Words » Gemini Castle
The Welcome Ride
The ride from the airport was push push and a shove onto a moving tin can baked under the 3000W sun overhead. Everywhere was sweat, like little fountains of clear ink spouting from our faces. "What are you doing to me, Bert." I ask, wondering if this was really the way to continue a 27 hour trip. "Oh, you'll never forget this," he chuckles.
I have a box. A very big box with Shimano printed on the side. Why did I bring a bicycle? Why is it so hot?
An hour and a half later, we arrive someplace equally unrelated, and push push shove into a small Toyota Sunny circa 1967 with small mirrors glued across the ceiling. A miniature ballroom light flashed in syncopation to the radio, also circa 1967. "Oh, you'll love this," says Bert as I wedge the wilted box past the driver's face. "This is a Taiwan taxi."
Swoosh...and another hour and a half later we are overlooking an electric pink sky of oragami building cranes and several million people also wondering why it was so damned hot. "Welcome to Taipei! This is your new house." I scratch my head, pull off my cowboy boots, and carry the bike to it's new resting place on the balcony. "This is Pierre." A muscled Swiss man extends his hand. "Are you sure you want to live here?" he asks me in Arnold Schwarzenegger English. "This is Uli and Euleka. They're German. Don't worry they're lesbians," Bert whispers. "This is Angie, she rides a motorcycle, and finally, Peter. He's an accountant." Angie sniffs me over, while Peter takes my bag off my shoulder. This is home.
Bert and I put my bike together, and fifteen minutes later we are both winding down narrow mountain roads at 50km/hr. I run over a bright green snake, and wave at a group of school girls waiting for a bus. "We're gonna take a little welcome ride," says Bert. "You'll love this." I wonder why there are so many pink and white plastic bags everywhere. Four red lights later, past a hospital, and we are on a main road heading west. "That's where we live," shouts Bert over his shoulder, pointing to a community of houses nestled in a lush green elbow of hills. "And who lives over there," I shout back, pointing to an intricate complex of tiled buildings on an adjoining hill. "Oh those," he yells, "Those are condos. Dead people's condos."
Thirteen busses, fifty-six scooters, and a endless line of small Japanese cars greet us at the traffic circle. An old man embedded in bronze looks to the West. "Better get ready," says Bert. "Let's see if you're still in shape." The light turns green, and I sprint off the line, staying well ahead of the carbon monoxide pack. To my left, a young man in a Poo-Poo Club T-shirt with a gold bracelet and very long fingernails, tries desparately to edge his 90cc scooter past. To my right, bus #266. I slip into a larger gear, pop a wheelie, and hear Poo-Poo Club fade away behind me, but the bus squeezes over, and like a bologna sandwich I'm squashed between bus #266 and bus #510. I look up into the windows and see people layered like sardines swaying from plastic loops hung from the ceiling. The two busses converge, and for a spiritual moment, my handlebars are caught between them, lifting me effortlessly into the air. Tomorrow, there will be a small byline in the newspaper: "FOREIGNER DIES IN TRAFFIC ACCIDENT, see page 89. I connect eyes with a young girl drawing curlie-ques on the window, and smile. Her mother pulls her away, and like two great whales, the busses slip apart. I am once again pedaling, and life continues. At the next intersection, I wait for the throng of scooters to catch up, and a few seconds later, Bert wheels up with a smile on his face. "I told you would never forget this. Your first day in Taiwan."
Eight years and eighteen days later. I check my beeper, and set it down next to where my mobile phone batteries are charging up. Things sure have changed, but every day when I take the trash out in a pink and white plastic bag, I stop for a moment to look at the rusted bicycle propped up in the stairwell, and I hear Bert's voice. "Oh, you'll never forget this," he says.
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I've never figured out whether it's pronounced "Moe's (like owned by one of three stooges) or Moss (like that guy out of Bonanza), but the one down the hill from me is open until 2am most days, which means that if I get out of the club early enough, I can catch the best burger in town, the muo si la bao or the Spicy Mos Burger. They have lots of jalapenos and 
