Muddled

Following Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia and recovery from a bout of Typhoid Fever, my friends decided it was time to return to Beijing, but I set off alone. Not even a 104-degree fever would stand in my way after waiting the whole year to visit Taiwan. After only three days in Taipei, I was convinced to cancel my travel plans for Japan and spend the remaining week of my break exploring the beautiful island nation. Having filled my days with endless site seeing, I felt that I had barely scratched the city’s surface and still wanted to travel to the Eastern and Southern coasts.  I resolved to take the train to Hualien for a few nights and hike the Taroko Gorge. By the weekend, I planned to return to Taipei and meet up with two Taipei locals I met surfing in Yilan the day before.

Strapped with three bags in rush-hour traffic, I made my way by taxi from my hostel to Taipei Main Station. Upon exiting, I immediately noticed my wallet was missing. Sprinting after the taxi, my bag ripped and change scattered everywhere. Abandoning the coins, I eventually chased down the taxi to a stoplight. Opening the door, the driver said there was nothing left in the car and suggested my wallet dropped on the ground when I got out of the cab. As I scanned in vain for the missing wallet, the light turned green and the cab sped away.

Sweeping the concrete with my hands, I collected whatever coins I could recover. A sickening feeling hit me. This loose change was all I had. With neither cash nor debit card, I was homeless and alone in a foreign country.

After canceling my debit card by phone, I contacted my family, but due to the time difference, the soonest any money could be wired and received from Chicago would be at least 24 hours. Standing out in the beating summer sun, I experienced a whole spectrum of emotions. Where would I sleep? What would I eat or drink? All I knew was that I needed to get myself together and relax. There was nothing I could do at the moment, and I was too shaken and upset to think clearly. Using my last cents to buy a giant water bottle, I sat down in the park to read.

Hours passed, and thoughts that began in frantic desperation slowly organized and eventually evolved into a completely crazy, yet plausible plan. In my yearlong experience studying in Beijing I had become an avid fan of KTV—Chinese Karaoke—and knew quite a few Mandopop hits by heart. Throwing off all shame, I found an empty spot near a fountain in the park, placed my hat in front of my feet and began to sing Taiwanese superstar Jay Chou’s early hit 龙卷风—Tornado.

Before long, a small crowd began to gather—most likely only to gawk at the homeless American singing on the street. I moved on to another Jay Chou single and decided to switch to singer Wang Leehom to get my first fifty Yuan. Beyond belief, three songs later my hat was soon half full of coins.