The first time I flew in an airplane alone, I was terrified that I would be molested by betel nut-chewing Taiwanese men, with teeth stained blood-red. I inched as far away as possible from the middle aged man seated next to me, while repeating the steps of immigration until they pounded in my head, a steady mantra. Arrival card, passport, customs form… arrival card, passport, customs form…
When I stepped out of Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport, the first thing that made me realize I wasn’t in mild-weathered Jersey anymore was the humidity; the heavy weight of ten thousand raindrops hanging in the air that clogged your pores and stuck to your skin. I smiled, and asked if there would be air conditioning on the bus. About an hour later, my brother and sister-in-law helped me lug my suitcases up to our grandma’s apartment. As I stepped past the barred iron door, a sense of familiarity washed over me; there was the cramped kitchen, the family portrait, and sitting in the corner, my grandma, watching another one of her Korean soap operas. Here was my Shangri-la, a place like the one novelist James Hilton described in Lost Horizon: an earthly paradise, and escape from the outside world. I felt connected here; there was just something about the smoggy streets of Taipei: the way whiffs of fried pastries would drift from every direction, and how the sight of hundreds of people in the alleyways at the night market would make my heart sing a song of homecoming.
That evening, the night market seemed to be an endless sea of merchandise. To my right and ahead, there were stands overflowing with strings of lovely, light green jade, simply crafted silver watches, and beaded earrings. To my left, teenagers with hazel and red-highlighted mullets rummaged through racks of vividly colored pink, blue, neon green, and electric yellow clothing, emblazoned with nonsensical phrases of the English language. Snoopy Dogg. Balloon Boy 537. Pigs in a Blanket. The high school girls pawed at the shirts, squabbling over which English phrases sounded the most classy, as they enunciated each one with a heavy Asian accent. It was difficult not to burst out in laughter as they began to bicker furiously in loud, sharp tones, abandoning all attempts to harness a second language.
Amused at the interaction, I continued sipping frothy iced milk tea with gummy black pearls of tapioca, walking alongside my brother. He was saying something about waiting in line to buy a very “special” and “delicious” chicken leg. My aunt trailed behind us, making suggestions about items I should buy from the market. (Apparently, she felt that I was in dire need of more underwear.) Laughing, I tackled my brother’s back, and hung on to his neck like I was three years old again, riding a horse. Lying in bed that night, my grandma whispered fantastical stories about how in her youth, she had bypassed Japanese soldiers by assuming the guise of an old woman. I laid under the covers, giddy with caffeine, and strained my ears to hear her soft croak. Although I was on the other side of the world, my heart hummed that song of homecoming, as if it knew the truth my brain had not yet processed: home is where the family is.
| Wang Leehom - 心中的日月 |
你是心中的日月 , 落在這裡.
awww. that was so sweet. :)
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