Page 24 of Taipei Story

“Jeez, Anna’s right.” I flinched. “You are obsessed with blending in.”

“I mean—I just want to respect the local customs.”

“Fine, then what do you want to do instead?”

I saw now I was in a terrible position. Distracted as I had been with Anna, I had not put any effort into planning this Beitou trip. I had assumed that when we showed up, the attractions would just materialize in front of us, the way they always had on any group excursion. Now we had no itinerary, and the one thing JC had clearly wanted to do was off the table. It was still early in the day. I had to spend at least eight hours with JC before we could plausibly call it a night and go to sleep. The only thing I knew about Beitou was that it was famous for its hot springs. I had no idea what else the town had to offer.

“Maybe we could just walk around,” I said. “Like, explore the resort area, and then explore the town center. Let’s just see where the road takes us?”

“Fine,” said JC. “Okay. Fine.”

OUTSIDE, WE FOLLOWED THE ROAD SIGNS UP THE HILL TO THE BEITOU Geothermal Valley.

We passed about a dozen hot springs resorts along the way. They all looked fancier than ours, and we both pretended not to notice. Everywhere I looked, there were street stands hawking hard-boiled eggs cooked over sulfurous gas. We passed a little family of German tourists who seemed very excited about these eggs, though I couldn’t see how sulfurous gas could make anything taste better.

The Geothermal Valley lay behind an iron gate. At the front of the gate was a stone fountain, from which a thick stream of bright green water trickled steadily into a basin. A sign on the fountain explained the health benefits of this special sulfurous water: It could cure all sorts of ailments, including arthritis and cancer. I drew my fingers idly through the stream. I couldn’t believe this shade of green existed in nature. I was sure someone had dribbled in some food coloring. It was the bright green of theatrical effects, of magic potions. But I didn’t have any ailments to cure. I was young and healthy and I had no wrinkles. Maybe if I had leprosy or something—then I’d be really excited about this water.

The path beyond promised us a hike through the Geothermal Valley and a better look at the sulfur mines, but the gate was locked. The park was closed today for maintenance.

JC kicked at the gate. “Why on a Friday?”

His vehemence startled me; I shrank back. “It’s okay.”

“But people come out on Fridays!” His cheeks were flushed red, and his voice carried a sudden, childish hitch. For a moment, I thought he might cry. “Why would you close it today, of all the fucking days?”

“It’s really okay.” I tugged at his arm. “We’ll just go back and look at the city, okay? We don’t have to see the springs up close.”

“Fine.”

We walked a few paces together down the path. For a while, neither of us spoke. I was embarrassed about shrinking, and JC was embarrassed about his tantrum, and we were both going mad from the heat. We had revealed too much about how circumstances made us feel, and now we had to kill ourselves.

OUR MOOD IMPROVED AS WE TURNED BACK TOWARD THE TOWN center. The old woman on the train had been right. Beitou in the summertime heat was punishing, and on the rocky paths near the Geothermal Valley, the sun conspired with the humidity to create a choking greenhouse atmosphere. But nearer the main street there were trails that led through a forest, and after several silent minutes in the shade, I no longer felt that life was not worth living.

JC reached out and snaked his fingers around mine.

I had seen this coming. I had felt his hand knocking against mine for the last few minutes, like a boat attempting to dock, so I didn’t flinch when at last he made contact. But now I couldn’t enjoy my walk because I was so fixated on his hand. It wasn’t any sweatier than mine, and his grip wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just so big. My fingers were lost inside all that flesh. And every time I moved, or tried to turn a corner, I had to be excruciatingly aware of his hand, which was of course connected to the rest of his body, and which constrained my every action. But letting go was such a violent declaration. Commenting on it would be even worse. Then we would break whatever truce made this walk so pleasant.

Finally JC pulled away to check the maps app on his phone, and I jammed my hands into my pockets.

HALF A MILE DOWN THE ROAD WE SAW A WOODEN SIGN POINTING toward a public spring. JC wanted to check it out, so we followed the path until we came to a row of turnstiles. The man at the gate said that it would cost NT$100 each for us to enter. He glanced at us and added, “And the men’s and women’s baths are separate.”

“We don’t want to soak in the springs,” said JC. “We just want to have a look around; can we do that?”

The old man asked him what he was looking for.

“Just looking.” JC repeated the verb, as if that were the source of confusion. I was struck with a wave of déjà vu. This was the same verb Anna had used to justify peeking through my texts: 看. “Look, look.”

Finally the old man shrugged and let us pass through the turnstiles.

The public springs, too, looked nothing like the photos from the resorts. They just looked like public pools, except that steam curled lazily from the water’s surface. Faded towels, foldout chairs, and plastic toys lay scattered around two circular tubs cut from stone: one for the men, one for the women. In the men’s pool, a half dozen old, muscled grandpas sat leaning against the rim with their elbows propped against the edge. They were wearing matching swim trunks: a navy-blue base with a pineapple print. In the women’s pool, a cluster of fully dressed grandmas sat perched on the edge, nibbling sunflower seeds and soaking their feet.

I stifled a giggle. There was nothing erotic about this. It looked nice, actually. I wished I’d brought a swimsuit after all.

We stood awhile, until some of the old men started to gaze back, and JC said, “Let’s keep moving.”

THEN EMERGED FROM THE TREES A SIGHT THAT MADE THIS WHOLE journey worth it: a three-story building of gleaming wood, all clean lines and bright lights, wooden banisters wrapping around floor-to-ceiling windows. A museum? An art gallery? We wandered closer. It was the public library. I tried the doors, but they were locked. A sign on the window apologized that the library was closed for renovations.

“Damn it.” I pressed my forehead against the window glass. I could just imagine walking through those stacks: cool air, cool wood, and crisp, waiting books.