The Park

Ready, set, g—

I think we’re supposed to be moving. Yes, we’re moving. But where? Across a busy street where soft, long, golden leaves inaudibly crunch. Forward, out through a passageway beside brambles out to an open space where I can look out and see Taichung City down the hill of green grass. There’s just a moment to appreciate the sight. Gray, dignified gravestones are scattered down the slope. The sky is a mix of gray and sunlit blue. Time flies…


Onto the flat immaculate gray-stone sidewalk I go, then down a slope through a park where I hear birds chirping. That cross-country memory of that inhale-inhale-exhale breathing pattern somewhere between exhaustion and comfort resurfaces. The memories of birds chirping in the summer in the early morning in that time when the sun hasn’t yet risen. I can barely hear the cars, the machines rolling by on the street above. But on I go, and I say goodbye to that place forever and down alongside the cars and then across the street next to a frame of a yet-to-be-building in view of the harbor.

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Up, down, up, down, some people stare at the sweaty Westerners as we run by, taking shortcuts through the leafy grass and finally back onto the sidewalk, through the brightly colored Chinese archway onto a paved road through tall grass, to the end of the journey, and before long, a feast.

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…and Taiwan Beer!


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