Taming the Dragon
2010. Beijing. November 10th. I walk down the street called Guozijian 國子監 , so named for the Guozijian Academy, which takes up a large part of it’s Northern side. Originally established in 1306, the East-West running hutong’s main cultural sites are the academy and the adjacent Confucius Temple. Although now a tourist site, during the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties, the Guozijian Academy was the administrative headquarters and the highest level of learning officials could aspire to study during these dynasties. With Confucius Temple directly next door, the street gives off an air of austerity where cold, hard, knowledge taught by rote learning, recitation of the classics, and officialdom being weeded out through a harrowing sequence of rigid tests were the main order of business back in the day. On a Fall day in November, 2010, the red-walled austerity is balanced by the stark contrast of a Beijing blue sky. A man walks his bird in a cage. He grasps the handle with a strong hand, and although there is a cover over the cage, the sounds from underneath indicate life within. I sit down on one of the pedestals lining the hutong on the South side of the street and open up my diary. It’s 8:22 a.m. and this is where I pause on my way to work to spend 10–15 minutes to write my daily Chinese diary.
For about 5 years I walk this hutong and recite short Chinese poems in my head to wake up my brain and get myself thinking in Chinese. I live about 15 minutes walk away nearby Andingmen 安定門 station. The Chinese character 門 represents “gate,” and 安定 means “Peaceful Stability.” As I sit down to write my diary, I always note that the spot could not be more perfect. It’s almost equidistant from Guozijian Academy and the Confucius Temple. This vantage point lets me gaze directly at another gate, that of the Confucius Temple, the oldest wooden gate within Beijing’s 2nd ring road, dating all the way back to the Yuan Dynasty (1279–1368) when Mongolians ruled over China, much of Asia, and even bled into Eastern Europe.
Before the 1960s, Beijing City was surrounded by an imposing city wall with 9 central gates. Andingmen was one of the 9. Now only a portion of the city wall remains, and most of the other gates have either been obliterated or rebuilt. The only thing left to remember the gates in their original state are the names, a cloud of recognition to the city’s youth, and a twinkle of sad or removed nostalgia (depending on the person) to those who are around the same age as the man carrying his bird. Most of the names of the gates on the Beijing city map now signify the metro stops which lie beneath the streets.
When the wall and gates still stood, besides entering and exiting the city for citizens, each of the gates had other functional or ceremonial purposes. Andingmen was the gate that the emperor exited the city through before visiting the Temple of Earth to pray for a bountiful harvest. It was also outside of Andingmen gate where human feces was stored for fertiliser. It’s outside of Andingmen gate where I sit and tame the dragon each and every morning, settling its wings, calming the fire underneath its scaly exterior, and soothing it with words written in simplified Chinese characters.
2020. Taipei. February 5th. 7:10am. I wake up to an alarm in our 5th story apartment room, my wife, Mayumi still curled up like a shrimp in her slumber. I find a red t-shirt that belongs to the company I worked for up until this year. It’s a red sports shirt that reads “The Hutong” on the front, the name of the company. On the back is the gigantic shape of our company’s logo, a tree with the Chinese characters 树之灵 (roughly “spirit of the tree”) hidden within the logo. It took me some time to discover these Chinese words cleverly hidden within the logo. Some people never discover them. Although I no longer work for The Hutong anymore, I still have all the shirts, and this one in particular is good to wear on an early morning workout. Without waking Mayumi, I put on the shirt silently as an owl swooping in to catch a rat, and put on some running shorts. I exit the room, put on my running shoes, grab my water bottle which actually belongs to Mayumi. Everything in a marriage is eventually shared or discovered. I open the door and head downstairs.
A state of limbo is a good time for reflection, for taking things one step at a time. The morning is the best time for me to take these steps, and I take them each day after I wake up. I have a goal each and every morning, and there is no voice that tells me where my destination will be, but from day one after returning to Taiwan from a two week trip to the US to visit family, my instinct knows where my feet have to take me each and every morning to tame the dragon. I have to go up.
At this point in history, Mayumi and I had now lived in Taiwan for over two years. During this time I continued my work for The Hutong until the end of January, 2020. As this was almost a full decade of my life, I had to wonder what was next as the next step would truly be a totally new direction for me. Where would my feet take me? Where could they take me? My mind and heart told me to take time. At 40, this would be a brand new start. My instinct would carry me in a new direction, and as with many other decisions and directions of my life I would have to trust my instinct. I would have to go up.
Door closes. I walk down our alleyway and turn towards North. I walk to the first crossing where I can see the entrance to the nearby military base. Each morning at 6:10 and each evening at 5:10 there is a recording of a bugle playing a slow tune which signals the start and end of a day. I cross the road and turn West. Now it’s time to walk North towards the Fine Arts Museum. I pass the museum, my eyes always looking North at the Taipei Grand Hotel. This is not my destination, but I will pass by it in order to get to my destination. Established on the ruins of what was formerly the Taiwan Grand Shinto Shrine (built during the Japanese colonial period), the Grand Hotel was built in 1952 in order for then leader, Chiang Kaishek to welcome foreign guests and dignitaries to Taiwan. Ever fearful of a Communist attack from mainland China, Chiang had an underground escape slide built and installed underneath the hotel. The slide is open for viewing, but not sliding on the weekends.
I walk past the Grand Hotel and continue on the path passing the vegetable vendors who are selling fresh eggplants, ginger, garlic, carrots, potatoes, etc. There is a stepped path in the woods that continues upwards. My instinct takes me up this path each morning, past a small Buddhist Temple. Some days there is a monk sweeping fallen foliage from the steps. There are often squirrels skittering about in the trees nearby the outdoor covered badminton courts. I continue upwards. The stone steps change to wooden steps. On the left side I can hear music. There are retirees practicing tango and waltz dancing. It always astounds me how quickly the sound of the music is consumed by the forest. I turn right up the stairs, the final ascent, already sweating. February. The destination is here at the radio tower platform overlooking the entire city. From here I can tame the dragon. From here I can see the world.
2020. Taipei. June 1st. I swipe my metro card in order to unlock one of the city’s Ubike’s. I check the tires, brakes, and put my backpack in the bicycle’s basket. Inside is my computer, an umbrella (one always has to be prepared in Summer), and a change of clothing. Today is the first day of work at Pershing Technology Services Corporation (PTSC for short), and I want to make sure I uphold my end of the bargain and dress appropriately. By the time that I reach the office, I’m sure to be covered in sweat and in no condition to start work promptly. My “business casual” best is in my backpack, ready to change as soon as I arrive.
As I pull out my bicycle, I start to head in the same direction of the Grand Hotel and the radio tower and I know exactly what’s happening on every step of the way on that route. For the past four months I have climbed that route 5 out of 7 days a week, and I know it well. I know who is exercising where, who is dancing, what the face of the crossing guard looks like as he lets the motorcycles pass by. I wonder if the security guard who I passed on the mornings outside of the Grand Hotel thinks about me and questions why I have not climbed up the steps this morning. Part of me misses our brief interactions as he would teach me a few phrases in Taiwanese and then test me the following morning. These thoughts pass through my mind. And then I turn towards the East, the direction of the rising Sun, already high in the June sky. Cycling along the Keelung River on Taipei’s riverside cycling path is something that is easy to get used to. I can see egrets hunting for insects and worms in the morning grass. If I look closely enough at the river, I might even see the occasional fish jump out of the water, flinging its body upwards with instinct in order to catch an insect skimming on the river’s surface.
The company where I now work is on the Northern side of the Keelung River, and I cycle upwards along the ramp built specifically for bicycles on the Dazhi Bridge. As I get to the beginning of the bridge, I hear the sound of rhythmic voices below me and my curious nature gets the better of me. Who is making these sounds? I pull my bike over, still on the Southern side of the bridge, just over the river’s embankment. I lean over and look down. There is a team of people paddling in a constant beat below. They are training for the upcoming Dragon Boat Festival, and I realise it is at this bridge where we have watched the dragon boat races for the previous two years. I take a moment to watch them an their training methods. It’s not an actual boat that they are training with, but a stationary concrete set up with pools of water on either side, shaped and built to look like a dragon boat. They glisten with sweat, and focus all their energy on paddling in time, paddling with all their strength. In their minds they are moving forward, and they do move forward in developing their team unity and strength. Physically they don’t go anywhere.
I watch them for a few more moments, enjoying the scene as an observer. I turn back to my bicycle, and my instinct takes me upwards over the bridge, across the Keelung River to the Northern embankment. Gravity will take me back down. This is where I tame my dragon now.
