It's easy to forget how much I like Taiwan. Yet as I saw our plane's approach through the on-screen navigation system embedded in the head rest of the seat in front of me, I began to remember the sights, smells, and flavors that tied me to this place two years ago.

The ecology of Taiwan is outstanding. There's the sinuous crystal-blue river that snakes below the Shakadang Trail, the epic Qingshui cliffs that tower above beaches laden with blistering sun-hot jade stones, mudskippers basking on the rocks above lapis-colored waves. If you're lucky, you might spot a serpentine-tailed civet scamper up a banyan tree late in the night through a laundry room window, although no one will believe you saw one.

Then to the city, all laid out beneath Taipei 101, a tower of Babylonian proportions--easily three times taller than anything made by man in its shadow. Scattered throughout the city is the electric bustle and endless provender of the night markets, and dolled out betel-nut girls, propped on stools behind storefront glass, selling pouches of the crimson teeth-staining chew, and paper lanterns floating into the distance like listless satellites, and fruit stands hawking hand-size bags of salty-spiced mango, skewered strawberries, longyans, and cups of fresh-squeezed juices and frothy fruit milks. So you know, coconuts, however, are quite expensive, as are anything that has to be imported to this tiny, mountainous island.


I do wish I could have taken a detour to revisit the National Palace Museum, where in one day, I learned almost half of everything I know about Chinese history. Also, two national treasures of Taiwan are housed there. One is a slab of stone that's painted like a piece of barbecue pork and mounted on a guilded stand. The other is an exquisitely carved jade sculpture in the form of bok choy. Yes, I did say they are national treasures. In fact, I just was muscled out of the gift shop here in the airport, in which is sold jadetite cabbage key rings and bottle openers; I was told not to take pictures. Of souvenirs. Yes, they are national treasures, I'd say.

Also worthy of note: this trip marks my conical straw hat's return to its native land. I'm glad it had this one last chance before it falls apart. The voyage from Tucson to California was unkind to the hat's delicate constitution. The top is almost off, and I don't think it will keep out the rain like it used to. Which is too bad, because this happens to be the rainy season. -shudder-

This year marks the year of the rabbit. That's according to the Chinese Lunar calendar. Anyone born under the sign of the rabbit is born in 1915, 1927, 1939, 1951, 1963, 1975, 1987, 1999, and in 2011. (Well, it becomes complicated for anyone born in January or early February--since the Gregorian calendar isn't a good match for the Lunar one, these Jan and Feb babies actually fall under the year of the tiger.) The horoscopic descriptions for rabbit-born folks varies from website to website.

Because this is the year of the rabbit, I was really looking forward to this year's Mid-Autumn Festival, which takes place, as always, during the full moon of the eighth lunar month. Celebrated in Chinese and Vietnamese communities, it's a harvest festival holiday of bright lanterns hung from trees or bamboo stakes, floated down rivers, or carried off by winds; of savory-sweet pastries called moon cakes; and of viewers gazing in admiration of the full harvest moon. For those moon-gazers with a little imagination, the form of a rabbit can be seen in the maria, or dark basaltic plains of the moon. In the mythology that accompanies the origins of the Mid-Autumn festival, the moon rabbit is recognized in China, Japan, and Korea. But this Mid-Autumn Festival, taking place on Sept. 12, 2011, I'm going to be in Vietnam. As a matter of fact, I'm boarding the plane in a little less than 9 hours.

And in Vietnam, the moon has no rabbit, and 2011 is the year of the cat.