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.

I swear it was yesterday I was living in Hong Kong. All of a sudden, two months have gone by... and even longer since I wrote anything.

I still remember coming to Singapore, on Christmas eve nonetheless. Readjusting to the new location was a struggle, but not because there's anything wrong with Singapore. Imagine yourself blindfolded, and spun in circles until dizzy; when you take off your blindfold you are what is called “disoriented”. This time, imagine yourself blindfolded and spun, and then teleported to an unrecognizable place. That's being unoriented, and that's exactly how I feel every time I land in a new city.

The other thing I felt when I first arrived in Singapore was the intense tropical heat. Wow. Only a few miles north of the Equator here. But, as a consequence of hopping from country to country (and losing all sense of currency conversion to boot), I've acclimated to the sweltering heat and humidity.

See, when I left home in June last year, it was around 104 degrees in Tucson, and past 110 degrees in Boulder City, Arizona, where I spent my last weekend. That's around 45 degrees Celsius, btw. The temperature in Taiwan the following weekend, was around 32 degrees Celsius; somewhere in the mid 70s, perhaps. But the humidity was awful. In Taiwan I sweat a lot on the way back and forth to the class.

But when I got to Hong Kong, holy crap...I smelled like a wet dog. Every day. Within one hour of taking a shower even. I was tired of it. But my Tom's of Maine organic deodorant with hops just wasn't making the grade. Looking for some sterner stuff, I went to one of the pharmacy shops you find every eight feet or so, and perused their pit-stick section. No Toms of Maine, of course. And no pure deodorant. Everything was an antiperspirant.

Personally, I'm against the use of antiperspirants. They use aluminum to shut down your pores, so you don't sweat. Not sweating is not natural. It's like fire suppression--not natural--and we wonder why California burns down every year. Plus, there are concerns in the paranoid-hypochondriac community, fueled by limited scientific research that generally goes unnoticed, that aluminum causes brain damage later in life.

I have enough of a problem now getting my brain to do what I want it to, so I said phuket and went next door to a traditional Chinese medicine place. You've seen it in movies like "Gremlins." The narrative goes: the dumb and afflicted westerner wanders into one of these dusky herb and animal-part-filled stores, where the ancient shopkeeper understands English, but speaks at length in his own tongue as he ducks back behind the counter. He returns, draws forth a dusty sandalwood box, blows off the dust and opens it to reveal the cure-all made of tiger's penis. Or Mowgli. Either way, the Westerner, discomforted but obligated, pays and leaves, skeptical and eager to disappear.

In my case however, standing in this brightly lit, clean to the point of sterile apothecary's office, I had no reason to be nervous. The guy at the counter had already said hello to me in English, so I knew I could tell him about my problem But there was a woman with him, and it was either wait, or interrupt him and tell him, Hi, I'm a Westerner and I smell bad, can you help me? So instead, I floated around the store, pretending to look at the products behind glass in the white cabinets. A man from the back came out, so I asked him. He went into the back of the store. I was so excited because my fantasy was playing out. I started thinking he was going to find that secret Chinese medicine that was going to not only clear up my smell, but make me 3 inches taller and straighten my teeth. He came back out again, with a spray can in his hand. The old Chinese medicine vendor recommended Lysol for my armpits. I've since relented to using an antiperspirant, in spite of my concerns regarding aluminum. Of course, who's to say. Do the people who tell us fluoride is bad say that aluminum is good? Who are the experts here???

Post Script: I ditched the antiperspirant and got something even better. Many years ago in a dusty bar in NYC, a friend of mine told me about a rock that solved his chronic odor problem; he just rubbed the rock under his arm the way you would rub a baseball into a mitt, and his stink was gone, he said. Sometimes, he used it on his feet, too. Cynical, I asked him when he got into new age hocus-pocus feel good crap. But he was adamant it's the real deal. And he was right. The rock is actually a crystal salt, which dissolves a little in your wet armpit and creates an acidic environment in which bacteria can't survive. I got one and loved it, but lost it in Ireland (if you don't lose it, it lasts forever; I think I had my first one for 2 years) and didn't get another until a friend I made in Hong Kong told me about a store on the island that stocks them. She said she'd got one there. So I went there and got one. Later on she asked me if I ever went to the store and picked one up. I said I did. She asked, in her bright cheery Australian-accent, How does it work? To which I replied, you just rub it under your armpits.