The first (and last) time I visited Taipei was over 13 years ago at the age of 10, and I only remember a typhoon, an exhortation to partake in karaoke, and an untimely death promised in scooter form to any inattentive pedestrian. My understanding since then of the country my parents grew up in has been defined almost exclusively by Taiwanese bakeries and restaurants in the San Gabriel Valley.
The city has since seen more than a decade of change, and the immaculate subway system that describes Taipei now has probably been a godsend to the city. At the very least it’s given me, in my first seven days here, firmer footing in a new place.
And it’s a place by turns foreign and familiar. Before this past week Taiwan and its people lived in my mind in a foggy past, among textbook accounts of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek and my parents’ faded photos. Taiwan was an extrapolation of dinnertime with the family: the unending parade of Chinese dishes and the obligatory fight over who has the honor of paying the bill. Then I came to Taipei and where did my aunt and uncle take me, but a restaurant serving “California” cuisine. Most people here split their bills and pay separately.
“A pot of tea?” a waitress at another restaurant asked, puzzled at our request. They don’t do that. We ended up ordering a cup of black tea each.
There’s more left to learn, chief among them, in a city famous for its night markets, how to read a menu.
I think last time I was there, which was a long time ago, they were just starting to build the subway there. So jealous.