My last weekend in Taiwan: Sunday

Context: We had an assignment in my English class to write a non-fiction narrative.  I figured since I haven’t finished the Taiwan blog, might as well “kill two birds with one stone” and write about the trip!  So there will be some contextual info in this piece, as well as a little bit of a different style.

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We arrived at Guan Zi Ling Toong Mao Spa Resort, which was a little too classy for 16 college students.  But this was a treat; we only had a few days left in Taiwan.  I was here on a two-month scholarship with 35 other Americans who were trying to improve their Mandarin.  The Taiwanese university assigned each of us a language partner to help us get acclimated to the country.  My partner’s name was Tammy, and we were basically inseparable after day one.  Ten of our Taiwanese friends came with us to the spa, including Tammy, partially because it was going to be fun and partially because we would have no idea how to get there without them.  We needed them.  We would be so lost without them.

On the way in, a uniformed woman handed each of us a towel and a shower cap.  This wasn’t your average spa.  It was a hot spring.  I didn’t really know what a hot spring was, even walking into the building.  I pictured more of a geyser.  But any dictionary will tell you that a hot spring is a body of naturally heated water that exceeds 98 degrees in temperature.  I grew up in Ohio, and the closest I’d come to hot water was Lake Erie in August.  I was never one to grab a tray out of the oven without mitts, or eat pizza right out of the box, let alone dip my entire body into scorching water.  What did I sign up for?  For some reason, “relaxing” things always hurt me.  Massages are unexpectedly painful, waxing is never comfortable and even pedicures hurt— you know, when they dig the scalpel under your nails?  I felt vulnerable in my swimsuit, hair tucked under a plastic net.

Outside, there were terraced levels of pools, each with a different benefit to your skin.  Tammy and I started in the hot pool on the lowest level.  She eased herself in like she was getting into bed after an exhausting day.  Relaxed, she let the muddy pool’s water bubble around her.  To me, the pool was a boiling pot.  I put my feet in.  I took my feet out.  The water burned my tender skin.  All my friends were in the pool, so I just had to take a deep breath and pretend the temperature was normal.  It only got slightly more comfortable with time.  A digital display of the temperature hung from the canopy standing over the tub, stating that I had just survived soaking in nearly 100-degree water.

Eventually I convinced Tammy to come into the cold pool with me.  We went everywhere together.  The cool water felt numb on my skin.  Flower petals floated on the water’s surface.  The temperature reminded me of my local swimming pool in Ohio.  Except this one contained essential oils instead of hair and old Band-Aids.

Next we graduated one terrace higher, where the fish pools sat.  People let their legs dangle into a pool of hungry fish, ready to eat the dead skin off their feet.  I sank mine into the pool and hoards of fish, small and large, came to flock my legs.  It was obvious that the foreigners in the pool had the most fish kissing their ankles and toes.  Apparently our feet have an international flavor… or just a lot of dead skin.  It tickled.

Tammy and me in the fish pool—

A Taiwanese family sitting next to me noticed the side of my leg, dotted with ugly, red mosquito bites.  Their pained faces expressed pity.  “Use soap,” one of them told me, motioning with an invisible bar to rub it over my wounds.  Their little girl sank her feet into the water, letting out the most vigorous laugh when a fish approached her tiny legs.  She screamed and cackled, and even though she kept fidgeting, the ticklish fish kept returning.  I looked over at my American friend.  We both couldn’t help but laugh at her laugh.  Out of nowhere: rain.  It came down hard and fast.  Lots of people ran under the canopy, but no one in the fish pool cared.  We were in swimsuits, fish catering our toes, squinting in the downpour.  The Taiwanese couple pointed out new mosquitoes threatening me every few seconds.  I aggressively swatted at the air, slapping any bugs in my path.

Finally, a worker brought out the tub of mud all 16 of us were eagerly awaiting.  Tammy and I rushed the container one terrace below, digging our hands into the soft, slimy mixture and wiping it all over our bodies.  I covered my arms and legs, but my roommate, Jocelyn, made sure to get my entire face.  We all had fun glopping mud onto our friends’ backs, eyebrows, lips.

Then we all ran over to the wooden balcony.  The sun had come out.  Mud cracked around our joints, our smiles, under our eyes.  Everything glistened in a post rainfall twinkle— the trees below the wooden overlook seemed especially green now.

Once our skin was stiff with mud, we returned to the boiling pool to remove it.  I was eager to get back in the steaming water and free my tense, mud-covered skin.  The mold melted from my body in the searing water.  My skin felt so smooth now.  My arms were as soft as a newborn’s.  I kept rubbing my hands over them just to confirm they were mine.  I probably looked like I was cold, which is impossible in Taiwan’s muggy air, but I just couldn’t believe these smooth limbs were attached to my body.  It was getting late, and we needed to get home.  I changed back into my clothes feeling like a model, skin glowing.  But I don’t think my shine was completely due to the spa treatment.  I think it also had to do with my new Taiwanese friends, their generosity, and their country’s complete willingness to help strangers.