Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
It is all about the tea
Many thanks are owed to family and friends for redirecting a substantial amount of tea back to Taiwan and more specifically, to me.
I could write at length of my tea travails, but suffice it to say any expectations I may have had that good tea would be difficult to come by have been far exceeded. Over time I found myself drinking less tea, not enjoying the tea I was drinking nearly as much, and wondering if I was crazy to have ever liked it as much as I once had or if over consumption had simply taken its inevitable toll.
And then the box came.
Actually it was a letter, and it was in our mailbox for more than a month before I received it (I do not have a key to our post). But that letter was my ticket to better days and I toted it to the post office where I waited patiently in what seemed to be old school desks while they searched for what seemed to be a very long time for my box.
I affixed it to my bicycle and rode home very quickly.
Actually, I was quite nervous. My gradual disengagement with tea was not due to any lack of effort on my part. My searches for better tea stretched from Taipei to Tainan; searches for better water sources led me to mountains, through canyons, and to different purifying stations around the city. Different tea utensils and preparation methods were tried, and failed to deliver. As I opened my package I was preparing myself for the worst. How could it be that this tea from Seattle really made all the difference?
I sat down and heated the water. I rinsed everything and put the leaves in the tea pot. Finally, I filled the pot with water and put the lid on.
Interesting, I thought. The replacement of the tea pot lid did not cause the water in the pot to overflow, as almost always happened since my arrival. Due to lack of practice as well as my bad nerves, my first steeping was on the lighter side of perfect. My first reaction was muted and I was thankful I had numbed my expectations beforehand. But of course, poured more water in.
And, of course, it really was all about the tea. It was like being released from prison, or waking up from a bad dream in which the world had gone to nuclear war. It was as if my gradual appreciation of good tea, built over time and tastings, were being crammed into a period of eight or nine seconds, from the first scent to the aftertaste.
I steeped it a third time, with an irrepressible smile.
...
(In fact, after more thorough scrutiny, I am convinced that were I to collect data the (lack of) water overflow phenomenon would be statistically significant.)
I could write at length of my tea travails, but suffice it to say any expectations I may have had that good tea would be difficult to come by have been far exceeded. Over time I found myself drinking less tea, not enjoying the tea I was drinking nearly as much, and wondering if I was crazy to have ever liked it as much as I once had or if over consumption had simply taken its inevitable toll.
And then the box came.
Actually it was a letter, and it was in our mailbox for more than a month before I received it (I do not have a key to our post). But that letter was my ticket to better days and I toted it to the post office where I waited patiently in what seemed to be old school desks while they searched for what seemed to be a very long time for my box.
I affixed it to my bicycle and rode home very quickly.
Actually, I was quite nervous. My gradual disengagement with tea was not due to any lack of effort on my part. My searches for better tea stretched from Taipei to Tainan; searches for better water sources led me to mountains, through canyons, and to different purifying stations around the city. Different tea utensils and preparation methods were tried, and failed to deliver. As I opened my package I was preparing myself for the worst. How could it be that this tea from Seattle really made all the difference?
I sat down and heated the water. I rinsed everything and put the leaves in the tea pot. Finally, I filled the pot with water and put the lid on.
Interesting, I thought. The replacement of the tea pot lid did not cause the water in the pot to overflow, as almost always happened since my arrival. Due to lack of practice as well as my bad nerves, my first steeping was on the lighter side of perfect. My first reaction was muted and I was thankful I had numbed my expectations beforehand. But of course, poured more water in.
And, of course, it really was all about the tea. It was like being released from prison, or waking up from a bad dream in which the world had gone to nuclear war. It was as if my gradual appreciation of good tea, built over time and tastings, were being crammed into a period of eight or nine seconds, from the first scent to the aftertaste.
I steeped it a third time, with an irrepressible smile.
...
(In fact, after more thorough scrutiny, I am convinced that were I to collect data the (lack of) water overflow phenomenon would be statistically significant.)
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
May was never cool to begin with
Blogees, I am heretofore committing myself to brevity and conciseness in the hope that posting will not induce such a feeling of guilt as a result of detracting from the time I have to write silly pictures on paper over and over again in the hope that they may suddenly, spontaneously, and in an orderly fashion, find a resting place in the memory banks of my brain. Yes, brevity and conciseness.
Today brought a, as far as I know, specifically Taiwanese phenomenon to a new level of phenomenal. A quick introduction is in order.
Pot is illegal. This is true in most places, so not a big deal. But it is really illegal here. And under martial law illegal things are more illegal than they are in say, Seattle. Taiwan is now under constitutional law, but this legacy of strict prohibition seems to live on - more or less.
Despite its prohibition, the old Mary Jane seems to have captured the imagination of old and young alike. The emblematic leaf is found on shopping bags, bumper stickers, store signs, and the like. It is often on clothing.
Here is one photo:
Now, I must not assume everybody is ignorant of what this silhouette is. The product is, in fact, attainable if you look hard enough. But when the occasional old person becomes a walking advertisement, one starts to wonder.
My general conclusion has been that it is seen as a cool American/Western thing, is widely associated with Bob Marley, and does not necessarily indicate a political or social stance. This is not dissimilar to the clothing worn by some middle aged fathers and other young teenage girls, covered in large block letters to the tune of "FUCK". I think the benefit of the doubt is in order here.
However, the marijuana phenomenon, while having laid low for several months, resurfaced today at the school where I teach. I walked in through the sliding glass door to be greeted by an over-sized t-shirt with an over-sized pot leaf printed on the front, accompanied by an "I love marijuana; it's good for me," something or other.
This is an interesting intersection of culture. This particular lady spent a combined nine years in both Canada and the States. I know she knows what pot is. And, yet, she seemed to take advantage of the fact that people here do not know what pot is/pretend to not know what pot is/do not care what pot is/do not really know what is going on... by wearing a giant pot leaf to class. But, it was just that, no one noticed - or they did not care. At all. I mean, I don't know. Would a big beer bottle be appropriate? I think heroine needles are too far, right? Are white lines of cocaine on a black background permissible? I am finding myself having to recalibrate norms.
And at first, for about a minute, I tried to ignore it, in the same way I would almost not notice it if somebody was wearing that shirt in downtown Seattle. But the fact that we were in a kids' English school made this difficult, and the combination of drugs, children, illegality, ignorance, and knowledge would not let me be, and so now this "phenomenon" is back on my mind again, and I really do not get it. So, whammo, blog post. Any ideas?
Today brought a, as far as I know, specifically Taiwanese phenomenon to a new level of phenomenal. A quick introduction is in order.
Pot is illegal. This is true in most places, so not a big deal. But it is really illegal here. And under martial law illegal things are more illegal than they are in say, Seattle. Taiwan is now under constitutional law, but this legacy of strict prohibition seems to live on - more or less.
Despite its prohibition, the old Mary Jane seems to have captured the imagination of old and young alike. The emblematic leaf is found on shopping bags, bumper stickers, store signs, and the like. It is often on clothing.
Here is one photo:
Now, I must not assume everybody is ignorant of what this silhouette is. The product is, in fact, attainable if you look hard enough. But when the occasional old person becomes a walking advertisement, one starts to wonder.
My general conclusion has been that it is seen as a cool American/Western thing, is widely associated with Bob Marley, and does not necessarily indicate a political or social stance. This is not dissimilar to the clothing worn by some middle aged fathers and other young teenage girls, covered in large block letters to the tune of "FUCK". I think the benefit of the doubt is in order here.
However, the marijuana phenomenon, while having laid low for several months, resurfaced today at the school where I teach. I walked in through the sliding glass door to be greeted by an over-sized t-shirt with an over-sized pot leaf printed on the front, accompanied by an "I love marijuana; it's good for me," something or other.
This is an interesting intersection of culture. This particular lady spent a combined nine years in both Canada and the States. I know she knows what pot is. And, yet, she seemed to take advantage of the fact that people here do not know what pot is/pretend to not know what pot is/do not care what pot is/do not really know what is going on... by wearing a giant pot leaf to class. But, it was just that, no one noticed - or they did not care. At all. I mean, I don't know. Would a big beer bottle be appropriate? I think heroine needles are too far, right? Are white lines of cocaine on a black background permissible? I am finding myself having to recalibrate norms.
And at first, for about a minute, I tried to ignore it, in the same way I would almost not notice it if somebody was wearing that shirt in downtown Seattle. But the fact that we were in a kids' English school made this difficult, and the combination of drugs, children, illegality, ignorance, and knowledge would not let me be, and so now this "phenomenon" is back on my mind again, and I really do not get it. So, whammo, blog post. Any ideas?
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Silliest simplification ever:
麵 --〉面
The character for noodles is the same as the character for face.
No offense to Matt for knowing simplified, though.
The character for noodles is the same as the character for face.
No offense to Matt for knowing simplified, though.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Taiwan, Part 6
My eardrums still have not completely adjusted to the sudden bursts of firecrackers and fireworks throughout the day. My body sometimes jerks and my mind sometimes, depending on the proximity of the GUNpowder, thinks gun.
I learned today that the increase in frequency of these explosions is tied to the birthdays of the gods. Pithily, birthdays equate to explosions.
It must have been a birthday then, of an important god, in Shan Hua, because I could not hear anything. I could not hear anything on the way to the birthday celebration, because it was quiet. I could not hear anything at the birthday celebration because it was loud. I cannot remember when, where, or how the transition took place - the transition from "on the way" to the party to "at" the party. It seems like it was just a simple turn of a corner, or less. Perhaps the transition just coincided with the widening of the alley into a kind of temple-square. Or maybe I do not remember because it was just too abrupt.
Floods of people. Symbol being banged next to my head. Fireworks. Fireworks. Drum being beat from all sides. People cheering. Costumed performers with ridiculous makeup and clothing performing in the window in the temple. Somebody pushing me, no. Somebody running into me. He's trying to break the chair. No, they are just jumping with the chair, pretending to try to break it. No, maybe they are just jumping. Symbol. Gong. Drum. People. Firework. Fireworks. Debris from fireworks. Large carriage moving very quickly being carried by large procession, seemingly coming from the middle of the crowd. Another. Another. Running into people, knocking people. Knocking themselves. They dropped it. Oh, they caught it. That is good. Fireworks. Gong. Drums. More carriages, more chairs, more firework debris. I need to get out of the way because if I do not I will be struck dead by the religious ceremony.
I brisked to the man with the soft serve machine. He looked half asleep. It was late, so I guess it was excusable, possible. His machine, situated just seven or eight feet from where I had been struck dumb by everything, seemed to be straddling the transition between the god-birthday-party-hell and the quiet, peaceful country that existed just outside that place. I bought a chocolate one and decided to make the trek back to the party again. Two or three steps and I had returned.
Gong. Fireworks. Carriage. Firework debris. Beam from carriage knocking people. Chair breaking-pulling-dancing men. Oh.
A man caught my eye, or rather mine his. He had already been staring at me, it seemed. Glaring, I think. Maybe it was misconstrued. It seemed like glaring, though. I thought it might have something to do with my ice cream cone from the outside. Maybe they were not allowed to be here, in the holy place. I took my cue - it was the most unfriendly glance I have received since I have been here - and made the trip back to the border safety zone, less than a second away.
And then I left.
In all, I probably spent two or three minutes there. It was one of the most bizarre, unnerving, unsettling experiences I could imagine. It seemed the world was ready to implode into the center of that crowd, from which everything seemed to be emanating. There was a pull and push tension in the physical actions of everything, as well as the atmosphere. And I was eating an ice cream cone trying to observe. And yet, a small number of strides brought me back to near complete serenity. So I stayed there.
I learned today that the increase in frequency of these explosions is tied to the birthdays of the gods. Pithily, birthdays equate to explosions.
It must have been a birthday then, of an important god, in Shan Hua, because I could not hear anything. I could not hear anything on the way to the birthday celebration, because it was quiet. I could not hear anything at the birthday celebration because it was loud. I cannot remember when, where, or how the transition took place - the transition from "on the way" to the party to "at" the party. It seems like it was just a simple turn of a corner, or less. Perhaps the transition just coincided with the widening of the alley into a kind of temple-square. Or maybe I do not remember because it was just too abrupt.
Floods of people. Symbol being banged next to my head. Fireworks. Fireworks. Drum being beat from all sides. People cheering. Costumed performers with ridiculous makeup and clothing performing in the window in the temple. Somebody pushing me, no. Somebody running into me. He's trying to break the chair. No, they are just jumping with the chair, pretending to try to break it. No, maybe they are just jumping. Symbol. Gong. Drum. People. Firework. Fireworks. Debris from fireworks. Large carriage moving very quickly being carried by large procession, seemingly coming from the middle of the crowd. Another. Another. Running into people, knocking people. Knocking themselves. They dropped it. Oh, they caught it. That is good. Fireworks. Gong. Drums. More carriages, more chairs, more firework debris. I need to get out of the way because if I do not I will be struck dead by the religious ceremony.
I brisked to the man with the soft serve machine. He looked half asleep. It was late, so I guess it was excusable, possible. His machine, situated just seven or eight feet from where I had been struck dumb by everything, seemed to be straddling the transition between the god-birthday-party-hell and the quiet, peaceful country that existed just outside that place. I bought a chocolate one and decided to make the trek back to the party again. Two or three steps and I had returned.
Gong. Fireworks. Carriage. Firework debris. Beam from carriage knocking people. Chair breaking-pulling-dancing men. Oh.
A man caught my eye, or rather mine his. He had already been staring at me, it seemed. Glaring, I think. Maybe it was misconstrued. It seemed like glaring, though. I thought it might have something to do with my ice cream cone from the outside. Maybe they were not allowed to be here, in the holy place. I took my cue - it was the most unfriendly glance I have received since I have been here - and made the trip back to the border safety zone, less than a second away.
And then I left.
In all, I probably spent two or three minutes there. It was one of the most bizarre, unnerving, unsettling experiences I could imagine. It seemed the world was ready to implode into the center of that crowd, from which everything seemed to be emanating. There was a pull and push tension in the physical actions of everything, as well as the atmosphere. And I was eating an ice cream cone trying to observe. And yet, a small number of strides brought me back to near complete serenity. So I stayed there.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A political aside
Maybe I am desensitized because I am not living in America - but I do not think so.
$220 million has been paid out in bonuses since AIG received bailout money totaling $170 billion. I hear people are upset, feeling it is unreasonable that executives that put a financial institution (slash national economy slash world economy) into a financial free fall should be getting bonuses for their hard work. I understand Obama and his administration do not have much choice but to address this situation in some way - but it is dumb that they do not have this choice.
It is dumb because $220 million/$170 billion = .0013 or 0.13%. So 0.13% of the bailout money is going into the pockets of people that probably made bad decisions by buying credit-default swaps (does anyone know what these are yet?) and sent AIG, a company so important and so large that it is deemed "too big to fail" by the U.S. government, into a nosedive.
But, big deal. What does that 0.13% buy the U.S.? Well, probably a few things, but the most important is a big label that says "We respect contract law (even in times of financial duress and/or crisis)."
It seems unlikely anyone will be able to get this money back: the stimulus bill stipulates bonus contracts written before February of this year need be honored. But the fact they are trying might (should) scare potential investors and intellect - especially those looking on from abroad (where half of the recipients of this bonus money are living) and who have a choice where to put their money and skills. Governments attempting to intervene and renegotiate, void or bypass private contracts made long ago sends strong signals, perhaps beneficial in terms of short term political clout, but what about long term financial-economic-political integrity?
Like I said, it seems the people over on the east coast have little choice but to respond to public outrage, and it seems the CEO of AIG has little choice but to pay a visit to congress to justify these bonuses while the question of how to effectively utilize the other 99.87% of the bailout money is subordinated. Yes, they have little choice; it is just the public that ought think for a minute.
$220 million has been paid out in bonuses since AIG received bailout money totaling $170 billion. I hear people are upset, feeling it is unreasonable that executives that put a financial institution (slash national economy slash world economy) into a financial free fall should be getting bonuses for their hard work. I understand Obama and his administration do not have much choice but to address this situation in some way - but it is dumb that they do not have this choice.
It is dumb because $220 million/$170 billion = .0013 or 0.13%. So 0.13% of the bailout money is going into the pockets of people that probably made bad decisions by buying credit-default swaps (does anyone know what these are yet?) and sent AIG, a company so important and so large that it is deemed "too big to fail" by the U.S. government, into a nosedive.
But, big deal. What does that 0.13% buy the U.S.? Well, probably a few things, but the most important is a big label that says "We respect contract law (even in times of financial duress and/or crisis)."
It seems unlikely anyone will be able to get this money back: the stimulus bill stipulates bonus contracts written before February of this year need be honored. But the fact they are trying might (should) scare potential investors and intellect - especially those looking on from abroad (where half of the recipients of this bonus money are living) and who have a choice where to put their money and skills. Governments attempting to intervene and renegotiate, void or bypass private contracts made long ago sends strong signals, perhaps beneficial in terms of short term political clout, but what about long term financial-economic-political integrity?
Like I said, it seems the people over on the east coast have little choice but to respond to public outrage, and it seems the CEO of AIG has little choice but to pay a visit to congress to justify these bonuses while the question of how to effectively utilize the other 99.87% of the bailout money is subordinated. Yes, they have little choice; it is just the public that ought think for a minute.
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