Warm and wet
We finally said goodbye at my hotel around 9 pm. Although not quite as extreme as in Japan, there was some attempt to apologize. They didn’t think they had crammed me full of enough activities, even though I was insisting that it was wonderful, and I was very grateful that they would take a whole day just to show me around and treat me like a VIP. As a blunt American, I was being totally honest.
But I was chilled to the bone. It’s hard for me to remember just how sensitive to cold I am compared to normal people. Even in the car, they had the air conditioner on and the heat dial turned to about three-quarters cold. It’s not just my slim physique (Asians are pretty slim too); it’s also partly medical (I’ve gotten colder in the past few years with some wonky muscle/nerve problems) and perhaps just partly my nature.
Anyway, I needed the hot tub and sauna, and was glad they didn’t close until 10 pm. I put on my suit and scooted downstairs. Usually I’m the only one there, but this time there was an Asian mother and daughter in the hot tub—in the traditional style, buck naked. At first I took my initial shower and slipped in wearing my suit, just because I already had it on. We exchanged “hello” glances with our eyes, and I started to feel more and more awkward in my bright blue suit compared to their glowing skin. It was like a thin but impenetrable barrier between us, a much larger barrier than the lack of a common language, culture, history, age, or lifestyle.
The girl, who was about 14, thankfully broke the silence. She wanted to speak English and had a sweet exuberance about her. Grinning, she said, “Do you think it’s impolite of my mother to do that?” [The mother had been doing pushups against the edge of the hot tub]. I said of course not. Then she asked why I was in Taiwan, and how long I would stay. She seemed to be bursting with questions.
I could stand it no longer, and told her I wanted to take my suit off because it seemed more authentic and polite. She said explicitly, and her mother said with hand gestures, that that was not necessary. But I did it anyway. I felt a lot better when I had balled it up and deposited it on the edge of the tub. Woo-wee! I felt free.
The girl’s mother said something to her, and she said, “My mother says I should tell you my name first. My name is Jill.” So I said my name was Kim. Jill beamed, then looked frustrated and said, “I want to talk to you, but I just don’t know what to say!” So I asked if she was a student [yes, in high school], and where she was from. It turns out her family is from Hua Lien, the place on the east coast that I was unable to visit that day! And her grandfather makes and sells moaji, the Taiwanese version of mochi that we had eaten earlier that day in Neiwan! So in a way, I didn’t have to go to Hua Lien—a small piece of it came to me.
I showed Jill my tattoo that says “courage” in both Chinese and Japanese. We talked about how I know a little Japanese, and about how tattoos are not seen as weird and threatening in Taiwan the way they sometimes are in Japan (being associated with the mafia).
Jill’s mother cautioned her again, and she said, “My mother says not to ask you any personal questions. It’s not polite to ask people personal questions.” I said she was being very polite, and besides, Americans are more direct anyway. She laughed at that.
Her mom got out, took her final shower, and headed into the dressing room. Jill commented that my body looks so healthy. You must understand that my body is, by Western standards, amazingly thin, and I don’t do any dieting or insane exercise to keep it that way. In the West, I mostly get disapproval for its boniness, or outright hostility that I could be this way when others work hard to be thinner than they naturally are. In Asia, my body is loved. Westerners are generally seen as too fat and too tall—just too much. Although this disapproval from Asians probably only feeds all the body-hating thoughts that too many Americans have, I have to say that I enjoy the compliments I get here.
I took a shower next, saying goodbye to Jill, and went into the dressing room (carrying my sopping suit). Her mom was toweling off, mostly dressed. I went about the business of dressing, and happened to finish first so that I found myself saying goodbye to her. It seemed quite different all of a sudden. She was reluctant to meet my eyes, and had the usual Asian veil about her person. I have heard that the bath is the place where Asians truly meet—there are literally no barriers. And apparently even a Westerner can be allowed into that space.
But outside the hot tub, all the walls were back up. It wasn’t that we had met each other and were now close, or at least closer. All that mattered was whether we were in or out of the bath (out of or in our clothes?). Now we were out—and I was out. I was once again a foreigner. Jill’s mother grunted a goodbye, and I wondered if I was supposed to merely slip out of the dressing room silently, not acknowledging that we had been talking and smiling inside.
Anyway, I was warm, both from the bath and from Jill’s sweet friendliness. You wouldn’t meet a 14-year-old like that in America, or at least not many of them. I drifted off to sleep in a pleasant state.
Then I was awakened at 3 am by an earthquake! It was a reasonably big one, with several jolts that made me wonder if I should get under the table. I wondered also if I was simply screwed, being on the 12th floor of a large hotel. (That probably made the quake feel bigger, too, so maybe it wasn’t really so bad). Good thing I’m from earthquake country anyway, so it didn’t seem especially troubling.
But I was chilled to the bone. It’s hard for me to remember just how sensitive to cold I am compared to normal people. Even in the car, they had the air conditioner on and the heat dial turned to about three-quarters cold. It’s not just my slim physique (Asians are pretty slim too); it’s also partly medical (I’ve gotten colder in the past few years with some wonky muscle/nerve problems) and perhaps just partly my nature.
Anyway, I needed the hot tub and sauna, and was glad they didn’t close until 10 pm. I put on my suit and scooted downstairs. Usually I’m the only one there, but this time there was an Asian mother and daughter in the hot tub—in the traditional style, buck naked. At first I took my initial shower and slipped in wearing my suit, just because I already had it on. We exchanged “hello” glances with our eyes, and I started to feel more and more awkward in my bright blue suit compared to their glowing skin. It was like a thin but impenetrable barrier between us, a much larger barrier than the lack of a common language, culture, history, age, or lifestyle.
The girl, who was about 14, thankfully broke the silence. She wanted to speak English and had a sweet exuberance about her. Grinning, she said, “Do you think it’s impolite of my mother to do that?” [The mother had been doing pushups against the edge of the hot tub]. I said of course not. Then she asked why I was in Taiwan, and how long I would stay. She seemed to be bursting with questions.
I could stand it no longer, and told her I wanted to take my suit off because it seemed more authentic and polite. She said explicitly, and her mother said with hand gestures, that that was not necessary. But I did it anyway. I felt a lot better when I had balled it up and deposited it on the edge of the tub. Woo-wee! I felt free.
The girl’s mother said something to her, and she said, “My mother says I should tell you my name first. My name is Jill.” So I said my name was Kim. Jill beamed, then looked frustrated and said, “I want to talk to you, but I just don’t know what to say!” So I asked if she was a student [yes, in high school], and where she was from. It turns out her family is from Hua Lien, the place on the east coast that I was unable to visit that day! And her grandfather makes and sells moaji, the Taiwanese version of mochi that we had eaten earlier that day in Neiwan! So in a way, I didn’t have to go to Hua Lien—a small piece of it came to me.
I showed Jill my tattoo that says “courage” in both Chinese and Japanese. We talked about how I know a little Japanese, and about how tattoos are not seen as weird and threatening in Taiwan the way they sometimes are in Japan (being associated with the mafia).
Jill’s mother cautioned her again, and she said, “My mother says not to ask you any personal questions. It’s not polite to ask people personal questions.” I said she was being very polite, and besides, Americans are more direct anyway. She laughed at that.
Her mom got out, took her final shower, and headed into the dressing room. Jill commented that my body looks so healthy. You must understand that my body is, by Western standards, amazingly thin, and I don’t do any dieting or insane exercise to keep it that way. In the West, I mostly get disapproval for its boniness, or outright hostility that I could be this way when others work hard to be thinner than they naturally are. In Asia, my body is loved. Westerners are generally seen as too fat and too tall—just too much. Although this disapproval from Asians probably only feeds all the body-hating thoughts that too many Americans have, I have to say that I enjoy the compliments I get here.
I took a shower next, saying goodbye to Jill, and went into the dressing room (carrying my sopping suit). Her mom was toweling off, mostly dressed. I went about the business of dressing, and happened to finish first so that I found myself saying goodbye to her. It seemed quite different all of a sudden. She was reluctant to meet my eyes, and had the usual Asian veil about her person. I have heard that the bath is the place where Asians truly meet—there are literally no barriers. And apparently even a Westerner can be allowed into that space.
But outside the hot tub, all the walls were back up. It wasn’t that we had met each other and were now close, or at least closer. All that mattered was whether we were in or out of the bath (out of or in our clothes?). Now we were out—and I was out. I was once again a foreigner. Jill’s mother grunted a goodbye, and I wondered if I was supposed to merely slip out of the dressing room silently, not acknowledging that we had been talking and smiling inside.
Anyway, I was warm, both from the bath and from Jill’s sweet friendliness. You wouldn’t meet a 14-year-old like that in America, or at least not many of them. I drifted off to sleep in a pleasant state.
Then I was awakened at 3 am by an earthquake! It was a reasonably big one, with several jolts that made me wonder if I should get under the table. I wondered also if I was simply screwed, being on the 12th floor of a large hotel. (That probably made the quake feel bigger, too, so maybe it wasn’t really so bad). Good thing I’m from earthquake country anyway, so it didn’t seem especially troubling.
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