gwenonikki

Walking was the best way to see Taipei, along with some help from its extremely well designed subway. Colin and I had two days to explore before the conference sucked him in. Then I had another two on my own. One of our favourite places was the memorial hall for Chiang Kai-Shek, Taiwan’s first president. What an expansive, crisp landmark, especially because we visited it on a dazzling sunny day. Everything was bold white, deep green, and marine blue.

We also went to Ximen, the shopping neighbourhood which supposedly mimics Tokyo’s Harajuku. But we found Ximen demanded more of our navigational skills. It’s a labyrinth of twisty backstreets, jam packed with tiny shops. Also unlike Harajuku, everything is really cheap. All of that compelled me to return for a second solo visit while Colin was at his conference.

Day after day of walking meant that my legs were killing on the last day. I still went exploring, but at much slower pace and with the ultimate goal of getting myself a foot and leg massage like we had been offered at the night market.

Unsure of where to find such a place during the day, I asked the woman at the hotel’s front desk. Somewhat understandably, she assumed I wanted a sanitized American experience and sent me to yet another crazy mall. This one had mini spas running shoulder to shoulder with Kenneth Cole and DKNY. I persevered in looking for her recommended place only because the card she had given me promised a free shuttle ride back to the hotel. My legs were feeling really unreliable at that point. Fortunately I couldn’t find the place.

I sucked up my courage and decided to join the locals at the brimming massage place I had passed en route to the hellish mall. After I passed through the front tea shop, I was greeted by the hostess’ surprised giggle. Next thing I knew, I was sitting in a pink tiled area on a stool, with my camera knapsack still on my back and my feet in Tupperware-contained floral bubbles. I sat there quite a while, wondering if I was supposed to go back out or if someone was going to get me. Then I peered through the doorway’s beaded curtain and saw this guy tentatively looking in at me. I guessed he was to be my masseur and got a nod when I gestured I’d come out.

He stopped me as I tried to knowingly walk towards the row of lazy boys in the awkward slippers I had been given. He barred my way with one of the longest pairs of boxer shorts I’ve seen. And then he pointed to the back. Oh oh, I thought, he thinks I want a full-body massage. I shook my head and pointed to my calves and feet. He smiled and then said (in English!), “Put on.” Ah, eureka! I was supposed to change from my skirt to the crazy shorts.

I can only guess how funny I must have looked plucking my way back out to the lazy boys in my slippery slippers and gi-normous boxer shorts. I felt a bit comforted when I sat down and realized that the women on either side of me had the shorts on too.

The place was the antithesis of a North American spa. Although clean, it was rundown. And there was almost no minimalist white. I appreciated all of the colours. The forest green row of lazy boys. The royal blue towels under my legs. The bubblegum pot of white massage lotion. Steaming green and pink candy-striped towels were wrapped around my legs when, sadly, the massage was over. It’s one of the best ones I’ve ever had.

I think the atmosphere added to my impression, though my masseur was really skilled. I liked how the female masseur curled up in one of the lazy boys to have a nap between customers. How everyone watched and commented on the news beamed down from the big-screen TV precariously mounted on the wood-panelled wall. And how the hostess would throw me motherly smiles between cat naps at her desk.

And I ended up not needing that shuttle ride any way. My legs felt all tingly new when I left.