Toto the Too Small Toilet or How to Know It's Time to Go Home

We've known it was coming, first, because that was always the plan and then more definitely as McLeod's company began the process. But somehow, until recently, leaving Taiwan for good was just a date on a calendar. Even when our U.S. house went on the market mid-March, it wasn't really sinking in. Afterall, we haven't lived there for three years, so it didn't really feel like our house anymore. But then small things, little "for the last time" moments, started accumulating and bigger things started happening like turning in official school paperwork to withdraw the kids. Then one day, quite suddenly, you make a mental shift, and it's time to go.

My mental shift happened with a cracked toilet. For the last 6 months, we've had an annoying leak in the apartment. Clearly some pipe in the bathroom was leaking beneath the tile and seeping out to the wood flooring in the bedroom. We'd go away for awhile. The engineers would fix something, replace boards and then pretty soon the water stain would show up again. When we came back from our final big trip to Palau, they assured me it was fixed. Yes, I'm happy to report that leak WAS finally fixed. But with the first post-vacation flush, water started seeping out of the porcelain itself and puddling on the tile floor. Someone cracked the toilet. Not a happy day, mostly for poor Mr. Lee, the hardworking, kind-hearted head engineer. How sad he looked to tell me, "No use it. Tomorrow... plumber." The kids and I made a nice out-of-order sign.

Tomorrow came. Two plumbers and an engineer walked into the apartment. It didn't register with me that they had a medium sized cardboard box on a trolley outside my door, so I proceeded to do what I always do when working with repairmen here: go into a kind of interpretive dance to explain the problem. I am suddenly having flashbacks to that day, specifically the point where I got down on all fours in our small bathroom to point out the leak on the toilet. This elicited an embarrassed, "Yes, yes, yes, ok, ok, ok" from the three men who I now realize were getting a view of my rear end. It was soon revealed that they were not there to repair the leak. They were taking away our toilet and replacing it with a smaller version.

Gone is our nice, big (read: wide-seat) Kohler. Sitting in its place is Toto the Too Small. It is narrow, and it is low. Parts of you hurt if you linger too long. Your magazines fall off the back because there is a 6-inch gap between the tank and the wall. Suddenly our castle is without its throne. And so it's time to move to another castle, a Texas-sized castle with well-equipped bathrooms.

Now we are knee-deep in preparations. We sold one house and bought another after a whirlwind trip to the States by McLeod. I have a notebook full of lists and a folder full of paperwork. There are pages in the notebook where I've scribbled things like "Rattan Chairs--cheaper in Taiwan" and "Get instructions for sprinkler system" along with many much more important items. McLeod comes home each day to what he calls the beaver dam at the front door, the fruits of my labor as I clean out every drawer and cabinet. Heaps of stuff sorted to toss, pass along, or donate get distributed and then replenished. And I keep finding things I didn't even know we brought to Taiwan--McLeod's antique pocket watch, a plate that says Chicago on it, candlesticks--and of course, things that don't even belong to me. That thing you thought you lost? Don't worry, I'm sure it's sitting in a bag with your name on it at my front door.

And somehow, perhaps because my brain is so full of lists and plans or maybe because it's starting to become all-American again, I find myself making rookie mistakes. I took the wrong bus twice in 10 days. I tried to make a special order at McDonalds--something I know better than to try to do--and ended up with a sausage egg burger with mayonaise. I took something on a toothpick from a lady passing out samples at the grocery store, and guess what? It was STILL, after three years, a weird, squishy, fried unknown substance from the sea. The only difference was that I actually chewed it up and swallowed it and didn't even stop to think what I'd eaten until I was at least three aisles over.

Most fitting of all, though, McLeod and I recently had a movie night to rival our very first movie night in Taipei. Out to see Star Trek, our brains bubbling with trivia and critical buzz about the film, we walked up to the counter and asked for tickets to the 9pm showing. (By the way the kiosks for self-serve tickets seem to be permanently broken--perhaps too many big American meat hooks pounded on the screens?) Up, up, up the escalators, checking each floor against our ticket and being ushered ever higher by the helpful staff. At last in our seats, we settled in for the previews, finding them a tad violent but not unusual for Taiwan. At last the movie began. A strange sepia-tinted sequence flickered on the screen with tinny piano playing. Were these the young Kirk's family photos? A death in the family perhaps as the series of stills from a circa 1900 funeral flashed on the screen. Back story to what he will become as captain of the Enterprise? But when the images started to cut away to someone oozing big drops of the red stuff, we grabbed up our tickets and stared at the Chinese characters willing them to make sense. By then the title came up on the screen: The Haunting in Connecticut. We bolted from our seats. Down, down, down the escalators we went to hand off our tickets to a perplexed manager and say, "Wrong Movie! Star Trek? Star Trek?" Turns out there wasn't a 9pm showing of Star Trek so we'd been sold the next best thing. There was, however, a 9:10pm showing of Star Trek, so they traded out the tickets and ushered us immediately into theater 1 on the main floor. Just in time for the previews to start. We had a great night, made all the better by our near-haunting in Conneticut.

But now the credits are rolling on this expat adventure. In a few days we board the plane, bags full of trinkets, hearts full of memories. We've taken time over the last month to see favorite places. Yingge, the pottery town, successfully emptied my wallet as I stocked up on "just a few more" dishes, tea cups and vases. We spent a weekend at McLeod's beloved Green Island with my dive buddy Cathy and her family. While Cathy, McLeod and I were 20 meters under on those fantastic, ancient coral beds, Cathy's husband Wei-Ai drove 4 kids calling themselves the Spriters all over the island in a golf cart now known as the Adventure Truck. The locals would grin, wave and make way for the bunch who would serenade them with "Hey now, you're an All-star! Get your game on. Go Play!" We've also had a few last meals of dumplings, along with more than a few visits to Chili's, and we made a final trip to Taipei 101, the now almost-tallest building in the world. These last weeks have been blessed, too, with time to savor moments with friends. We will be forever grateful for the friendships that changed us from strangers in a strange land into neighbors and friends, living happy lives in a place they became proud to call home.

Zai Jian, Taipei! The Texpats are so very glad they came.

Trips Part II: Palau

For our final big trip in Asia we traded the fresh powder of Nagano for the jungle achipeligo of Palau. Fans of the Survivor series may remember the island chain from a few seasons ago. I never watched it, but hearing that an island was the featured site for a rough and tough adventure left me wondering what to expect. I was pleased to find out I would not be roughing it by any means--Palau Pacific Resort ain't too shabby--but we did get out there and have some once-in-a-lifetime adventures. The shortlist of our activities reads like this:

• dive coral reef gardens, deep holes, and wrecks



• kayak archepeligo while marine biologist points out birds, bats, and sea critters



• visit cave full of bats and do small cliff dives into ocean



• manoever through a tunnel at low tide to swim in completely hidden lake



• hike to WWII Japanese bunkers, climb inside and look at old helmets, bottles and an elegy to a fallen soldier (talk about history coming to life!)



• swim across a lake so full of stingless jellyfish that they bump against your body and face



• catch 200lbs of yellow fin tuna and have a feast with friends

When people ask what I thought about the trip, I think I must get faraway look in my eye. "Ohhhh, it was goooood." It was a nature- and history-lover's paradise. We spent one complete day on an eco-tour with marine biologist Ron, snorkeling reefs, kayaking into caves, and finding weird creatures like the sand-crunching chiton. He also took us to the barnacled wreckage from a downed WWII plane and to Japanese bunker sites where the soldiers had planned to bombard US amphibious troop carriers with ammo, grenades and homemade molitov cocktails. A favorite moment for all of us that day was when just as the tide was reaching its lowpoint, we paddled up to a small green mountain rising from the sea The lowered water level revealed a tunnel, perhaps 12-15 feet, that opened into a hidden lake. Reclining in our kayaks, we pulled ourselves through the tunnel, careful not to cut our fingers on the jagged limestone above our heads. The salt-water lake sheltered ancient basket corals. Layered on top of each other with no strong winds, waves or currents to disturb them, they had grown to enormous sizes. But what took my breath away was gazing up at the walls of lush primaeval forest around me where white-tailed tropic birds chased one another, swooping and wheeling in the expanse of sky. And each day was pretty much like that, with a new experience bubbling to the top of my favorites list.

Jellyfish Lake was surreal. You don't know whether you are in an episode of Spongebob or Fear Factor. Snorkeling to the middle of the lake you are in a blizzard of jellies. They are pulsing all around you, the grape-fruit sized ones pumping slowly, gracefully, the dime-sized ones fluttering like strange round butterflies. Your kids are picking them up and wanting to adopt them as pets (and my sweet little girl came to me solemn faced later and whispered that she accidently squeezed "hers" too hard...oops). I was surprised that I liked it.

The diving was world-class. For someone with only a dozen dives under her belt at that point, getting to dive Palau was like skipping to the front of the dessert line. If you'd told me 6 months ago that at 50 feet underwater I would attach myself to a coral reef with a metal hook and a piece of rope, I'd have thought, "That's an odd training exercie." If you'd then told me I'd do it on purpose so that I could watch sharks and baracudas swim around me, I'd have laughed in your face. But I did it. And like that little kid on the tricycle from The Incredibles all I can say is, "That was totally wicked!!"

So enjoy some pictures--most courtesy once again of photographer extrodinaire John Heinneman--but even more, if you ever get the chance, GO! It's like no other place on the planet.

Bunkers and Caves

Diving and Fishing

Trips Part I: Japan

The last few months have been packed with travel. Our first big trip of the winter season was Japan. We prepped for weeks since we didn't have much cold weather clothing and this was to be our first ski trip ever. We ordered two small ski suits and sweet-talked a Taiwan-bound US colleague into shoving them in his suitcases. But for the bulk of the gear, I tapped the Tai Tai network to beg, steal and borrow. My Kiwi friend Nicky leant out two giant Costco bags of jackets, ski pants, gloves, socks and warm base layers. Now, while Nicky would probably say the most precious item she bestowed was her lovely, toasty, trendy ski jacket, I know that in her heart, her grandpa's wool socks and grandma's long underwear were actually the most sacred. And I swear I treated them with all the reverence they deserved and felt warm and fuzzy every time I wore them!

We began our Japan trip with one week visiting Tokyo, Kyoto and Nagoya, and then headed to Nagano for a week of snow skiing at the site of the '98 Winter Olympics. Ah, Kyoto! What amazed me was seeing how the flamboyant Chinese-style architecture we've been used to--and is still evident in some of the Kyoto sites --had morphed into the more somber structures of Japan's temples and palaces. I snapped endless pictures of wood, stone and iron, and I loved the way dark rooflines looked against the cold blue sky. We got there just in time to see the last of the fall leaves, too, and I realized how long it's been since I've breathed in the damp, leafy smell of autumn. Wandering through Gion, the geisha district, plunged me back into the pages of Memoirs of a Geisha, and seeing the Golden Pavillion at Kinkakuji took my breath away.

Below: Grounds at old Imperial Palace, grounds at Ryoanji zen temple complex, Nanzenji zen temple, apprentice geisha in Gion, Kinkakuji (Golden Pavillion)

Nagano was cold, snowy goodness! We were blessed with heavy powder by night, and sunshine on the slopes by day.The kids fell in love with the snow and were champs on the ski slopes. McLeod, ever the natural athlete, went from novice to pretty good in no time. I've blocked out some of the less pleasant moments of me actually trying to ski. I have a blurred memory of saying, "Hey, this isn't so bad!" while on the near-flat training area, followed by a painfully embarrassing series of falls from the moment I exited the lift chair and begin attempting S-turns. Wait, sorry, I think that was some other girl in borrowed woolen socks. I was the rosy-cheeked lady happily snapping pictures of husband and children on the slopes and learning that if you lock eyes with a novice snowboarder, she will come sliding right toward you at increasing speed, apologizing profusely in Japanese and desperately trying to turn away. She will finally wipe out in a snow bank at the last minute and you will pretend you didn't notice. Evenings were bliss in the onsen, the traditional Japanese bath which includes first completely cleansing in the shower area, then dipping into the steamy waters for a long soak. After her first trip to the ladies onsen with me, Caroline had me send a note to her grandmother that read: We just went to the hot tub. We were NAKED. And I LOVED it! McLeod and Barret's onsen experience was a little different - while C and I pretty much had the place to ourselves other than one or two quiet Japanese ladies, the men's side was overrun with mohawk-sporting, snowboard zealots from the Western hemisphere. Every third word was "Dude!" while every other word was an obscenity. McLeod kept Barret engaged in a loud, lively conversation about his day at ski school to mask the Dude-talk on the other side of the hot pool. But what McLeod missed in relaxation at the onsen, he found fireside in the lobby where Joe, the clerk-waiter-driver-handyman-doorman (and son of the owners) turned out to also be the bartender. He produced some glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels and said, "You pour. All same price." So, toasty inside and out, we'd deal with the mounds of wet things, prep gear for the next day, conk out in our row of small beds and wake up to do it all over again.

Below: The view from the top, courtesy of John Heinemann, videos of the kids