When it’s good, there’s a unique freedom to travelling alone. Unweighted by schedules or expectations, you flit in and out of circles like a moth chasing lights. Spinning a new vignette with each companion and weaving a tapestry of memories that blend together. When it goes bad, there’s a profound loneliness that casts gray over the shiny weirdness of an unfamiliar place. Eight months working in Japan and it was turning out to be the latter. I was accepted by co-workers and the locals, but living out in the rural mountains of the south east I was cut off from any familiar institutions and the lone westerner in town at all. I felt like an outsider, and really I was. Being the type more likely to blend in than step out, I had yet to wander into the waiting arms of a stranger looking for a weird friend. Golden Week arrived and the whole country had the week off. I thought I’d have better luck in a big city so I hopped on the first train to Fukuoka, a small city (by Japan standards) roughly the size of Chicago.
“Hey, white guy!” A voice called out from across the sunny park in Fukuoka. I turned in that direction, knowing they were talking to me. “Come here!”. I walked to the picnic setup a small group of ex-pats had laid out in the sunny park and was warmly greeted with beers and cheers. We exchanged the standard Japanese foreigner greetings, kicked back in the sun, and “encouraged” other wandering westerners to join our fast growing crew of invaders.
Sunset came and one by one our group peeled away, probably to do something more interesting. Left with a handful of strong-willed stragglers, I use my “naisu Japanesu” to lead us to an all you can drink bar. I spit in the face of science by inventing time travel and find myself confused in the early morning hours doing a fireman’s carry of a stranger (maybe Paul?) on my back headed towards their hostel. I dropped probably Paul into his probably bed, bought some nightcaps from the 24 hour convenience store (God bless Japan) and drank paint thinner while watching skate videos with definitely Tom until the sun rose. This trip is getting better.
I wake up in the morning and caught my eyes filing for divorce from my skull. I saw Tom having a mild panic attack as he struggled with the task of a 50km bike ride to his next stop. Content that someone was having a worse morning than me, I sat up to make fun of him as the rest of my body signed my eye’s divorce papers forcing me to lay back down. “Well what are you going to do then?” Tom asked, feeling better that I was miserable. I collected my thoughts and gave the hardest “Ugh” that I could. “You should go to Taiwan, it’s close, it’s cheap, and they have amazing chicken wings there”. I fumbled with my phone to check the train schedule to Taiwan and was shocked to learn it was a different country. “Maybe I will” I wanted to say, as I groaned instead. I yawned and stretched and time traveled again to early afternoon.
Emboldened by my recent success, and terrified of another 3 days of boredom in Fukuoka, I went for it. 8 hours later my head and body decided to stay together for kids as I stepped off the bus and into Taipei. Taipe is alive. If New York is a hum and Tokyo is a melody, Taipei is a 6 piece fantasy metal band. I pop into the nearest convenience store for a quick dinner and am floored. Used to the buttoned down uniform neatness of Japan, I’m in adopted culture shock at the array of undercuts, tattoos, and vibrant colors of the Taipei locals. I grab my best guess of local food from the cold case and bring it to the counter as the cashier rings me up. He says something and I fork over an amount of cash that I guess is correct. He says something back in a language. Taiwanese? Mandarin? Is Taiwan part of China? I wonder. I must have been thinking a while as the cashier claps his hands in front of my face. “Oy!” he says as he makes a “bag” gesture with his hands. I shrug, say thank you in Japanese out of habit, and hurried out of the store as confused as him.
Maybe I should’ve done a little research before coming here. The thought crosses my mind as I fumble with the hostel directions I screen shotted on my phone. Too cheap to pay for an international plan, again. At least like, learnt what country I’m in and what language they speak. The thought seems like an apology to someone. Maybe to myself, but more likely to Taiwan for not showing respect. Off to a bad start. I settle down as I pick my way down the market streets to the familiarity of a hostel.
“Ah shit”. The words fall out as I’m shown to my dorm. 10 beds, all of them empty. Whatever friends I hoped to make, I wasn’t going to find them here. “Is it always slow this time of year?” I ask, whinily. “Yeah, it’s the start of the rainy season.” the young, comically tall hostel attendant says. I really should’ve done a little research, I thought as I put away the shorts and t-shirts I packed in tropical southern Japan. I came back to the “communal” dinner table and ate pork and rice alone at a table meant for dozens. I’ll find friends tomorrow.
I didn’t. Taipei, however, is dope. An ultra-dense metropolis tucked into a mountainous tropical backdrop. It’s a neon and verdant green feast of natural and synthetic sights that’s easy to get around. Massive sprawling monuments and museums are paired with shrines and shops tucked into every nook and cranny. It’s also a literal feast. Night markets cover every corner of the city from sunset to sunrise offering up everything from the highest class Michelin star dishes to literally tofu soaked in blood.
All this wonder is lost on me after spending two days here. Completely alone aside from an hour sharing the dopest mangoes with the hostel attendant and watching Animal Planet, I haven’t said a word in 48 hours. There’s something about human contact and sharing with anybody, even a stranger, that helps process stimuli and make it impactful. Someone smarter than me has published that. I’m homesick for Japan, and intensely homesick for the US. Making the best of it, I try to revel in the opportunity I have. I spent a contemplative afternoon sipping tea at a teahouse on the mountaintops overlooking the city. On a long bus ride, I play American and stealthily eavesdrop on a pair of Japanese women gossiping about whose husbands are cheating. I dive into confucian temples and the rich history of Taiwan. It works, almost, aside from the long nights aimlessly strolling the streets, longing for connection amplified by everyone else seemingly enjoying the company of others.
I’m torn when my final night comes. It’s Friday. Even on vacation, there’s an urge to do something special on a Friday. Dragged out by FOMO, I head to the based choice — an improv show. As all good improv starts, the theater came as a suggestion from a friend that did a guest spot recently. An American friend, that’s important to remember. Two trains and a short walk later, I’m sat in a black box theater just as likely to be back in Boston. Comforted by the familiarity I kick back, sip my unpronounceable beer and — shit! I scan the crowd. Not a single foreigner in sight. I hope this isn’t… The house team steps out to applause and yup, tonight is Mandarin night.
The show is, good? The audience loves it. Stripped of language, I focus on facial expressions and object work. An awkward laundromat scene. Two people playing as a talking car. A couple fighting over dinner. I’m enjoying myself! The team has a rhythm and intensity that matches any veteran group I’ve seen back home.
The performance ends and the team walks around saying hi to friends and family. Even in Taipei performers beg their loved ones to show up. Being the grain of white rice in the wheat noodle crowd, one of the cast members pops over to my seat and asks me something. “Wǒ bù huì shuō zhōngwén” , I don’t speak Chinese (I’ve been learning!). “Then why are you here?” It was asked like an interrogation. Comfortable enough in Asia to know that tone of voice doesn’t mean anything from a non-native speaker, I let this pass and we chat about the improv scene in Boston for a while. They leave, but not before I get a recommendation for a music club close by. I’m making moves!
I step out of the club and head towards the sacred night market. From far away, it looks like chaos. Bodies packed into every square inch (millimeter! Such international) of space, swaying with the crowd and sweating from the hot and humid late April night. Up close, it’s… still chaos. The sizzle and smells of the food stalls mixed with the shouting of the touts and laughter and mixed conversations of revelers, it’s worth the night out just to sink into the crowd and absorb its energy. I’ve got business though.
I let myself get carried away with the current of the human river until it deposits me into a quiet, set back corner. An eddy in the river of foot traffic. Like a needy baby, I point at something on the menu, stick out a finger to motion for one dish and wait to see what comes out. I am not disappointed. The owner brings out a plate of razor shell clams with a heaping side of rice and stir fried vegetables. The clams are drenched with a garlicky sauce that doesn’t overpower the meat. I demolish the plate and barely hold myself back from licking it when I’m done. This night kicks ass.
I make it to the music club and I’m not sure I’m in the right place. All I see is a sparsely populated bar with nothing special about it. Shit, well if it doesn’t work out it doesn’t work out. I’m about to leave when I hear the familiar bump of a bass drum. An act warming up upstairs! The sound and rhythm of musicians fumbling around pre-show takes me out of body and I’m back to every house show, vfw hall, and dive bar I grew up in. I head to the bouncer, hand over an unknown amount of money and I’m in.
The bands are good! The crowd dances, sings along, and cheers. I melt away and I’m back at the Paradise Club in Boston. My friends are mingling around in the crowd and we’ll meet up after the show. I feel at home for the first time since I left a year ago. I tear up, but hold it together. The set ends and I’m transported back to Taipei. I need to smoke. I grab an ashtray from the bar, god you can smoke EVERYWHERE in Asia, then spot a familiar face. Well not real familiar, but like, white familiar. Searching for an opening line, I reach for a trick I just learned. “Hey, white guy!”.
Tyler’s pretty cool. Studying Mandarin on an exchange program at university. He also has a group of friends downstairs. I get introductions, then find a couple of Swedes that love hockey and talk for what seems like hours. After a stretch of time in a country who couldn’t tell high sticking from a hat trick, the excitement is mutual. I meet a middle aged Taiwanese dude in a military jacket that gives me the local scoop on the CCCP. This guy has capital O opinions. He’s wild, he’s unhinged, he’s my favorite person at this bar. The group goes to leave and I let myself get swept away to whatever comes next.
I step out of the after hours club. I squint at the sun that so rudely snuck up on me while I wasn’t looking. Lin is by my side. A young local kitted out in a Boston Celtics jersey that lived two streets over from me in Cambridge. Weird! Lin flags down a cab and gives the driver what I hope is the address of my hostel. I say my goodbyes and we don’t exchange numbers. We know this is it.
I take a deep breath in the backseat and relax. I did it. I stepped out, and it paid off. I settle into the routines and actions that work best for me most of the time. And when that doesn’t work, there’s no plan B. Except this time, there was. Breaking away from the fear of rejection or embarrassment and being met with kindness and warmth felt good. It felt freeing. It felt satisfying. Energized by the new confidence, I felt ready to take on my next 6 months in Japan.
The cab pulled up to my hostel. Lin did give them my real address! I walk up the stairs to my dorm bed, and the room is still empty. Quiet isolation and a taste of what could’ve been standing in contrast to the excitement out there. I’m changing into gym shorts ready for some serious shuteye when my phone alarm goes off. It’s 8am, time for my flight. Fuck, I’m gonna need a beer for the road.