Day at the Luke Warm Springs

Hey everyone, sorry about not updating my blog in a while. I’ve been busy, y’know, seeing the sights of Taiwan, practicing my-okay, you caught I’ve just been playing Civilization III again, but I’m sorry it’s a damn good game (Did you hear they have a fourth one, now? Sigh with joy). Okay, before you think I’m a huge nerd (because Lord knows most bloggers aren’t), I have been doing other things slightly more productive things, such as trying to apply to grad school in Canada, planning my Japan, China trip in January February, and avoiding getting too involved in the infamous residence Reitaku night.

So Reitaku Night, yeah, you’re probably wondering what the hell I’m talking. Reitaku Night, which apparently is happening in December or something, is a night designed to demonstrate the wealth of cultural cooperation that is the International House with stage-stopping performances by people from all across the world (or at least the 7 countries represented here, including yours truly for the entire Western hemisphere). In reality though, it not so much a mutual cooperation as it is the Japanese and Taiwanese students ganging up on everyone else, deciding what to do and trying to nag us into doing it. As I write this, I’m apparently supposed to be downstairs practicing an undoubtedly inspiring rendition of the Chinese version of “We Are the World” (it was originally supposed to be “Buit Mello, Bullet Cup” (The Taiwanese spelling for “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” Lord knows what they thought the song was actually about). I did make a bid to have the Numa Numa song (Numa Numa LAY!) as our official song, on the grounds that it, being in slang Romanian, would have been equally incomprehensible to everyone, but this bid was soundly defeated. For most of the Westerners, Reitaku Night meetings (which are all in Chinese and basically a forum of in-jokes for the Asian students) are infamous and many have cooked up elaborate ways of avoiding them, perennial amnesia (“Was it tonight”) or just sleeping through them (My French roommate, who these days sleeps through everything. That guy stays up to 5 am every night and sleeps to 4. I’d swear he hasn’t seen sunlight in like a month). As for me, I let my good ol’ honest, uncouth North American-ness shine through and just say “I don’t wanna sing.” I did once stop a church hymn, as my family was too busy laughing at the horridity of my singing abilities, so I think I’m within my rights here. I did offer to act in one of their plays, which got me the role of stereotypical drunken Westerner preying on innocent Asian girls on the subway (I’m not kidding, this is the role they gave me). So I routinely get dragged down for two ours to practice my whopping 4 lines of dialog, with little to no notice. They’ll hold the practices on any and every night, including Friday and Saturday. Yay.

I was also told, at one point, that I should do a cultural presentation on Canada (ie, a Canadian traditional dance and song), but as I’m the only one here, this is a bit tricky. A couple of the Japanese girls offered to help, but this gesture seemed more or less just one of those face-saving things and without any real meat behind it. Basically I asked them if they would be willing to sing (they said “No”), I asked them if the would be willing to dance (they said “No”), and I asked them if they would be willing to dress like a Canadian (one was already wearing a tuque and plaid shirt at the time I asked, it being a whooping 15 degrees here many people have been even whipping out the parkas, yet she still refused to wear the same clothes, her own damn clothes, on Reitaku night). Needless to say, I have no idea what kind of “help” they intended on providing. My original idea was to start singing the Canadian national anthem, but switching into the “The Good Ol’ Hockey” but considering my aforementioned horrible singing ability, my equally squalor dancing skills, the enthusiastic contribution of my “help”ers, and the fact that not a damn person in the audience would “get it,” I decided to scrap the idea altogether and instead embrace the Bob and Doug MacKenzie philosophy of just doing nothing. I talked to some of the Germans and the Czechs a bit about using the stage as a means of celebrating our mutual cultural appreciation of fermented beverages (essentially, we’d all just be sitting on a couch on stage, walking sports and drinking beer. It wouldn’t really entertain the audience too much, and would perpetuate the stereotype of the drunken Westerner, but at least we’d have beer.)

Speaking of Czech, did you know the movie Fargo comes in Czech subtitles but not Chinese or German ones? Actually though, I would like to take this opportunity to give a shout out to my good Czech peng you (that’s friend in Pinyin) Ivana, who reads my blog and complains rightfully of a lack of previous mention. For you single fellas out there, Ivana has light brown hair, speaks about a gazillion languages, and yes she’s even part Russian (You don’t want to challenge her to a round of vodka shots, trust me). How could you go wrong? Her only real drawback is her sad misconception about which nation has the best hockey team (The Czech team? ha that's cute). Oh Ivana, if you’re reading this and wondering what I meant by “shout out,” it’s an English slang expression, derived from the ghetto neighbourhoods of New Jersey I believe, which means “to call attention appreciatively to someone or something, as in ‘I’d like to give a shout out to Bob from accounting,’ ‘I’d like to give a shout out to God for not smiting me the other day when I really deserved it,’ or ‘Yo bitches, we be sending out da shout to all ya bruthas from diff’rnt muthas, yo.” Of course, this will be included in Ryan’s book of English teaching, should I ever make a dime doing it.

Now before I go, I understand that I titled this thing “A Day at the Luke Warm Springs” and like that movie “Brazil” by Terry Gilliam I have so far made no explanation or provided any reason for the title. Unlike Terry Gilliam, who called the movie Brazil out of self-absorbed artsy-fartsy “hey look at me, I’m so postmodern and therefore cool” fantasy that it was great because it didn’t fit the movie at all, I intend to have a legitimate reason behind my title. You see, today I actually did go to some Luke Warm Springs, though officially they’re called “Hot” springs, or “Hot spring(The plural “s” is hardly ever used in Taiwan, because proper grammar is for people who didn’t study business).” Before you associate them with the Banff Hot Springs, keep in mind that these suckers aren’t exactly in the middle of a mountain getaway, considering they’re within a block of a subway station, MRT Xinbeitou, and surrounded by skyscrapers. They have a nice little urban park around them, and a Hot Springs Museum which looks very Japanese, probably because it was built by them during the Occupation in the early 20th century. Apparently, WWII kamikaze pilots were entertained here by local Taiwanese women, more sexually liberal than their present-day descendents, before going off to slam their planes into the front fender of an American battleship, destroying themselves, their pilot training, and their expensive aircraft in the process, in exchange for being a bug on the Allied windshield. That said, the old Hot Springs house is now museum in which you are forced to go around in what feels like a pair of your mother’s tiny slippers (Despite not having a size near large enough for these waterskis I call feet, they would not let me go around in just my socks and shoes were a definite no-no), but it has some interesting old early industrial Japanese architecture and Chinese explanations of how a hot spring develops, but the hot spring bath itself is quite empty.

A little disappointed that the Hot Springs Museum didn’t actually have an actual Hot Spring, I asked one of the clerks who could speak some English where I could find an actual Hot Spring. I had packed a swimsuit and a few good books for the expedition, hoping to relax amidst the steaming water. Since it was raining, I figured I’d have the place basically to myself.

Boy was I mistaken (a place to yourself in Taiwan, ha! Keep Dreaming.). Despite the rain and arriving under an hour before closing, the place was packed to the overflowing with the usual strange Taiwanese bathing apparel. Perhaps in an attempt to escape an overly sexual-repressive conservative culture, bathing suits are downright scandalous, but not for the women only for the men. The women still wear the 1920s style full body, striped, vanity suit straight out of a Popeye cartoon (and complete with bathing cap). The men though, frollick about, regardless of their age, in skin-tight speedoes and “short shorts” that generally seem to be the Asian male’s attempt at compensating for the jokes made around the world at the expense of his dimunitive masculine endowment. So I crowded into a changing stall, complete with nowhere to put your clothes, and desperately tried not to make my athlete’s foot worse than it already is as I changed into my overly conservative, down-to-my knees, skater swim-suit. The pool itself was designed like utopian Fraggle Rock with various levels of rock pools and scantily clad old Taiwanese men climbing over them. The only place I could find a seat was sandwiched between an overflow waterfall (from the pool above) and two kids with a squirt gun, so needless to say I didn’t get much in the way of a relaxing read in the water. The water itself was surprising cool for something heated by frick’n lava! It didn’t even feel like a hot tub, but more like second-hand bathwater, the kind that’s had an hour or so to sit and settle and is suspiciously cloudy.