Swimming Like a Fish Out Of Water

6-26-16 Sunday 

      I went to the Country Side swimming pool in the Tai-ping section of Taichung this Sunday morning, but I didn’t go swimming. A foreigner, or anyone who has lived in a developed nation, must remember to ride with the tide in Taiwan; there is nothing that can be changed here because there happens to be a “better way”; most people here, as elsewhere, don’t pay attention to “better ways.” They are used to the current habit, be it good or bad. In Taiwan, many habits are bad if you value efficiency and respect. I couldn’t go swimming because the pool staff and clients displayed neither.

      The pool opens at 7 am on weekend mornings so I knew I was already in hot water when I left the condo on my bike at 9 am. I was ready to take my chances after the fifteen minute ride. The parking lot was full; about a dozen cars and scooters. Still, there was a space enough to park a bicycle near the stairs to the entrance. While chaining the bike, an old habit that I picked up from New York City where any bicycle not chained down (and even some that are) will not be there when the owner returns to ride it away, I overheard a cleaning woman mumbling to herself about a car parked against her maintenance room door. I asked if it was okay for me to park the bike where I was and she said no problem, so I went up the stairs to check in at the counter, and get my locker key.

A young man stood alone behind the counter. It was par for the course in Taiwan that someone after me ignored me and went ahead to be served. I gave the clerk my ID card when he was ready. He asked me for ten dollars, the equivalent of thirty-one cents. I asked, in Mandarin, what it was for, and he said to get a locker key. When I told him I had a pre-paid locker for a year he looked incredulously at me and asked for ten dollars again. On my ID card, there is no mention of my being a pre-paid yearly member or that my membership includes a private large locker. Despite explaining to him why I didn’t need to pay for a locker key on a one-time basis, we were both stuck in the mud; though cheap enough, it was a matter of principle to me. I don’t know what territorial pissing he was doing in the pool house. Perhaps my wife, a native who speaks Mandarin fluently, could talk with this part-timer who was obviously wet behind the ears, so I called her. He didn’t know that he was swimming in dangerous waters.

After getting through to my wife on my cell phone, I waited while the lone shark devoured other’s payments and raised his head above water to see me. I handed him the phone, slippery with sweat, and held it to his ear. How did he know, my wife later said he asked, if I really had a pre-paid membership? He thought I was lying? Why would I lie? She told him I had a pre-paid locker but he wanted to see the receipt; I only had the ID card. With squawking middle-aged ladies talking nearby, and youngsters gleefully playing with the tubes as their parents tried to get through, it was becoming a nightmare, not a wet dream. The purser, or “pusser” according to Wikipedia, was being a real pussy, and tried to find evidence of my membership in an on-board computer; his lifeboat, so to speak. But he was treading water and sinking fast. The sharks were circling, so he threw me a lifesaver, handing me a random key to my treasure chest of goggles, earplugs, skull cap, towel and swimming trunks. Ahoy, mate; it was the wrong locker number key.

I told him “Number 26, please,” so he took it back and asked for my ID in exchange. He went to put my ID in the #26 slot but found someone else’s ID there. No matter; he put mine in front of it and handed me the key. Mayday! I called back my wife to let her know there was the possibility that he had given me the key to someone else’s private locker and to hold the line until I checked. Sure enough, the key on an elastic string, looking nothing like the one I used previously, didn’t fit.

Before I left the locker area, the gangway before the steps down to the pool, I noticed that at least there were still two swimming lanes that weren’t occupied. I went through the male latrine and shower areas back out to the front desk to exchange keys. As my wife had thought, there were two #26 lockers on board, a smaller locker and Davy’s own. Without an apology or smile, he exchanged keys. Finally, I was seeing daylight over the stormy seas.

Going through the procedure to prepare myself for the morning swim, I went through steps one through ten. There were ten lanes. When I cleaned my feet wet in the little puddle at the stairs’ bottom, I knew to walk, not run to a lane to begin my ten laps. Alas, by the time I had adjusted my goggles and plugged in my earplugs, all the lanes were occupied with swimmers, some swimming, and some leaning against the pool wall. I went and sat on a bench to wait for an open lane. A heavy young man came by, tested the water with a fat toe, and waited too. I saw my chance: lane one was emptying out of two of three young ladies who had been bobbing up and down. I was on my final approach with the ladder in sight when I noticed the dingy boy going overboard into the coveted lane. I could have argued with him; I could have screamed, but I chose not to. The winds were not blowing in the right direction for me this morning and I decided it was better to just be a landlubber and ride the bike on the next wave home.

I said nothing to the rude young clerk who had unbeknownst ruined my morning chances of a swim, and heard no apology from him or questioning why I had finished swimming and was leaving already. I texted my wife saying I was leaving before I hurt someone and to tell her not to call me Ishmael from the widow’s watch when she sees my ship coming in. She said she is going to call tomorrow to complain but I would just as well not turn this sun shower into a typhoon. If I want to merrily row my boat down the Taiwan stream, I must remember that life here is not always a dream, on the weekend. 

China University of Science and Technology Graduation

We waited for my wife's cousin to pick us up and drive us to her son's graduation ceremony in Hsinchu, but we got a call that Pinky, her niece’s cat, had just run through the open door. We had to wait until she was found; it really would have ruined the day. Luckily, she was found. We were picked up to head north to Hsinchu. We got to the out-of-the-way  college in plenty of time, just in time for a cloudburst.

My Dad was an airplane mechanic for many years, so I had to see nephew Ken graduating from China University of Science and Technology having studied aeronautical electrical systems 

The college, in the hills near Hsinchu, is rather small, smaller than most high schools in Taiwan. With a pig farm nearby, the smell of pig feces fills the air. It has got to be better inside. 

 We waited in an air-conditioned classroom a 

few hours for the outdoor ceremony to begin.

I entertained myself taking photos with the smart phone of the airplane engines, simulators, metal shop vices, and model airplanes, not to mention the few private planes and one small cargo parked on display in little hangers outside. They even have a spinning radar tower with the school’s name atop, like a McDonald’s sign; a nice touch for an aeronautical college.

My wife's nephew studied aircraft electrical systems but heaven knows if he can make that his career. There are not too many airline jobs around in Taiwan, and I heard that you have to have connections to get one of them. 

Ken was given an internship with a Japanese company doing business in Taiwan in a related field. He had to work there for a year, with no pay, late into the evening. Before the year was through, Ken had had enough; his part-time job at a local barbecue restaurant was putting him past his capacity. 

His girlfriend also graduated from the college and was finishing her internship. She hopes to get a job in the airline industry. Ken will do his four-month military service. I wonder if he had completed his internship, if he could have been assigned to an air force position, but that probably requires connections, too. 

   The obligatory ceremony, MC’ed by an air force WAC, went through its paces. Mercifully, the ceremony didn’t include the nasty American habit of reading each graduate’s name and handing out fake diplomas to them while shaking hands with dignitaries on stage. 

CONGRATULATIONS KEN !!!!!!

(Watch the video of the end of the ceremony on the link below:)

https://www.facebook.com/david.b.temple/videos/10209616977600714/

Hsinchu: Yakiniku-Futago: Best Barbecue

   It takes an hour drive north of Taichung to get there, but you will have more cuts of beef than you have ever had at one sitting in this dive: F.T.G Company; I think it stands for FuTaGo. There are Futagos in cities all over Japan, in the U.S., Hong Kong, and in three Taiwan cities, including three in Taipei, one we sat at in Hsinchu (http://yakiniku-futago.com) but not in Taichung, yet. It is a tiny restaurant, with tiny booth seats, suitable for four little Asians but two typical Westerners. Each booth has a black, five-foot long, 6” diameter periscope-like air duct, hanging from the ceiling with safety valves, sucking up smoke from the meat a few inches underneath, on a gas flame hibachi grill the size of a book, on the middle of the table.

   The operation of bringing the raw cuts, placing them on the grill, roasting them right, cutting them into edible morsels with utility scissors, and placing them on your small, round, aluminum plate was not left to chance; the waiter handles it all with tiny tongs, and then removes and replaces the soiled grill top after each selection. With a tall ice-cold mug of draft Asahi beer, and sides of garlic roasting in butter oil, noodles in spicy garlic beef broth, and condiments, you will be in beef heaven.

      Mostly from Australia and Japan, all the beef,  was sublime, marinated well, and succulent. From the tenderloin to the flank, tongue, even beef heart and tripe, top of the rib, bottom of the rib, keep the dishes coming until you are dizzy and your shirt buttons start popping. Avoid the chewy large intestine though and don’t deviate with the pork melted cheese or grilled prawns; stick with the beef till the taste marinates your mouth, the fragrance coats your inner nostrils, and you can't find your way home through the alleys full of ladies of the night, to reflect on what you have done, you carnivorous devil! 

     This I will say for Futago; the waiter is as important as the chef for the right preparation, and keeping the action of the meat on the grill going, so much so that you will want to break the Taiwan code of not tipping; do it! Tip him or her, or leave with a guilty conscience and a bad taste in your mouth. Show appreciation for the best, non-stop delivery of the juiciest cuts of barbecue meats in Taiwan.

      It can take a while off Freeway #1 to get there, winding through the complicated streets of Hsinchu, the old downtown area, to the Futago Restaurant. If you do go by car, use a GPS. However, the restaurant is only a five-minute walk from the classic Japanese-built station of Taiwan Rail. Take the train. 

     Here’s a tip: Once a month they have a 50% discount; call to find out the date and make a reservation, but expect a long line outside if you go. They'll give you a coupon for the discount on your next visit. Keep your eye out for a new location in Taichung similar to Futago to be started by a former Futago associate.