2 am in Taipei

by Alia Aluma-Baigent (Canada)

Making a local connection Taiwan

At around 3 am on a humid Saturday night in October I met a stranger on the streets of Taipei. Unlike most interactions, ours happened because we had both been crying. Lost enough to feel alone, but still aware of where we were, we stopped one another. Asking for directions, then names, and finally sitting on a curb to get to know each other. It was here, with this man named Kuan, that I had a conversation that would change my life. Kuan was a medical student, in his mid-twenties, studying to become a surgeon. He was due to sit in on an open heart surgery later that week. Two years previous, he had gotten engaged to the love of his life. The night we met, she had given back the ring and ran off with an American. Visiting Asia’s Largest Pride festival, I had gotten into an argument with my friends because of some deep, unresolved insecurities that made it difficult to enjoy the moment. Cast off on my own through the sleeping city, and directed home with the help of strangers and a dead mobile, I found Kuan. In the grand scheme, and in correlation with many other things, of course, I have this woman and my poor self-esteem to thank for introducing me to Kuan, the heartbroken cardiologist. Sitting downtown on a sidewalk curb under the florescent glow of Taipei, we spoke about everything. Love, life, loss — the stories that are easier to talk about with strangers. It was a strange feeling that came next, but more than anything, I didn’t want to be memorable. I hardly wanted to be known. So I stopped speaking, mid-sentence, leaving the distant clicking of late-night noodle houses to fill the silence. Kuan noticed my hesitation to continue, and he said to me, “If you wrote a collection of stories for all the moments of your life, it would sound like one hundred different people speaking. And that’s a lot.” At the moment, we laughed. Today, I realize that Kuan, the Taiwanese doctor who’s fiancé had left him for an American English teacher, was telling me that I didn’t know who I was. Nearing 6 AM, the sunrise teasing our tired eyes, we walked to a nearby 7Eleven; a local hotspot. Taipei is peaceful at night. The city is warm and livable, welcoming to strangers. Kuan, as I had come to know him, was a model citizen. Focused, used to disappointment, and driven by his work. He was also one of the funniest people I had ever met and he taught me more about Taiwanese films in sixty minutes than a lifetime of exposure could have given me. To Kuan, I was egotistical, I expected too much, and I had trust issues. He also thought that I was incredibly funny. Defeated but not bitter, we strolled the convenience aisles of bao and seaweed snacks, entirely grateful for the fact that we laughed at the same things. So there we were, sitting on the ground in Taipei, the buzzing neon 7Eleven sign growing into the morning the sun. Convenience store cappuccinos in our hands, life lessons in our wake, we made a pact. Kuan and I decided, in the pursuits of our own happiness, we needed to break up with ourselves. We had to forgive our mistakes, leave our bad habits, and take time to learn our lessons. We were moving on. Years later, I have received an email from Kuan telling me that he has secured a brilliant cardiology residency. He’s also entered into the dating world casually, but without caution. He thanked me for reminding him to spend time doing things solely for himself, then attached a list of books that he’s read since we last spoke. He’s asked me how I am, too. And while I am unsure of exactly what I have been accomplishing, I know that all I am doing is for my pursuit of happiness, just as those two sad souls under the neon Taipei moon would have wanted.