The Dog Poop Sidewalk finally articulated

I was lounging around with Noel and her YWAM friends this Sunday and related all too well with Carl from Norway, who, while his friends all had their MacBooks open on their own laps, exclaimed "Agh, I need to finish my blog, I'm really struggling here!" There's a silly sense of urgency to communicate with those of you at home who might still think that being overseas doesn't change your life or that this place is really that exotic. ...As if Taiwanese people didn't do normal human things like eat, fall in love, or sit in bookstores reading finance magazines they won't end up buying like the rest of the developed world. Not that this culture doesn't fascinate me, because it does. But it is beginning to tire me to automatically file every cultural nuance in the "blog inspiration" folder, believing momentarily that I will actually enjoy philosophically analyzing the nuance, or that you will actually enjoy reading such bullcrap. I want start writing other things and direct my creativity elsewhere, so at least this journal has played a role in inspiring me to do so. So, whilst my poetry awaits publishing and if you're still on the edge of your swivel chair with your back hurting, dying to know about what's going on in my life, well...I walk a lot.

Taipei is safe. It's been nine weeks, and I have yet to see a scary crackhead talking to themselves as they limp past me. I have yet to hear about violence in schools, or to be advised to "Tell the administration immediately if your art students draw anything strange." And I have yet to read about a murder in a newspaper, because I can't read Chinese. Am I in la-la-land and naive? You bet your rear. But really, what I love most about this society is that I feel safe when I walk around by myself. Suddenly I want to watch Bowling for Columbine again and argue with someone about it.

At 7:20am every weekday morning, I'm out the door to go to work. I walk by a teeny, family-owned white bread factory, stuck right in between two tall apartment buildings. The sweet pastry scent is the best one I smell all day long, reminiscent of France. A couple blocks further down, I begin to walk faster because I'm running two minutes late, as-per-uge. Then I pass the local public middle school whose bell is about to ring. After impatiently shuffling in and around the line of about 50 awkwards crossing perpendicular to my path, I continue my trek through what I call "The Dog Poop Sidewalk," where every local mutt drops a load at least once a week. And I mean a huge loads, steaming loads which counteract the steaming white bread, so pleasant in my nostrils just moments before. Despite their pranks, I like the street dogs, because they keep to themselves, they aren't that ugly, and they so innocently stare at me because they've never talked to a foreigner before.

Sometimes I talk to God out loud while I walk. Who cares? What, with blue tooth's nowadays, who knows why I'm talking to myself? I could be a scary crackhead or a young business professional, or just a Christian who enjoys talking to her God who hears. My best days are the ones where instead of mentally preparing a last minute lesson plan in my head, or wallowing in the woes of long distance love, or instead of huffing irritably at the poor middle schoolers or dogs who don't know any better....I just walk with God. Literally. And those days that I deliberately hang out with Him before I do anything else turn out to be the most peaceful days, with behaving students and with more laughter.

Convicted for the who knows how many-ith time that I need to work on my punctuality, I reach the intersection caddy corner to the Academy with mere minutes to spare before the morning faculty meeting. Now, scooter exhaust in my fresh Almay morning face and my own game of frogger. I get honked-at on a regular basis. In my homesick/slash/movie scene mind, the cab driver yells, "Heya, watch it, yeh dumb broad! Get oudda da road!" in a Bronx accent with a fat cigar hanging out of his mouth. In lieu of the drama, just a polite toot, "mit-mit!" Now, if I could read a blog about a west-coaster's new life in Manhattan, I'd choose to read that one over mine in a second. Because I think in New York, people only eat from food carts (the ones you see on the Food Network) because they're so busy, and that there are too many people--too many potential mates to even meet someone to fall in love with in New York, and that businessmen are rich and busy enough to actually buy the finance magazines they flip through at Borders. When I go to NYC one day, I'll write about the scary crackheads and about the smells I smell there, too, only this time in the form of Dylan-inspired private poems and not blah-blah-blogging.