The combination of canned coffee, a 14-hour flight, and anxiety about meeting relatives after 20 years abroad has me wired.
But first, I've got to tart myself up a little. Out comes the make-up bag and a quiver full of brushes. I would say, "Vanity, thy name is woman," if I didn't know the. actual. quote.
My capacity for an understated cat-eye on a moving vehicle--with potted eyeliner no less--is astounding.
...
We're fewer than 20 minutes away from the airport and out my window a woman trudging in bare feet through a muddy field, and look! The sunny, marigold shingled eaves of the temples, flicking saucily over more unremarkable structures, corrugated steel and tiled buildings. Egrets, Egyptian walking through...dare I say it? Emerald and Jade rice fields.
There's some kind of automated air freshener, intermittently emitting a curious, fruity tang that hits you at the back of the throat.
Omnipresent 7-11s, red and white striped police cars, construction site after construction site, riddled with steel girders and backhoes. The bus sinks to a stop, the air brakes hissing.
And...where is it here? I tap the passenger in front of me and say, brokenly, "zhe4di3 shi4 na2di3?"--essentially, "here is where?" Eloquent, ain't it?
It's the stop before mine, Changhua--the city I lived in when I was 10.
Onwards and downwards, to Yuan Lin. Off the bus, a quick, awkward call to my uncle to say that I've arrived, then make myself and my hiking bag comfortable in the outdoor waiting area. An older man asks me, in my admittedly low-cut tank top, "bei3 gua2 a4?" In Taiwanese, "not cold?" When I'm slow to respond, in Mandarin, "bu2 hui4 neng3?" I shake my head no.
Then, my aunt, who I don't really recognize, but sort of intuit as my aunt, walks up, saying tentatively, "Are you from America?" I say yes, and address her by her title, "Yi2 Ma1"--Aunt Just Above My Mom In Age (basically), and then "home."
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