Kissing the Moment as She Flies

Today was the big day. Two weeks of preparation, every day devoting my spare moments to practicing. Praying, hoping that I would do well. Imagining myself getting it right.

I rested last night so I would have energy for my big day. And finally it came. This morning, I packed my things and headed to Taoyuan with my friends, Xiao Fei (小飛), Xiao Zhao (小昭), and Jian Min (建民).

By now, I can hear you. "Okay, what is all this preparing about? What, are you taking another licensing exam? Sheesh, does it ever end, Ron?"

Well, you'll be happy to know that no licensing exam was involved today (wasn't this past year enough?).

No, today I participated in something fun, something, well, unexpected. I participated in Taoyuan's Folk Festival.

Yes, folks, two weeks ago, our teacher pointed out a flyer for the "Taiwanese Singing Contest for Foreigners". Some bell inside of went off. "You better do this!" a voice urged along with the bell.

I have been so busy, I thought to myself, "No, don't, you don't have the time. Be a little more lazy!" But then another voice said (real loud): "CARPE DIEM". And yet another voice said, "DO THE DIFFICULT". (I heard that last one from a Thai monk and it has stuck with me.)

And so, I ask my good friend Yilin to teach me the most famous Taiwanese song, written in 1933, called "Longing for a Spring Wind" (望春風). We get together and he explains the intricacies of Taiwanese pronunciation. People in the cafe look at the two of us a little funny. "There's a waiguoren in the corner singing 望春風!"

Walking around campus the following week, I look for guitar players strumming their instruments, and find Xiao Fei. I ask him if he would willing to back me up, and a few days later he calls me. "Yes!"

We have our first practice about a week ago, and Xiao Fei brings his two friends Xiao Zhao and Jian Min. They are all great musicians, and members of the school's guitar club. I apologize to them in advance--this week, we'll need to get together a few times to practice and you guys will have to learn two songs.

"No problem," they all reply, "we're not really that serious about our studies!"

"Excellent," I respond... I have a band. (No groupies, though... yet!)

For the past week, I've been singing the song while sitting on benches waiting for buses, sitting on these buses, walking up the hill to go class, walking down the hill to go to class. You get the idea.

I get my haircut yesterday and sing it to the old Taiwanese ladies who cut hair at the university barber shop (for a mere 120NT, or about 4 USD). (They smile and compliment me.) I sing it to the taxi driver who gives me a ride home a few nights ago, and he helps me with some words. He, like all the people I meet here in Taiwan, is very warm (熱情）, and compliments me. He is a little surprised. I am a waiguoren. He probably doesn't pick up many waiguoren who sings Taiwanese songs to him in his cab.

I get an e-mail from the Taoyuan city government cultural office this past week. The contest is cancelled--not enough foreigners, apparently, are keen on singing in Taiwanese. However, they still want me to come and sing. Of course, I say yes.

They also had asked me to prepare a song from "my own culture" (and dress in my "own culture's" clothing). Hmm, what is "my culture"?

God bless America (and the whole rest of the world, while you're at it), but I can tell you that it probably ain't mainstream American culture. I grew up hearing my parents (who are immigrants) talk like this: "You know, Americans are so (fill in the blank)", so I've grown up with a sort of dual (at least) identity. In my twenties, I joined a Middle Eastern Jewish band, and got in touch with my cultural roots, which are somewhere in the Middle East. I became, along with six other dudes, a Middle Eastern Jewish Rock Star.

And so, I decided that I would perform one of our band's show-stoppers, Et Dodim (The Time of Lovers) at the show. I sat in the library this past Thursday with my band's recording of the song and transcribed the words in Hebrew, refreshing my memory for the big show.

And then there was my clothing adventure. I figured I want to wear something Middle Eastern. Half of my family is from Morocco. Of course, I don't have any Middle Eastern clothing with me in Taipei. So, I improvise.

I head to "Tandoor Restaurant" on Friday night and talk to the owner. I tell him I need a white kurta. "What for?" he asks. I tell him I'll be performing this weekend, and I need an ethnic costume. I begin singing the only Hindi song I know (sang by Raj Kapur). "Mera juta hai japani..."

"You don't think I can sing that in jeans, do you?" I say. He nodds his head and shakes my hand. "Call me tomorrow and I'll see what I can do."

That night, I get a message from my friend Sajeev, who is Taiwanese but who has been to India. I had mentioned to him that I needed to borrow some Indian clothing. "Come to Daan Park tonight. I will bring the clothes."

And so, I meet Sajeev at the park. Since it is the Mid-Autumn Festival, the park is bustling with people. On the stage on the west side of the park, an ensemble is playing hakka music. Sajeev arrives and he makes the delivery.

But not before introducing me to his six friends who are all Sufis. "Well, we are all Sufis who have been inspired by Osho." Osho is a guru from India. After the concert, they all dance and sang. I am surprised at how liberally they are all shaking their booties. "Are you sure you are Taiwanese?"

"Actually we're not," one of them jokes. "Can you see how we are all a little more sexual than most Taiwanese?"

Osho is a good guru. He talks about not repressing your sexuality. Maybe I'll talk about him in another blog. We're getting off the topic here. I know you like talking about sexuality and you like where I am going with this, but calm down, there, cowboys and cowgirls.

I guess what I am saying was that preparing for this concert today was a hell of an adventure.

I didn't even mention that on Saturday, while looking for a costume, I bumped into two of my closest friends in Taipei. Emmy had e-mailed me the night before and we bumped into each other at Ximending. Sheenru had messaged me earlier in the day to say hi and I bumped into her on the MRT.

I told both of them that I don't believe in coincidences. Especially not in a city as big as Taipei. When things like this happen, I actually have to remind myself that although they may seem like coincidences, well, just think critically. How many days do you run around Taipei and run into no one? Months maybe? And then two of your closest friends who you haven't seen in a while contact you, and within hours you bump into them?

It's good to be reminded that we are all connected and that something else, something not quite tangible, is going on.

Also, as my friend reminds me, it is the Mid-Autumn Festival, a time for family reunions. "You are bumping into your family!" she says

Okay, so far, I've practiced my Taiwanese song a lot, and with Sajeev's delivery, now have my clothing. Now, I wake up and it's Sunday morning. I realize I need to write some words in Chinese introducing the songs I will be singing. In the past few days I realized that the two songs I am singing are perfectly matched.

The Taiwanese song I am singing, Wang Chun Feng, is about a girl of eighteen or so who has spotted the boy of her dreams, but, because of her cultural conditioning, can't approach him, so she waits for him to court her. He never comes. It is a sad song of longing for that spring wind.

The Hebrew song, Et Dodim, is the song of a groom inviting his love to the garden to celebrate their love. It's the perfect answer to this young girl's longing. Oh my!

And so I walk to campus this morning and bump into a friend of mine, Winston, who is a law student. Winston is in his thirties and just returned from a trip to Nepal. "Do you have any time to help me with Chinese?"

"Sure," he says.

I explain to Winston my situation. I explain the two songs and what I want to say about them. Winston is smart. He writes some eloquent words that say what I would like to say, but in Chinese. I practice them on the way to the gig. Here they are:

今天我要為各位來賓唱兩首歌曲,一首是台灣傳統民謠"望春風",是描述一位少女遇到一位如意郎君的思莫心境.當我的朋友介紹這首歌給我並解釋它的意思,我深深感動,並喜歡上這首歌.
令外一首歌是我的家鄉--以色列的一首家喻戶曉的民謠,用來回音望春風的淒美.是訴說一位未婚夫邀請他的未婚妻來花園團聚,互訴情衷,曲名"愛的時刻",現在是中秋佳節.月圓人團圓.以這首歌祝福大家"有情人衷成眷屬. [是我台灣朋友幫我寫--不是我自己寫得!]

It's time for sound check. I get dressed. And it's time to perform.

I perform. It is nothing special. I am nervous, a foreigner, a white foreigner, singing a Taiwanese folksong in front of an audience of a hundred Taiwanese people. Some of them look like they were born before the song was written. I forget a few words, but manage to not make a fool of myself.

I sing my Hebrew folksong, which I feel more comfortable singing. People in the audience look a little interested. At the same time, the look on their faces says, "Uhh, what the...?"

All of the preparation, and there is no peak experience, no moment of triumph, no ecstasy. It seems the event goes by quickly, and with my friends, I am back in Taipei a few hours later.

We take the bus back to Zheng Da. It stops at the school's entrance, and so I must walk up the mountain (which only takes about twenty minutes). As I walk, I see the tea house at the foot of the mountain. I've run out of tea, and so I walk in.

In Chinese, I tell them I would like to buy some wulong cha. Since this is a tea house and not 7-11, they invite me to have a seat and sample some teas. And so begins an hour of fine tea-drinking and sharing each others' stories.

The laoban (owner), a young-looking man of 43, explains how we smell the tea before drinking it, first in its dry state, then the moistened tea leaves, then in the just-emptied smelling cup, before actually drinking the tea.

"This wulong tea," he explains, "is from Alishan, and is famous for it's hint of milk." He explains different ways of drinking the tea, different types of tea, how to make the tea, and lots more. He tells me he grew up in this house, and now he's made it into this beautiful tea house.

I tell them that I performed a Taiwanese song today, and I sing half of it to them. They smile and tell me I sing it pretty good. I feel like this performance is more meaningful than my performance at the festival.

These moments in the tea house feel very essential. I don't know--the big event was fun, but it didn't have some feeling that is always obvious to me, something which I call "essential". But sitting here, as the laoban explains how he prepares the tea leaves by hand, I feel that I have discovered a treasure.

I buy a bag of tea and say goodnight to them--it is almost midnight--and I walk up the mountain to my little taofang. There's a dog in the street that winds up the mountain, and he's in a playful mood. For the next ten minutes, he plays this game--he looks at me and then runs up the street a little, then looks at me and runs up some more. And then, he's gone.