"Flamboyant. No, exuberant. Yes, that's a better word for it. Or just plain camp.
Chris wasn't describing the Flora Expo, which looked like psychedelic vomit. Neither was he attempting to encapsulate Walasse Ting's exhibition of masturbating women, which delighted everyone - including parents and very young children. We were surrounded by Gauguin's Synthetist canvasses and Symbolist woodcuts, but even those didn't earn the reverence reserved for "camp."
Chris was describing Taipei's Longshan Temple, which, during Chinese New Year, is festooned with more bling than any gangsta's wet dream. Longshan Temple is so pimp, it kicks Vegas' ass. Lanterns, candles, sequins, fire, fireworks - the works. Plus, the dancing fountains and the reptilian charms of Huaxi Street Night Market are in the temple's immediate vicinity, so what more could a gay boy ask for.
After two days of walking up and down mountains, I was ready for some city touring.
I wouldn't quite call Taipei beautiful, although it certainly isn't ugly. It has a mega-city vibe minus the feeling of claustrophobia one gets in Hong Kong. Some districts are seriously rundown, but some other districts have been spruced up so much, the lights practically claw at your eyeballs. Ximending is Ginza on crack.
Taipei is pleasant. It's easy. The metro is reliable, cabs are cheap and cabbies are polite, the people are chill. Plus, food is bountiful and cheap. Our first city meal was in Taipei 101's food court. I had a bowl of rice with minced meat, noodle soup, steamed cabbages and spicy tofu - all for NTD140 (about USD5). For a pimp meal in a pimp location, the deal smokes Colonel Sanders' ass.
Plus, there was this mega-lottery for a mega-pot of over NTD1billion. Taipei is mega-ambitious. Everything is superlative.
By the end of the day, Chris and I were so exhausted, we didn't even find any humour in The Green Hornet.
"I'm more fit than you are," Chris observed, "but you need less time to recover."
We ducked into a massage parlour and signed up for the most badass reflexology massage ever. The ladies were so sadistic, I wanted to take them home. Our cries of pleasure slash pain were somewhat eased only by fine tea and a sweaty Rain performing on two flat screens. And then my lady started channel surfing, finally stopping at a replay of the VMAs, whilst Lady Gaga collected a Moonwalker for Bad Romance.
The parlour erupts in song.
With Affection,
James
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