Stripper Shoes (or, I Told You So)

This is not really my story, but I'm part of it and it makes me laugh so much that I must share it which keeping identities confidential.

A lovely international woman I've met here in Korea, whom we shall call X, is someone who I see as a good friend but I fear she maybe views me more as an aunt or a mom due to our age difference (wow, it's about 20 years, now that I do the math).   Anyway, we enjoy each other's company and like having coffee and watching movies together, etc.  One night she brought over some clothes that she thought Elisabeth might like to have. Indeed: the shirt and sweater were a hit. but I put a stop to the dress shoes. Elisabeth is only 12 and has no occasion to wear 4" stiletto heels, no matter how much she begged about the unlikelihood of finding such nice shoes in her size (they both wear 9.5) and no matter how much X joined the argument to let my poor daughter have these nice shoes.  No, no, nope. And then, in a verbal show of stamping my foot, I might have been a wee bit too blunt when I said to X, "Elisabeth really doesn't need stripper shoes."  I probably hurt X's feelings, but she recovered quickly and mentally justified my response: "Oh, Sherri is kind of old and doesn't really know what "stripper" shoes are!  I wore these nice neutral shoes to a Christian wedding!  Silly middle-aged mother."

The Shoes.

A few days later, X advertised her shoes on our city's Facebook Bazaar page, where we buy and sell all kinds of stuff from left-over taco seasoning to rice cookers to mobile phones.  X soon got an interested buyer, and they agreed to meet for the sale.

When two men walked into the meeting place, looking intently at X, she assumed they were her buyers but must have come to get the shoes for a girlfriend.  Jokingly, X asked "Why don't you try them on to see if they fit?" And to her great surprise, one of the men quickly agreed - and declared them to be a perfect fit.  And then mentioned that the shoes would be a wonderful addition to his upcoming drag queen show.

Wow.  So, ok, admittedly I was wrong: they indeed weren't "stripper" shoes.  But, oh, the end of the story does mean I won back some points with X.  Maybe I'm not that old or ignorant after all.   :)

Going Dental: Wisdom Tooth Extractions

I have long believed that February is the longest month of the year, dragging out for eons of nostril-freezing weariness. Of course, before moving to Korea I'd only lived in the mid-west (Michigan, Chicago, Iowa), which stubbornly resides in an ice age for half the year. Now, however, I live in a land where winter is just a season - not a malicious force that warrants hand-wringing headlines.

February flew by this year though, because (a) we got no snow this month; (b) Sam (now aged 19) and Nick's parents (now aged "senior discount") came to visit us; and (c) I started teaching at Handong on March 2 and have needed to nap away the panic attacks prep for my two classes.

We had lots of little adventures this month, including an overnight trip to Busan (I'm no longer an airbnb.com virgin!), visiting Bird Park in Gyeongjju (we were covered in pretty birds! which covertly ate our jackets' zipper teeth!), and tried out lots of restaurants (Vietnamese! Japanese! Korean! Indian!).  Sam also got 3 of his wisdom teeth removed, and it is that adventure on which we'll focus here.

Today's question for you, dear reader: Is it cheaper to get one's wisdom teeth taken out in Korea (including the round-trip plane ticket) or in the US?

Sam at the MIR Dental Clinic with pictures of the two award-winning oral surgeons
(they invented a screw-like device to replace missing teeth)

Sign outside Shinsegae Dental Clinic (near Yeongildae Beach):
one nurse and one dentist spoke perfect American English.
Heaven!!!

Maybe we cheated a little by going to two dentists: MIR Dental insisted on a one-week interval after pulling 2 of Sam's teeth on his right side, and that conflicted with his flight back home. So, we went to another dentist with different orthodontial ethics to pull just one tooth on the left side (his 4th wisdom tooth didn't need pulling after all).  I shall not bore you with long descriptions of every visit (many Korean doctors do love follow-up appointments), but here is the price breakdown in US dollars (google was very helpful in researching costs).

Day	Location	Tasks
Tuesday	MIR	2 panoramic x-rays	$30
Monday	MIR	3 shots, 2 teeth extracted, stitches Drugs ($7 antibiotics, painkiller, anti-nausea) Student translator ($20)	$58
Tuesday	MIR	check sockets	$7
Thursday	Shinsaege Dental Clinic	1 panoramic xray, 1pain-free shot, 1 extraction, drugs (antibiotics, painkiller, anti-nausea)	$13
Saturday	MIR	remove stitches	$4
		Subtotal for 3 Korean extractions:	$112
		Round-trip flight from US to Korea	$1200
		KOREAN TOTAL (with flight)	$1312
US costs:		$200-400 per tooth PLUS sedation ($50-400) PLUS xrays ($60-150 each) PLUS drugs ($35 for generic, 1 week)	$750-1785

$112 in Korea vs. about $1200.  Um, yeah, there's an obvious savings there.

But, ok, aren't there risks?  Well, yeah, but that's what I like to call "adventure." You won't get any informed consent or liability forms or insurance forms or much of any information at all about what's going on (maybe Korean-speaking patients get all this, but we did not).  You're not guaranteed that the good doctor has washed his hands or will wear gloves during surgery.  And Korean dentists don't do the whole "laughing gas" sedation route - a shot is enough.  So, depending on your health hysteria level, you might prefer your local American dentist so matter what the expense.

In the end, the financial savings were significant and we don't get into germ frenzies, so Sam went ahead with great success.  The very best part, of course, was the communication barrier.  A Korean nurse, trying hard to use her limited English, told Sam just before the surgery to "close your face."   He decided to close his eyes but keep his mouth open, and that was apparently the point.  You just can't buy cross-cultural humor. :)

Oops: When Red Lights Are Not Suggestions

We live on a small university campus on top of a mountain about 2 km from the East Sea (which less-enlightened people might believe is named the Sea of Japan).  Our apartment building is at the tippy-top of the campus and from our 5th-floor apartment we can see the ocean, the neighboring town/suburb on the north side of Pohang (city of about 1/2 million folks), and even the smokestacks from the downtown steel works (eight km south).  It's not a long distance into town, but it takes some skilled driving: across 10 campus speed bumps (oh, how I wish I was exaggerating), down the pine forested mountain, along a twisty two-lane road amid rice fields, and through an industrial park (where a mountain once resided but was dumped into the ocean to make the port).  Then we get to a village (my favorite for beach-walking) and then to the town/suburb of high-rise apartments, restaurants, dozens of coffee shops, and a ba-jillion smart phone shops.

Upon moving here, we noted that on the highway and in the city proper, posted traffic signs and signals were mostly obeyed by private cars (scooters obey no law; buses and taxis have their own law).  But now, as highly-skilled Korean drivers, we know which traffic lights are jokes, which are reasonable suggestions, and which should actually be obeyed.

Until the rules changed today.  After slowing slightly to ensure that no cross traffic was at the familiar 3-way village intersection, I blew through a red light as usual (going only 60kph, compared to at least 80kph by taxis and giant trucks heading to the port). Just after I did so, a police officer (a far, FAR rarer species on Korean roads than American ones) stepped into the road ahead of me and pointed to the side.  Uh oh. I stopped, he spoke in rapid Korean, and I just smiled brightly.  He got a wee bit more aggravated as he gestured in a square-ish fashion. I am not sure why I enjoy playing Dumb American as much as I do, so with a small bit of regret I give him some slack. "License?" I asked, and he nodded.  Whereupon he walked back to his car and chatted with a  young police woman; she stood behind my car and ran my license through what appeared to be an app on her phone then approached my window.

She was adorable.  I could not stop smiling or giggling and would have happily accepted a ticket from her.  Her English was poor (far better than my own Korean, though), but she got the point across as she smiled and stammered.  "Cross-street walk?  Old people?  Red light? You go SHWOOOM!"  I played dumb for a little longer because, well, because I'm evil and wanted to hear her say it all again. So she did and I repeated what she'd said and she brightened even further at our successful communication.  Then she inexplicably stuck her loose fist through my window.  "Yak-soak!" (약속) she repeated, shaking her extended pinky towards me.  I, just having brought David to the doctor (he broke his arm again this week), thought she was saying "pharmacy" (약국) and was very confused (I passed a drugstore? I was on drugs?  what??) until she wiggled her pinky again and said "plo-miss."

Aha!  I pinky-promised a Korean police officer not to run red lights anymore.  Oh my goodness, this is a fantastic place to live.  :)

Food and the Streets of Taiwan

The Taiwanese people - at least those on the streets of Taipai - were remarkably friendly, helpful and far more willing to speak English than folks in Korea.  For example: on our first day, while trying to find a subway station, Nick asked a young woman for directions.  She responded clearly: "Straight here. Then walka-walka-walka to the big temple. Then walka-walka into the MRT station."  We were so delighted.  You just can't make this stuff up.

Along Incheon airport's early-morning moving sidewalk, we considered Weeny Beanies,
Snoopy Café, and Hello Kitty Café as breakfast options.  
And then we saw Subway.  How could we pass up the smell of home?

Taiwanese street food: Nick noticed a line of locals and decided these breaded meat patties must be great.  
And they sure were.

A restaurant ad in our hotel elevator kind of freaked us out.

The sumptuous breakfast buffet at the Park City Hotel included clear labels in two languages.
I smiled every morning at this one,which is really so much more useful than using the French "crouton."

Convenience store food included some interesting surprises.

We enjoyed more street food and McDonalds
(remember: the Taiwan dollar is equivalent to $0.03 USD)

With all our walka-walking about, we noticed a LOT of scooters driving around. As a social scientist, I starting taking random samples and calculating the ratios of transportation types: scooters, private cars, and taxis/buses.  Scooters (at least in Taipei) made up roughly 50% of the traffic, followed by private cars (about 25%), taxis/buses (about 20%), and a miscellaneous category (e.g, delivery trucks, bicycles).

Scooters are serious transportation - folks carry not only themselves and often another person on their scooter: we saw bags of groceries, 24-packs of toilet paper, huge packages, diapers, little kids, and even some dogs.  Helmets are required by law (only a white guy and the little kids/dogs didn't wear one); scooters are given plenty of room to park on the sidewalks and in the rare parking lots, and we even saw several scooter repair shops.  What a great way to get around in a city that never sees snow.

Golden Retriever on a scooter; an adorable happy kid; a scooter seat repair shop.

One of my favorite street scenes - a very fancy private car alongside a man collecting boxes to make some extra money.
All under the watchful eye of Mary.

Learning Australian the Tracey Way

Befriending Tracey since moving here 20 months ago has entailed learning at least as much about Australia as about Korea. Just in time for her birthday, I shall here share my second-hand insights about her continent so filled with cozies (koalas! kangas!) and crazies (pretty much everything else). (Except Tracey, of course.)

Tracey and I having coffee at Firenze Restaurant (Jukcheon-ri, Pohang),
which heavily advertised steak and pasta,
except it has no steak on the menu.

Alex the Aussie.

Faithful readers may recall Tracey from wrangling horse poop, admiring a market man's silkworms, or tapping a poisonous centipede to death. Here are three salient background facts. Long ago, Tracey and husband Alex adopted three babies from Korea (now 15-22 years old). Second, Tracey's mom keeps alpacas and greyhounds. Third, Alex was a leading expert in the Australian avocado industry and then a wine grape expert until they moved to Korea 11 years ago (Tracey and Alex, that is, not the avocados or grapes). With that as backstory, how could I resist friendship?

Composting; brandishing eggplants; and precisely measuring the garden's pergola.  She can do anything.

My earliest clear memory of Tracey was a few days after we'd moved from the US into our sweltering campus studio apartment.  She came for a visit, perching at the end of my bed.  In distress over packing all the wrong clothes for the weather and culture, I asked her where I might be able to buy something more suitable in my size.  She looked me up and down in that direct Aussie way of hers and gently said, "Well, I buy mine in the market, but you're a bit more buxom than I am."  Um.  Yes.

Tracey bakes drool-inducing lamingtons (white cake squares coated in chocolate and shredded coconut);
bargains in the fabric market; makes stunning quilts, and educates hopeful missionaries. 

During our various gardening adventures and two semesters of Korean class (more on that here), I have come to appreciate that Australia is rather different than America (despite similarities in our histories as British colonies). Tracey, representing Australia, has a surprising range of unique vocabulary, pronunciation, and idioms.  I've learned that one's fringe can get a trim (that would be bangs).  What I would call a kitchen counter, she calls a "bench." At the store, grocery carts become "trolleys." A soccer field is a "pitch." Sometimes I'm pretty sure she's making stuff up.  After some satisfactory work making our compost bin, I heartily exclaimed "Well, Bob's your uncle!"  Without missing a beat, Tracey responded "And Mary's your aunt!" (I later researched this phrase and found... nothing. Google was uncharacteristically quiet about Mary).

The woman loves her eggplants.
I'd rather photograph than eat them. 

My current favorite word is "daggy," which apparently comes from the word "dag" which refers to a certain unsavory morsel hanging from the backside of a sheep.  Thus, something that's "daggy" is dirty.  "Oh!  So "daggy" is like the American "shit," right?"  Her shocked face and glance at her daughter told me all I needed to know. Ohhhh.  Ok.  It's more like "crappy" or "grungy" then.  Got it.

This cute succulent is called "pig face"
by Australian gardeners.
How can you not love that?

We share a deep love of gardening, though I prefer perennial flowers and herbs over her beloved vegetables and annuals.  We also enjoy being observant community gardeners, gossiping over whose tomatoes need supporting and who originally planted the now-runaway coreopsis. As we murmur along the paths, pointing out various gardening approaches, sometimes our names for plants are not the same and hers usually make me laugh aloud with surprise: to Australian gardeners, bell peppers are called "capsicum" (she has a certain disdainful look on her face when I call them bell peppers, which makes me persist all the more); columbines are "granny's bloomers."  Given her "Mary" quip, I am never quite sure whether to believe her, so I often sneak home and check with google to be sure.

A plate of elaborate cupcakes
from the Banks family
became our dinner on moving day.

Tracey always serves cake with spoons.  Every time.  I don't understand that at all. At first I just assumed she was out of clean forks, but this behavior persisted over time. Online research shows that this is a real thing - with surveys and Yahoo boards dedicated to discussing the propriety of forks (meant for crunchy things only!) vs. spoons (meant for soft desserts!) in eating cake. I had no idea.  Such an education I am getting.

I have also learned that during the Australian school day, children have "little lunch" and "big lunch"  What?  What are you talking about? "Little lunch" is morning tea - a brief snack time.  "Big lunch" is the mid-day meal, and some schools also have afternoon tea. How did the US miss out on this wonderful invention?

We discovered in Korean class that Tracey's accent helped her pronounce some sounds far better than I could (and I was usually grateful for her willingness to correct help me). I do love her accent and find myself unconsciously picking it up whenever we're together. Even so, I am continually startled when she spells "h" words aloud, thinking she's hissing at me. It comes out as "HAITCH" rather than "aitch"  and every time I need to rapidly process the "hissing! is she angry? - no, it's just her accent - ah, ok" routine.  Every time.  She has no idea.

A Russian, an Indonesian, and Tracey the Australian in Korean class.

Last week we hung out at her house for Australia Day.  In case you didn't know already, this date marks the January 1788 arrival of the first British admiralty fleet in order to establish a new penal colony in Australia; one of the Brits' previous penal colonies (Georgia) got lost during the American War for Independence (what we call the Revolutionary War) so they were looking for another one (another colony, that is, not another war).  Apparently this holiday is celebrated with great frolic and merriment back at home.  We in Korea celebrated with lamingtons (see photo above) and a game of Squatter while Alex shouted at the televised Asian Cup game. And in case you didn't know this, Squatter is similar to Monopoly, but instead of a cut-throat game of capitalistic greed, this game highlights the conflict of sheep vs. nature: droughts, fires, liver flukes, and a scary disease called "pulpy kidney" (Of course I looked it up later - its a real thing). And, instead of passing Go and collecting $200 for a payday, one collects "wool proceeds" based on the number of one's accumulated sheep.  And one can buy "stud rams" to hire out to other players for the contentment improvement of their herds. And like Monopoly's "Chance" cards, Squatter's "Tucker Bag" cards may unleash disaster (pastures overrun with rabbits!) or good fortune (my Stud Ram won a prize).

I hate Monopoly.  But Squatter was a lovely alternative, particularly because no dags were involved.  

So if all Austalians are like Tracey, I really really want to visit.  As soon as I figure out how to survive all the critters that want to kill me.  (Happy birthday!)

Self-Induced Drama (or, who's the idiot here, again?)

It has been a stressful week.  And I would like to blame someone.

Part 1:

Nick, still in Taiwan, forwarded a campus conference invitation about faith and learning, and encouraged me to consider attending.  After some back-and-forth with the organizer about the availability of a translator for me (she had no other non-Korean RSVPs), I committed to attending a session specific to psychology.

The day arrived for the conference.  After rushing home from a friend's place, I grabbed a quick lunch (it's not classy to have the rumblies in a professional meeting), put on my best business clothes, and even put on makeup and 3" heels.  I then fussed over accessories, seeking Elisabeth's critical eye.  I haven't needed to look or act like a professional in, oh, a month of Mondays and I didn't want to embarrass myself (or Professor Nick).  As ready as I could be, I briskly click-clicked across campus to the designated building, all the while trying to exuding positive confidence, shrewd intelligence, and cultural sensitivity. Once at the designated building, I searched for the elusive room 218.  And searched.  Nope: despite the sign in the lobby, nothing on the 2nd floor went higher than 217.

What?  Could I have remembered the wrong number?  Surely not: I have an excellent mind for details, and there was nothing happening anywhere on the second floor. So after just standing in the long, silent hall, pondering my next move, I pounced on an approaching young woman. I shot questions at her about the conference and room 218 and the Handong Education Center (who was hosting the conference), and some tiny part of what I said seemed to finally register.  She did not speak but led me to the other end of the hallway.  She started up the stairs and gestured for me to follow but I paused; this could not be right.  I spied a man coming out of his office, and I went to ask him about this mystery conference/room, but he was all foam-faced and clearly not willing to speak before finishing his teeth hygiene ritual in the bathroom. I sighed.  The woman again gestured up the stairs, so I followed, not having any other plan.  Up we went, then through a door, then back down some stairs.  And...there it was.  Of COURSE it's only accessible from the 3rd floor.  Of COURSE there were no signs indicating this.

Anyway, Helpful-But-Silent woman left me with a slight bow.  I took a deep breath to pull myself together, fretted for a moment about my now-sweaty pits, entered the conference center, and...it was empty. I gazed about.  A woman came out of an office and asked how she could help me.

"Conference?  Here?" I asked slowly, trying not to huff from all those stairs.

"Yes," she smiled gently. "You are Sherri?"

"Um, yes. Do you work for the conference?  Am I too early?"

"I am Jihae - I wrote to you about the translator.  The conference is on Thursday.  But today is only Tuesday."

Oh no.  Of course it is.

Part 2:

So Thursday came and again I dressed and consulted Elisabeth about my hair, etc.  I arrived at the conference center a couple of minutes before 1:00 to meet the translator (which here means "devise a joint escape plan in case (a) she couldn't translate all the psychological and theological terms and/or (b) I decided the session was not my cup of soju").  When I entered, about 25 people were just milling about getting refreshments.  Well, I rationalized, maybe the conference was running a bit behind.  I asked a woman who's supplying the tables whether I could meet the translator: "Yes, but she is eating lunch."  "Oh, ok, I can wait for her." The woman gave me an odd look, as though it was strange and perhaps a bit creepy to wait for a translator.

An older woman stopped to introduced herself as Eeuienssign-something.  She knew who I was (oh, arg) and was so glad to meet me: she had heard about me from an elderly man Nick has known (of course) for many years. (And I cannot resist this side story: I once heard this man introduced by an over-enthusiastic professor as "A eunuch for the Lord!" which was more than a little distracting to the audience as the poor man walked to the podium). Anyway, the woman asked whether I'd like to meet the speaker (um, NO) and whether I'd like to join the lunch before the session started at 2.

Um, wait a minute. 2:00?  I snuck a peek at the program, trying to play this cool, pretty sure that she had misspoken, because remember, I'm the queen of details.  But, no. Indeed, the session was scheduled to start at 14:00, NOT at 1:00.

Fish nuggets in a moth jar.

Ok, deep breaths.  I decided to run some should-have-been-quick but of-course-were-completely-unsuccessful campus errands that made me even MORE frustrated. I thus stalked home in the wind and rain (umbrella-less, of course), vowing to skip the conference and drown my sorrows in chocolate and/or cheese.  As God would have it, friend Kristina called just as I stomped into the apartment, She directed me to get myself back to the conference.  "You do NOT want to be the woman who showed up 2 days early, then showed up an hour early, and then did a no-show at the actual conference." Harrumph.

Part 3:

So, I went.  The speaker, in classic Korean academic fashion, read 85% of his speech (which was already translated into English and printed into a booklet sitting on my lap).  It was great practice for the translators to work on sounding out words like "epistemology" and "parsimony."  And it was a good (if uncredited) summary of a book we taught at Dordt.

And, to be sure, it was a bit of a let-down after all the self-induced drama this week.

Hot Springs: Local Taipei Style

Millennium Hot Springs, Beitou, Taiwan
(photo credit: taipeitravel.net)

Whoever created the glossy brochure that enticed us to visit Beitou, a lovely village-now-engulfed-by-Taipei, home to numerous hot springs resorts and interesting folklore about witches steaming away in the deep valley, they failed to mention that most tourist sites are closed on Mondays. Thus eager but unknowing, we left for Beitou via the Taipei city train system, ready for a Monday of walking and soaking and folklore education and...oh.  Maybe not.  Arg.  Well, we still  managed to have an adventure.


The MRT line to Beitou has only one stop: thus, the train and the station are specially decorated to promote the local attractions, which was a little creepy.

Certainly eye-catching....

This interesting display was on the train platform.  The naked bald guys in a tub were, well, kind of creepy.

Elisabeth was NOT impressed with the naked guys climbing the wall in the station.

As we started walking through town, following signs to all the sites I'd researched, and as we slowly realized none of the tourist attractions were open, we came across a little hole in the wall between the sidewalk and the  river.  Although it's a public establishment, Millennium Hot Springs was not on any of the city maps or the glossy brochure. Hmm. Nick, being far too adventurous for our good, went into the tiny place to ask about prices. Next thing we knew, he had whisked us inside for only $6 (USD, total, for the 4 of us).  But, strangely, we were still outside, standing atop a winding staircase leading down to several rock-surrounded pools filled with.... Oh my. What had we done? The kids nearly vomited with panic: they did NOT want to join this serene, co-ed group of elderly Taiwanese wearing very little clothing indeed.

To make matters more challenging, David and Nick were not allowed to wear their knee-length swim trunks.  Nope: spandex was the only allowed material, and the tiny on-site store sold a range of sizes that "fit" them if we here intend "fit" to mean "quite snugly accommodated their persons."  Though the men's Suits of Shame were not bikini-style speedos, they certainly left less to the imagination than, say, biking shorts.  David entered a horrified stupor and I vowed not to look below anyone's face.

The six smallish pools were cooler on the left/lower side and hotter on the higher/right side.  I read online that the ph of the water here is about 2, which is comparable to lemon juice.  And stomach acid.
(Photo credit: theoccasionaltraveller.com)

Another perspective, with the stairs descending from the entrance, swimwear shop, and bathrooms.
(photo credit: eng.taiwan.net.tw)

I was not joking about the towels on heads. Or the minimal swimwear for men.
Note: all the women wore one-piece suits.
(detail from above photo)

After finally getting the children unstuck from their paralysis at the top of the stairway, Elisabeth and I went elected to change in the bathroom near us rather than stand in line down by the private changing booths. This was a mistake.  We entered the bathroom, which had 3 sinks and 3 stalls with traditional squat toilets (basically, porcelain holes in the floor).  A perfectly naked 70+ year-old woman stood at the end sink, bending over to wash her hair.  At this sight, Elisabeth raced into a stall and tried valiantly to change into her suit without stepping into the toilet or dropping her clothing into it.  I decided to brave the sink area for my own changing area while the woman applied lotion and carried out other bodily ministrations while I focused on donning my own rarely-worn swimsuit without falling over or dropping my clothing into the puddles. The nice naked lady greeted me with "nǐ haǒ" (pronounced "knee-hah-oo") and I nǐ haǒ'd her right back.  Either I impressed her with my pronunciation and she was smiling with me, or I had called her a donkey cake or something and she was smiling at me.  She was in no hurry to cover herself and I was, frankly, amazed at her body.To be sure, some particular items no longer lived in the same zip codes they once did, but she was beautiful nonetheless.  American culture has surely done us a disservice by limiting its images of bodies to a tiny part of the age span.

But I digress.  So Elisabeth and I were suited up and wore cute cotton wrap-around skirts to keep our thighs from blinding the hapless natives as we descended the half billion stairs. And stares (at least in our own minds).  Perhaps no one else was thinking of Duchamp's "Nude Descending A Staircase" but that's surely how I felt.  We found Nick and David, already in a pool, and learned the procedures from them.

First, one needed to rinse off with a cold shower alongside the pools, which provide the pool residents with a nice preview of what's coming into the springs with them.  (Some men seemed to have forgotten that these were quite public, co-ed showers and they chose to cleanse parts that should have been covered by spandex.  I am still working to erase those images from my gentle mind.)

Next, we had to pick a pool from the available six, which had varying temperatures from lukewarm to blistering. Then we used a plastic dipper to scoop water from the chosen pool, dump over our feet to clean the grit off, and then clamber over the thick rock walls to plop into the pool itself.  I quickly realized that our skirts would need to come off: these were apparently cotton-free pools.  Happily, many locals wore wet washcloths on their heads, so Elisabeth and I folded our skirts into squares and followed suit.  I am certain that we looked completely ridiculous.

Anyway, we tried out a few of the pools (one was 95 degrees Celsius, which is hot enough to boil the white off rice), and after an hour of soaking and breathing in the mild green sulfur fumes, I felt fantastic.  I could get addicted to this: my joints, having started doing the Arthritis Ache this year, felt really good, and I was utterly relaxed and energized at the same time.  Folks certainly looked at us during our soaks, but at no point did we feel judged for our size or appearance or feel like sexual objects.  It was completely different than, say, the public pool at home.  (One man admiringly said to Elisabeth, "So white!" and I was so, so grateful to be in a place that doesn't value tanned skin. Ahhh....)

David afterwards.  If looks could kill....

After the hot springs we walked through town admiring the river views, plant and animal life, and doing some people watching.  It was a joyous day, even without the opportunities apparently available every other day of the week.

I don't know what these are, but it's January and for my entire life, January = cold.
I love Taiwan.

Lovely tree roots along the river wall.

A heron trying to nap along the river.

A happy Buddha, perhaps just out of the hot springs himself.

Most of the Taiwanese were dressed for a late fall in Iowa, but this shop owner was enjoying the 70-degree weather
as much as we were.

P.S. A few days after posting this, I had a sudden, horrible question come to mind.  What if the washcloths-on-head practice at this hot springs was just bald men's attempts to avoid sunburn?  I was so self-conscious and focused on keeping Elisabeth calm that I didn't look carefully at who did and didn't wear the washcloth. Which possibly means that when Elisabeth and I wore our folded wrap-arounds on our heads, trying to fit in to the local culture , we looked even MORE foolish than I thought. oh oh oh...