A Travelogue

A New York. Tougher Than Ever. sweatshirt by Ruba Abu-Nimah + Phillip Lim in my grandmother’s apartment

To be honest, I’ve been debating whether or not I should share memories of my trip to Taiwan. It’s not that I’m averse to the concept of sharing: blogging since the early aughts and working in content and social for over a decade has rewired my point of view into a commodifiable, lens-first perspective. Instead, I find myself protective of the place my parents left to make their parents proud—a familiar sentiment that started in the first grade. I refused to have classmates over unless they were Asian (or came from immigrant families). Too early on I knew how mean kids could be; I couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow them to make me or my family feel small.

I also know that these feelings aren’t fair: who am I to be so defensive of a country that isn’t on paper, mine? Truth be told, I’m not sure what Taiwan is to me yet, except that it’s this place where I feel more at peace (and also, more alive in) than I have anywhere else in the world. A place more myth than solid ground—to me and the rest of the world, apparently, one as otherworldly as it is perfectly ordinary. Like home. But for someone who hasn’t been or doesn’t know my Taiwan—what would they think of photos I found wholesome? I’m almost too sensitive to the dangers of assumption without real, lived-in context. A picture is worth a thousand words, but which words would they inspire, precisely? Sans cultural understanding or more importantly, an open mind: what would a photo of a corner at the Keelung Night Market make someone think? Would it be safer to upload the most metropolitan, and therefore acceptable, parts of my trip for fear that someone might judge the quick snap of my meal from the three-generation restaurant my babi ate at throughout his childhood? Few may be able to look past the open canister of chopsticks in the corner of the shot, but everyone can find beauty in Taipei 101’s opulent interiors… right?

But this island I love so wouldn’t be without its oldest districts (the ones with buildings in dire need of a powerwash but also marvelously charming exactly as they are), and it’d be sterile without the stalls of 臭豆腐 chòu dòufu—impossible to find nestled between buildings if not for the stench (or the snaking lines of people waiting to place their order. Steamed or fried, with homemade 麻辣 málà or without).

Make no mistake: I feel an urge to share because I desperately want more people to see, know, and love the country that I’m tied to. I’ve simply had the grave misfortune (or great fortune) of being born with a fiercely cautious personality. So for now, these are a few from my photo diary—a brief reprieve from Bradshaw-esque ramblings.

Perhaps I’ll share more, soon.

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xx