欢迎 (welcome) home
Yesterday was the easiest move I’ll ever make. An hour packing suitcases, a five-minute cab ride, jamming stuff into the elevator and boom! We were in our new Hsinchu apartment. The place, a one-bedroom in a former hotel, is 26 ping, a Taiwanese unit of area measurement roughly equivalent to the size of a tatami sleeping mat. (Or 35.6 square feet). This means that our apartment in Taiwan is bigger than our apartment in Long Beach, and 1/3 of the cost. (But more humid, with fewer hipster barbershops and Prop. 8 protesters).
Our building is a rosy-gray 10 stories across from a temple, a running track and a lively weekend market, and features a fancy restaurant in the basement. Wood floors, king size bed, washing machine and, most importantly, air conditioning. So far, so good.
We closed the deal on this sweet pad in a charades-heavy exchange with our landlady, Aika. The negotiation and lease-signing involved Aaron pantomiming an on-duty security guard and dipping his thumb in red paste to seal his signature because we don’t yet have official Chinese character stamps, called chops.
The most thrilling discovery yet: we’re just a 10-minute walk from RT-Mart, the Target of Taiwan, where products are labeled in English and bargains abound. We’ve been eating nothing but local delicacies (rice noodles, fried pork, even the infamous stinky tofu)—but during the latest visit to RT-Mart, I slunk into what was clearly the “Western food” aisle. My prize? Overpriced Corn flakes and chunky peanut butter. Success.
The one thing that RT-Mart doesn’t have—king sized sheets. This forced us to use the sheets of the former tenant, Mark, which we washed, optimistically. Other treats left by our predecessor include: pillowcases printed with Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, a garbage bag full of empty beer cans, flashcards with the Chinese characters for “ancestor,” a pair of white cotton panties in the washer and an unopened condom. Just, you know, your typical 60-something English teacher.
