Holiday

Taiwain holds a special place in my heart. Not only is it the Mecca of Chinese pop culture, which I am an unabashed fan of, but it also presents to me a What-Could-Have-Been. A life I could have been born into, both comforting yet alien, raised on a diet of Mandarin civility, political diaspora, and the paradoxical melding of rigid traditional structure with flagrant personal freedom.


I will bow to my elders and take to the streets of Ximen in chigger-wear without batting an eyelid. I will be an unconscious, unashamed amalgamation of American, Japanese and Chinese, minus the bitter pragmatism and hypocritical cultural-flagellation endemic in certain progressive Asian countries racing to establish their footing in the world.


This time, we not only traipsed the pulsing streets and dazzling clubs of Taipei, but also took a train down to the seaside town of Hua Lien, where we lodged at a bizzare home-stay, walked a rocky sunset beach, braved a famous precipitous gorge upon the wings of massive hangovers, ate dumplings, watched wuxia dvds, and chatted on a windy balcony in the darkness until sunrise seeped through the distant mountains.



And we missed the train back by exactly one minute, running with our luggage after it along the mountain-lined platform as if we were acting in a Zhang Yimou movie. And we still managed to catch our flight, and we realised the holiday far too short, and we were once again back to life, and we were both happy and sad.