hot alcohol?” he asked, having never visited the West.

“I feel like I’m back in Spain,” I said while quaffing my warm, fruity, velvety drink. As always with wine, though, it made me sleepy. Not a good mix with sleep deprivation.

At 20:00, I returned to my hostel. There was a good chance we would meet in Tokyo, which he visited almost every year.

The Meaning of Love

I wrote well into the night, trying to make sense of all my dating in Taipei. If only I had more time here, I sighed internally, as I failed to postpone my flight.

When I lay in bed at dark and stared at my laptop, which was issuing the only source of light, and mulled over everyone I missed, I realized the difference between love and being in love.

Time.

People I had fallen in love with at first sight. It had been months since our full conversation or last encounter. But I kept thinking about them daily, longing for them, waiting for a reunion even in the unforeseeable future – despite the anguish they had brought me. Despite meeting new people who had swept me off my feet. My attachment toward them had grown roots not even time or distance could weather.

They had aggravated me. They had disappointed me. They had lied or played games. We had drifted apart. But my care toward them had not waned.

What did they have in common? I wondered, searching for an equation of love. The variables didn’t include height or face.

Something in our first meeting had given way to confessions and intimacy. I’d felt comfortable enough to trust and open up. Instances like this had led to the most intense bonds of my life.

I tried to recall all my first dates in the past year that had unfolded like this. How many times had I described someone as ‘easy to talk to’? How many times had I spoken softly and candidly for hours with someone I’d just met? It darted through like an arrow to the chest that I hadn’t just fallen in love for the first time in my life on this trip – I had also learned how to love romantically.

I sat up in the capsule of my dormitory. My brain was racing. If I encountered someone with whom I felt at ease from the first moment, could divulge everything, and waited impatiently for our next meeting –

If the only thing on my mind was spending more and more moments together, I was in love.

If I still felt this way after months of anguish, disregard, miscommunication, and quiet, I loved.

Not just romantically. I had also made friends on this trip who fit into this. The only difference was lack of physical attraction.

It was 3 AM, and I was wide awake.

If, upon our initial acquaintance, the conversation didn’t seem to end – if I wanted to talk through the day and into the night, reveal more of myself, and delve into personal matters – if I felt calm and composed, understood, appreciated – if they treated me with patience and respect, as though they had all the time in the world to be with me – if we stared into each other’s eyes as though we’d been doing this for an eternity – if we shared silence like a speech – if words could never be enough to express everything on my lips –

If words were unnecessary…

I closed my eyes, stinging from the laptop’s light, and smiled. This interaction had recurred a dozen times in one year. Two dozen, if I counted both dates and friends. Sometimes on a daily basis.

One year ago today, I’d reached Kyoto for the first time, chased peak cherry blossoms, and vowed to never let anyone hurt me again.

I grew mad at people for being annoying pieces of shit, careless and apathetic, and didn’t wish to talk to anyone – just see pink petals falling and reaching the end of their life, like my trip would sooner or later do, and some day, my existence, too.

I thought about every single person I’d ever met. No one cared, at the end of the day. They acted like they did, but they didn’t. People cared about themselves. We hadn’t reached a state of inter-subjectivity as a species yet.

This wasn’t a new insight, but a disappointment that had left a bitter taste in my mouth ever since childhood; a behaviour I had encountered too often. It simply baffled me every time it happened.

Maybe I’d always been gullible enough to forget it. Maybe I’d been too optimistic to ignore it. People could place sculptures on the edge of cliffs high up in the mountains, but they could also be monsters.

I promised myself to never forget it again. To never invest in someone who wouldn’t invest in me. To never care about those who would never care about me as much I did about them.

I no longer wished to speak to anyone I’d ever known. Nor inhabit a space I’d found familiar […] I didn’t mind losing every person who used to be in my life. It was just matter of time before I lost them anyway.

Then I recalled the wooden floor from Himeji Castle, and changed my mind. I didn’t need a dream house. In fact, I didn’t need a house at all. I didn’t need a fixed dwelling; moving from one place to another, from one continent to another, and writing as I went along, would make me happier than a structure ever could.

It would be hard, but I could live without fixed friendships, too.

I could definitely live without money. I only needed a place to sleep and food to eat. And a socket to charge my electronics, and transportation. I could give up on shops.

But a career in art – that was the one thing I would never be able to give up on. Not in the evenings, following a crappy day job. As a profession. As a vocation. As the fruits of my labour, and the culmination of my existence.

Life was a story, and I wanted to write it for myself.

I wondered if this trip was changing me, or simply awakening dormant parts of myself. I settled on the latter, when it hit me: revival was also a kind of change.

“All Things Go” (4 April 2023)

It staggered me to behold how much I’d changed.

A year of traveling in a part of the world where I felt more at home than in my actual home had proven to me: I could fall in love; I could love; and I could start a new family. One comprised of friends and a partner who, even when thousands of kilometres apart, would be there for me.

Today’s highlight: sun-dried fish paste; lemon cake; fried popcorn chicken; sangria; unravelling the mystery of love.