In some ways Taiwan was the Asian experience I’ve been waiting for. For a greater metropolitan size of nearly 7 million, there’s a relief in its order and its kindness. I was approached four times in as many days, twice for conversation and twice more with offers of help. Rachel then was a Taiwanese mother of 33 years. On my way to buy a bus ticket, I must have echoed confusion in a bottom-lip chewing because she was soon leading me through one of the city’s underground strip-malls. When we arrived at the ticket window of the East Bus Station, we discovered that it was the West Station I needed. Instead of pointing, Rachel walked me there, up stairwells and across overpasses to a ticket window where she translated my needs into Mandarin. Two days earlier, a teen versed in the language of eye contact waited for my go-ahead before easing in front of me on the metro esclator, adding a thank you. Two persons does not a society make, but in my eight years in East Asia this was exceptional. Tick whatever box is labelled courteous.

Memorable in a different way were the city’s acutrements, the incense-filled temples (some shoe-horned between the surrounding modernity), the grand tributes to national fathers Sun Yat-sen and Chiang Kai-shek, the shopping, the green space, whatever the brunch cafe that gifted me with carmelized bananas, French Toast and American jazz, and a certain skyscaping pagoda. It’s really quite a thing, the Taipei 101, glass tinted green like the resilient bamboo. From the street, it’s either stared at or recorded and the view from the busy look-off hill nearby Xiangshan Station makes it clear – it’s a building that sells postcards. I wonder how the city-zens feel about their modern symbol. The 101 is one of the planet’s greenest skyscrapers, boasts one of the speediest elevators and holds between its 80th and 90th levels a 5-story wind dampener (you’re permitted a look). Within the guts of the basement however sits a mall of brand names that few can afford. 

The air was free at least. Ximen’s pedestrian streets were clogged with young couples slurping fruit juices, suckling skewered meat and browsing. Night-market streets were even harder to navigate. The one in Shilin might have been a supra-narrow grid of snackeries, fair games and clothiers but 100 feet and two turns in and I was no longer confident about exiting. High spirits though. One of the most surprising discoveries of the trip, if I’ve read this correctly, is how the out-of-door celebrations of life happen without the assistance of alcohol. No guff. My five beer (1 with shrimp linguine, the other 4 poured into the same two-handled gigantor mug) was more than I saw the entire capital consume during my stay. Either it’s a private affair or they’ve found a better way. In keeping cool there were an obvious few. Perpetual AC was one, covered sidewalks and umbrellas another and awning sprayers a mistifying third. It was refreshing, as the crooners and harp buskers, as the child-friendly transit system, as the orange rent-a-bike stations. Apparently, it rubbed me right. Wasn’t all peaches and convenience though. Museums and temples are closed on Mondays. Some of them.