Here We Go Again

Where to begin... Well I've had a lot of questions as to why on earth anyone would name a blog "Neon Beethoven." I will explain. There is more neon in fifty feet of any given Taiwan city block than in the whole of Las Vegas. It leads one to believe that if there are in fact intelligent lifeforms in the galaxy besides ourselves, they're going to take one look at the planet and think to themselves "Jesus God almighty look at that little spot over there in the water, it's lit up like a Christmas tree! It's got to be the center of everything!" But, of course, they'd be wrong because we all know America is the center of everything.
The Beethoven portion comes from the fact that all the garbage trucks in the country play "Fleur De Lise" at all hours of the day and night. So much so that I've begun to sing it in my sleep. I also sing it in the shower, and sometimes while brushing my teeth. It was charming for about 24 hours and by now it's begun to aggrevate my nerves like rusty cheese grater. Unpleasant is the word I'm looking for.

Anyway, onto the show. I've recently set my self up with a place, and it's a happening pad to say the least. I've got a large bedroom and living room area accompanied by a small kitchen and room for a desk. It's pretty unremarkable in the fashion department, but I've got a few posters up for personal decoration and it's coming along nicely. I've got a television with 80+ channels, 5 of which are in English which means, by process of elimination, I've got about 3 chances at any given hour to find something worth watching. It's safe to say I won't be watching a whole lot of television.

Last week was training. That sounds awful I'm sure but it really wasn't, first and foremost I learned that UK-English and US-English are two very different species of beast. The sheer amount of different accents that come from a single island in the Atlantic is vast and varied. I had no idea that someone from Manchester and someone from Liverpool could sound so distinctly different. Nor that Australians pronounce things like South Africans, but no one pronounces things like New Zealanders. It was all very confusing but fascinating at the same time. By the end of the week I learned so many new turns of phrase and alternate pronunciations that I nearly lost my American identity altogether. As time progressed I even began to sound English in my internal dialogue, and anytime I wrote down a word or phrase I instinctively pronounced it with a UK accent. We did treat them to a little American pride on Thanksgiving though, but only one of them wanted to spend the money to get a full turkey dinner. We headed out to a place called "Grandma Nitti's" and had one of the most satisfying Thanksgiving feasts I've had in a long time. It began by all of us sitting down, and then realising that you could bring your own beer to the restaurant, this caused a mad dash to the 7-11 where a large volume of Taiwan Beer was purchased, and with visible giddyness, we scrambled back to the restaurant like school boys who just stole the teacher's car keys. This was actually the begining of much more drinking in public, which we found out was completely legal. At one point in the evening we lost part of our group when they went to go buy more beer. All of the missing party was from the UK and we had only a single englishman with us, so we asked him where they might have gone. "Well, if I were English, and I wanted to drink, I'd probably go to the nearest park to a 7-11 and find a comfortable bench." 5 minutes later we'd found them. I have established a new found respect for the English ability to find a suitable drinking bench no matter what country or corner of the world. Somewhere between drinking in parks and attending training we also managed to visit the Taipei 101, or the world's tallest building as it is also known.

The Taipei 101 is the most obvious sign that human beings are capable of great things. It is at the same time breathtaking and awe inspiring. When standing in it's presence, you want to begin doing something amazing with your life: take up an art, write an outstanding book, find a lover and make a home for yourselves, all these things and more seem suddenly possible and less distant a reality than ever before. I'ts sheer size and magnitude is a giant "Fuck You" to gravity and all other laws of physics. It stands over the city like an omnipotent master of the city skyline and dominates its surroundings with the practiced ease of a general before his troops. It's really really big and impressive is what I'm trying to say. The elevator to the top takes roughly 30 seconds, I'm not joking. It's the world's fastest elevator inside the world's tallest building, way to go Taiwan. In the time it takes the average person to find something to eat in a fully-stocked refrigerator, you could be up and down the Taipei 101 3 times. My ears popped five times on the way down alone. Very impressive building.

This past weekend some of the teachers from my school invited me to go on a trip to the East coast with them. One girl, Kay, had her parents in town from England and they were dying to see the more tropical region of the country, as were the rest of us. All in all, ten of us set out Saturday morning at 7am to board a high speed rail to Hualien, a small beach community in the beautiful mountainous region of eastern Taiwan. We dragged our stiff legs to the hostel and set down our stuff. Rejuvenated by the sudden realization that we'd really made it, we headed off for some food and eventually the beach.

Hualien has, to the American eye, a completely unrealized potential for beauty and to be a travel destination rivaling any other in the south Pacific. But they like their sleepy town, and we did too. There was virtually nothing not to be pleased about when walking along the beachfront, and when we went to test the waters to see if it was still warm despite being the middle of winter, we were delighted to find that it was. We drew quite a crowd as we played on the beach, and not a single Taiwanese person could be found within 100 yards of the edge of the shore, despite the fact that the water was 75 degrees and beautiful. Eventually we became such an attraction that the police decided we were too cool for school and kicked us off the beach, for reasons we'll never know. We weren't even swimming, but what are you going to do. We headed off in search of the rest of our gang which weren't up for the water and headed off to our sanctuary for the next 4-5 hours. As you can guess, it was a bar.

This bar had everything going for it. Beach front locale, bottles hanging off the ceiling on strings with little lights inside them, an atmosphere of utter relaxation, and a look that screamed equal parts Swiss Family Robinson and Irish pub. Unfortunately the beer was flat and the service was slow, but really there was no complaining from us.

I'd love to treat you all to some photos of this, but what happened next can only be described as "first time traveler's blues." At some point in the evening we walked back to the hostel and everyone went off to bed. Not me though, oh no, not me. I went out again with the hostel-keeper and two of the guys from our group to a bar called, and I'm not making this up: "Crazy Bar."

A few words on crazy bar: It was a small, very dark, locals only type hang out with disastrously loud music and strong drinks. Mike, the hostel-keeper, got us in and set us up with some free drink tickets. I think I managed to drink one whiskey-coke before all hell broke loose.

I'm not sure what happened between that first drink and 7am, but what I can tell you is that I came back to consciousness in the early morning hours while on the back of someone's scooter racing around the city. Fortunately, the driver, who's name I never got, knew some English and was able to get me back to the train station where I'd arrived the day before. This took some time, and two train stations, to complete. Combine a serious hangover and slightly drunk American with some random Taiwanese scooter driver and you can understand why this took a little time to work out. I thanked her and set off in search of the hostel where I arrived and found the doors not yet open, so I slumped down on the bench out front and was awakened a few moments later by an all too cheerful group of friends. They were happy to have me back, and told me how they worried. (To Mom: I'm sorry)

The reason I say that I can no longer treat you to photos is because I, in my drunken glory, had decided that taking my backpack with me to Crazy Bar would be good idea. It was not. And I've not seen it since. What was in this backpack you ask? Oh, just my camera, flip-flops, ipod and the only pair of glasses that I own.

Never. Go. To. Crazy Bar. I cannot stress that enough.

Anyway, I'm home now and can look back on this moment in my life as a time when I did not take proper precautions and paid for them dearly.

Live and Learn.