Sunshine Shoes

I first saw these shoes on Nordstrom.com and I remember the day clearly: It was a May afternoon on the Oregon Coast, I was sitting in the guest bedroom at my parent's house. In that moment I knew there had never been, and never would be again, a more perfect pair of yellow peep toes.

Two weeks later I was in a Nordstroms with Mom. We found them in the shoe department. Mom agreed: Shoemakers of the world could throw in the towel, nothing will ever surpass these in beauty or impracticality. So she bought them for me. And I schlepped them to Taiwan.

My mom didn't buy me high heels until I was 16. This was a good policy in a women's lib. kind of way. It was a bad policy in that I never really learned how to walk in anything but flats.

Whenever I slip anything on with more than a one-inch heel, James becomes visibly distressed, to which I snap, "Out of my way, short man!" And he responds, "I'm just really worried you're going to hurt yourself." If I'm in heels, the night isn't complete until I almost break an ankle.

I based my Saturday night ensemble on these shoes. Finding a dress in my closet that both went with these shoes and was appropriate for a family-friendly Christmas party took half an hour.

James was already in Taipei, so I had to brave the unlit, uneven sidewalks of Nankan by my lonesome. I caught the bus and as I clacked down the aisle to my seat, passengers on both sides stared at my feet - two dozen pairs of eyes that seemed to say, "Bitch, are you crazy?"

At 5'8'', I'm already taller than most women and eye-level with most men here. But Saturday night I was downright Amazonian. I felt like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation, except not so old and never as funny.

Miraculously, I made it to the hotel without incident. Once there, I only had to walk as far as the buffet line.

The road home was another matter. And James declined to piggyback me. My feet felt fine on every trip to and from the ice cream station. But trekking home was killer.

These aren't shoes, I realized, they're sunshine-colored torture traps - specially designed to concentrate my entire body weight on to two teeny pinpoints on either foot. The conversation between the bus stop and home went:

"ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch-

"You going to make it?"

"Want to switch shoes?"

"Nope."

"Carry me?"

"Nope."

"Fine. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch...."

When will I wear them again? As soon as I have occasion, probably to Christmas dinner next week.

Crackpot Scheme #3,456,345 to get James a Job

James has another job interview tomorrow. We're hoping it will go well, but we've also decided hope is no longer enough. Elaborate ruses and deception are now in order.

The idea came to me a week ago.

"You should just tell your next interviewer you're Mexican." I suggested.

Most of James' interviewers have made it clear they don't want an Asian person as their foreign English teacher. It's easier to get a foreign teacher job here as a white-looking person who isn't a native English speaker than it is for an Asian-looking person who is a native English speaker. Thus, I figure the best thing James can do is convince everyone he isn't Asian.

James doesn't look Mexican at all. But there aren't very many Mexicans here, so maybe they'll buy it, I thought.

"Naw, I should say I'm Native Alaskan."

"OOOH GOOD IDEA!"

James doesn't look Native either, but it's marginally less of a stretch than Latino. Plus, Alaska is listed as his birthplace on his passport. So plausible enough, no?

Unfortunately Tienshing, his very Chinese middle name, is also printed on his passport.

"Just say it's your Native Alaskan name. Make up an alternate pronunciation. AND DON'T admit you speak Chinese."

James plans on applying all of the above tomorrow. Wish him luck, and I'll let you know if it works or not.

Getting My Christmas On

The present was just a prop, I didn't get to keep it.

Last night James and I went to the Foreign Correspondents Club Christmas party at the Cesear Park Hotel in downtown Taipei, swanky!

I thought admission would be $900NT ($30 U.S.) for us as a couple, but that was actually the cost per ticket. I wondered if the woman stamping hands could see my soul dying as I thought about all the Christmas cards I still have to air mail, and the presents I still need to buy, not to mention groceries for the rest of the month...

But I soon forget my fiscal woes when we stepped inside and saw the buffet table: cesear salad, smoked salmon, a cheese platter filled with brie and Muenster, glazed ham, roast beef, turkey. Being able to eat meat that comes in big juicy slabs was definitely worth the entrance fee. Plus, for dessert there were cakes and pies as well as four six-gallon tubs of Haagen-Dazs ice cream. Haagen-Dazs is really expensive here. The amount of ice cream I ate made my ticket price a steal.

We were seated with a family of four Australians, a guy from Oklahoma, a "Russian of Georgian decent," and one regular Russian. When I told the Russian gentleman seated beside me I was from Alaska he said, "Ah, so that means you are Russian, since Alaska was once part of Russia."

"Umm, well no - my family is actually fourth-generation Finnish immigrants on my mother's side."

"Ah, Finland." He said - kind of like he meant 'well, that's close enough.'

I'm not usually one of those white Americans who rattles off six different European ethnicities in divisions of 16ths and 32nds. I'm just American. That's it. Although I do pay homage to the delicious braided sweet bread my family makes during the holidays - supposedly that comes from the old country.

My Russian friend told me he had a layover once in Anchorage on his way to New York.

"Yes, Anchorage is a big transit hub." I said. I thought about adding "more so before the Cold War ended" but I didn't know if that was socially appropriate. I guess it probably would've been fine as long as I didn't say it like "more so before we won the Cold War and you lost ... Losers!"

Later he told me he'd been a member of the Young Communist League, as was required, when it was still the Soviet Union. Then he moved to Taiwan and wrote for the "Anti-Communist League for National Salvation." Quite the ideological swing.

There were raffle drawings. Since it's a club for journalists - the prizes were mostly memory storage devices, air tickets, and booze. There were four winners at our table, but James and I weren't among them.

Kids help the band with the jingle bells.

Between drawings, there was a jazz trio. I was having such a good time, I even enjoyed their rendition of Jingle Bell Rock - my very least favorite of my least favorite Christmas songs (followed closely by Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree, and plain old Jingle Bells).

In short, it was a fabulous evening. mmm, chocolate ice cream. mmm, roast beef.

Working on Christmas Pt. 2

If you missed Part 1, it's conveniently posted below Part 2.

On Tuesday I approached my supervisor in a last-ditch effort to get Christmas Day off.

Me: Hey, do you have a minute.

Supervisor: Yes, what is it?

Me: I want to talk to you about Christmas. Vancouver says I have to work because she got the day off.

Supervisor: Yes, we need one foreign teacher here.

Me: But I'm wondering, maybe I can arrange some activities the Chinese teachers can do without me-

Supervisor: But the parents will say where is the foreign teacher.*

*I'm never there when the parents drop the students off. And while many schools do, our school doesn't have webcams so parents can check up on the class online. In other words, the parents would never know.


Supervisor: We need at least one foreign teacher here. And Vancouver has been here a long time and never asked for Christmas off-

Me: Actually Vancouver said the old supervisor always gave them Christmas off.

Supervisor (really irritated): That's not what she told me. We need one person here. So sorry, I know it's important to you.

Me: Thanks. I figured I'd ask.

For all her faults, Vancouver seems like the kind of ultra honest person who can't withhold factual information even to her benefit. Supervisor was flustered at the end of the conversation. I caught her in a lie. That's basically blasphemous here, you're not supposed to call someone on their hooey. Direct communication isn't de rigueur.

Back home this kind of thing would've amounted to a shrug and "tough break kid, you're working." But questioning authority isn't the same here, and Supervisor made it known I'd crossed the line by ignoring me the rest of the week.

Looks like I'm on my way to achieving the mantle of persona non grata among the adults at work. This tension-filled conversation with Supervisor came on the heels of a talk last week I had with Ottawa, a Canadian-born Chinese guy a little older than me who has a management position because his brother owns the school.

Ottawa came into the school last Friday. His talk - which was more of a lecture, really - was about Chinese culture and how problems can't be solved the way they would back home. I couldn't figure out if this talk was or was not related to my altercation with Gambling Wench. Oh hell, it probably was.

I like stinky tofu. I can stomach chicken feet and congealed pork blood. And I have a pretty good ear for Mandarin tones. But I have zero faith in my ability to amend myself to solving problems the Chinese way.

Right now I'm reading Shogun by James Clavell. What these past couple weeks in Taiwan, coupled with the Clavell, have taught me is that I would probably never be a good samurai either.

My emotions are too transparent. I'm not very tricky. And I like to get my way right away. Oh, and I don't have any swords ... yet.

Come Christmas morning, I'm going to be stuck with the brats. But at least they still like me.

Working on Christmas

I'm working on Christmas. My supervisor says I'm working because I'm the bottom dog. But I know the real reason.

The real reason I'm working on Christmas has everything to do with the ruthless machinations of a Canadian. And for this reason I will be petitioning the president elect to add Canada to the axis of evil - something that should've been done long ago.

This is quickly becoming a complain-about-work blog. At least it is until I quit, or get fired dooced for openly trashing my job online, or am terminated for some other, yet undiscovered reason. Presently, all those possibilities sound exciting.

Eventually I will move back to America and have to be prudent about what I write online. That day has not yet arrived, thus I will proceed:

I never thought Vancouver (the other preschool teacher) and I would be close. She's a decent person. But there was this one time she freaked out when I spilled water-soluble paint on a piece of laminated paper. And then there was this other time I was helping a student with a book and she barked, "Don't help him!" and physically yanked my hand from the page. Little things like that have restrained me from buying matching "Best Friends" heart pendants for us.

Then on Monday it got a whole lot worse. She hoodwinked me into working on Christmas. Yes, she has seniority, and yes if someone has to do it, it should be me. But the way she went about it was extra nefarious.


One week ago:

Vancouver: I wonder if we're going to get Christmas off.

Me: Do we usually?

Vancouver: Yes, but that was with the old supervisor. I don't know if the new supervisor will give it to us or not.

Me: Hmm. Guess we should ask.

Vacouver: Actually you shouldn't worry about it. They won't make you work. We'll only be working on the play that week, so there's no reason for them to make you come in.

(She works with the kids for their Christmas skit in the morning before my class starts.)

Monday:

Vancouver: I'm going to go ask Supervisor for Christmas off, I'm nervous. I hope I get it.

Me: Good luck.

She disappears into the office and reappears minutes later looking guilty. She approaches me and talks into her sleeve.

Vancouver: So I get Christmas off but you have to work.

Me: What? Why?

Vancouver: Because Supervisor said I could have it off but you have to be here because they need one teacher.

*There are actually two Chinese teachers who will be working that day too. One of them speaks fluent English. And all we'll be doing that day is arts and crafts. So what the supervisor really meant was we need at least one white person to oversee the cutting and pasting.

Me: That sucks.

Vancouver: Yeah. You could try and talk to her. Oh I know! I can ask one of the afternoon teachers for you.

Me: Yeah?

Vancouver: Yeah R is a Jehovah's Witness so he doesn't celebrate Christmas.

Great. Problem solved, I figure. Working on Christmas is the opposite of celebrating Christmas, so this should work perfectly for all.

Tuesday:

Vancouver: So I don't think I can ask R.

Me: Why?

Vancouver: Because he's a Witness and we're going to have to do Christmas stuff, and he can't do that kind of stuff.

Me: But wont he be teaching in the afternoon anyway-

Vancouver: Yeah, but that's cram school stuff, the kindergartners will have to do Christmas crafts and he can't do those.

Me: Maybe they can do something else...

Vancouver: You can ask management.

Me: Well can you ask him, because I don't want to ask management whether or not he can work for me if he's not willing to.

Vancouver: No. I think you should just talk to them.

When Vancouver let me know she secured her Christmas at my expense and had no intention of helping me get mine too, I ended the conversation. Then I rushed to the nearest phone booth for my costume change. The person who emerged was not Leslie the preschool teacher, but Leslie the malevolent ice queen. Uncalled for? Maybe. But losing Christmas to a Canadian makes me cranky.

Later Vancouver tried to compensate for her snakiness by hovering over my students' art projects making inane comments. Little does she know this only made her seem more overbearing than usual. I succeeded in ignoring her.

After lunch I caught the supervisor who completely shut me down on the Christmas front. I will post about that awkward occasion later.

But! I will continue to hunt for a substitute: If you are a fluent English speaker in the Taipei area who would like to earn a few extra bucks on Christmas, and my eternal friendship, please hit me up. Asian-looking people need not apply. That's what kind of school it is. I know because James applied and they told him so.

To cheer myself up, I went home and rewatched this. If you were recently victimized by Canadian trickery, I recommend it.

Miracle in Danshui

Yesterday we took a Sunday trip to the very end of the Taipei red line. Danshui is a little touristy township that's supposed to be a lover's destination thanks to its gorgeous sunsets.

There were lots of people snacking on sausages and grilled squid waiting for the Sun to sink below the horizon. And no the miracle was not the sunset. I didn't even get to see it.



James and I were too excited by the thought of halfway decent Mexican food to wait. We scrapped the sunset and trekked to Eddy's Cantina.

James: "Is that pepper holding a joint?" Me: "No! That's a burrito."

Last week I read about Eddy's on Hungry Girl's Guide to Taipei. Danshui is pretty far out of our way, but once I found Eddy's online, I knew we'd be going over the weekend. Mexican food is rare in Taipei. And, according to Hungry Girl, edible Mexican food is almost non-existent.

It's been three months since my last burrito. Southern California is arguably the best place in America to eat Mexican food, and I ate it at least weekly up until May of this year. Thus finding a Mexican food restaurant in Taiwan was pretty much the most exciting thing that's happened since I left the States (kidding, that award probably goes to finding good pizza in Taiwan).

Cactus-stem glasses! Adorable!

We started with nachos and margaritas. My margarita tasted like it had more alcohol than the entire amount I've imbibed since arriving, but after a few sips I didn't mind so much.

Your eyes do not deceive, that is squeeze cheese on my nachos. Back home I would only accept such a substance at a ski lodge or a sporting event. But beggars can't be choosers. After nachos we split a burrito and an enchiladas plate.

From Danshui

Three plates! I'm proud of us.

Afterward I managed to walk a straight line to the counter where I paid $990NT (about $30 U.S.) for our experience. It was the most expensive meal for two we've eaten here - funny since Mexican is the cheapest cuisine to eat back home in L.A.

Overall, I'd say the fare would rate as passable for a mid-sized American city Mexican joint. But for Taiwan, it was a godsend. I haven't been that full since I left home. Sure, I've been really full on occasion. But Chinese-food full and Mexican-food full are very different. No amount of rice or dumplings lends itself to that entire-body-feels-heavier sensation that accompanies a gut full of cheese and ground beef. Glorious.

Rose Bowl

I'm not really a sports watching type of person. In high school I would bring a book and a blanket to baseball games, watch my then boyfriend bat, and promptly resume my chapter. In a stunning lack of social awareness, it never occurred to me there was anything wrong with this behavior.

Then I moved on to USC where devoting Fall Saturdays to football is essentially a graduation requirement. But old habits die hard. And once last year I was on my way to the Coliseum with, naturally, the Los Angeles Times tucked under my arm. I managed to drop my paper, and as I scrambled to pick it up amidst the throng of stadium goers, I couldn't understand why some guy was loudly making fun of me for all to hear: "GOTTA HAVE HER PAPER! NEED THAT LA TIMES AT THE GAME!"

In retrospect, I think I get it.

Nevertheless, I am a loyal Trojan. And like any true Trojan would, I awoke at 5:30 (okay, not really until 6) today to try and find a livestream of our guys wiping the field with Bruin entrails. I searched nobly for half an hour. I emailed friends' Blackberrys back home for help. Then James tried. He's the pirating master of the house. He is the Captain Hook of internet piracy to my bumbling Mr. Smee.

Several of my family members read this blog. I worry they may disapprove of my flagrant disregard for intellectual property law. And to this I can only respond that witnessing the destruction of UCLA simply supersedes all moral and ethical considerations.

Unfortunately we never found a feed so we just went back to sleep, but awoke hours later to the sweet smell of victory wafting off of espn.com. Incidentally, victory smells a lot like stagnant water in the laundry room. The washing machine isn't working properly. And it's winter in the subtropics. And I'm afraid our laundry room is going to become a stinky mosquito hatchery.

But Malaria aside, I'm excited for the Rose Bowl, which will hopefully be easier to stream, and I have high hopes for an NCAA championship next year.