An Unlucky Day Begins

Days, as everyone knows, have a certain flow to them. When little things go wrong from the beginning, they tend to go wrong day all long. That’s what happened to me on Friday. Luckily, I’m not talking about big things. These are just the little things that make up a normal day. Still, life generally is made up of little things. And they’re important.

I had a sense that things were going to be complicated the second I opened my eyes in the morning. I could hear rain. And it was pretty steady and strong. In Taipei, rain is a big deal. Rain can take an easy and simple day and turn it into a tough one. Everything is just that little bit more difficult. And it adds up.

The second thing that went wrong was kind of a Seinfeld moment. I turned on my computer, got out a bowl, filled it with Corn Flakes, then reached into the fridge and grabbed the carton of milk. “Too light!” The carton was too light. In fact, it was empty. I had no milk. And with no other food in the joint, I was faced with dealing with traffic on an empty stomach. That isn’t a great idea, since an empty stomach can often mean irritability. And you don’t want to be irritable in Taipei rush hour traffic on a rainy morning. Heads will roll.

I decided, as a kind of preemptive strike against the unlucky day, to take a taxi instead of driving my scooter. I thought that might make things easier. The problem is that on rainy days, many people have this same idea. Therefore, on the one morning when you really, really need a taxi, there are few taxis around. Rain is a bonanza for taxi drivers. Their number of fares must triple or quadruple on rainy days.

Umbrella Troubles

Anyway, I got my stuff together, grabbed my umbrella and headed out. I stepped out onto the street outside my building, raised my umbrella, and the darn thing promptly collapsed onto my head. This wasn’t a total surprise, by the way. I bought this umbrella (quite an expensive one) in Taidong a long time ago on my trip to Lanyu. I brought it to Lanyu and found that despite costing three or four times what a normal umbrella would cost, it was defective. When you push the umbrella open, the little catch that is supposed to click into place to hold it open, didn’t work. It was either too short or misshapen or something. It’s one of those frustrating defects that mean the umbrella almost works. It wasn’t like it was completely broken. Occasionally, the little catch would work and the umbrella would stay open. But then when you least expected it, the thing would give, and the umbrella would collapse and smack me in the face quite hard.

I still have this umbrella because I thought I had fixed it. I spent an evening examining it and experimenting. I spent some time filing and shaping the catch to make it sharper. It seemed to work, and I was quite proud of myself for having fixed it. Apparently, it was only a temporary fix and the umbrella was waiting for this very rainy day to act up. I should mention that the spring mechanism in this umbrella is exceptionally powerful. When that catch lets go and the umbrella snaps shut, it’s no joke. It slams into my head with some force. And for the same reason, holding the umbrella open manually is not really an option. It takes a lot of strength and the sharp edges of the steel cut into your hand. It’s really hard to do.

Luckily, I didn’t really need the umbrella. I was wearing my fluorescent orange hunting jacket, which is completely waterproof. Still, the outside of the jacket gets wet and that would make the taxi wet inside. And I had my knapsack, which, without the umbrella was exposed to the rain. And that’s the thing with rain in Taipei. You just seem to get wetter here than anywhere else. Everything gets wet and you seem to stay wet all day long. It’s relentless.

I was pretty annoyed with my umbrella, and had there been a garbage can in sight, I would have thrown it away there and then. Since this is Taipei we’re talking about, the nearest garbage can was in Toronto. So I could either toss the umbrella onto the ground or stuff it, soaking wet, inside my knapsack, which I did.

Taipei Taxi Strategies

I live right beside an MRT station and a group of large department stores, so taxis gather there in large numbers. At least they do on normal days. On rainy days, there are generally no taxis at all, as they are all full and carrying people to work. This used to be a huge problem for me, since I am one of those odd ducks that waits his turn, which meant, of course, that I never got a taxi. When an empty taxi appeared, someone would inevitably just then rush out of the MRT station or across the street and, not realizing or not caring that people had been waiting for that taxi, would just jump in. The problem is that there is no actual or official line. People just stood at the side of the street and you would kind of have a sense of who was there first and who was next. The system was precarious, though, and the problems generally didn’t work in my favor.

Then I figured out a workaround. I’m rather good at those. I realized that a large number of taxis came up from another main street down this narrow lane beside one of the department stores. I realized that if I walked a short distance down this lane, I could intercept any empty taxis BEFORE they even got to the taxi stand area. This didn’t always work. Other people had figured this workaround out, and being more determined than me (or just oblivious), they would leapfrog me down this lane and get the taxi even though I had been waiting there much longer. I would have to walk farther and farther down this lane and time things just right in order to finally get a taxi.

I was fortunate yesterday in that I had the entire lane to myself and I did not have to walk very far before an empty taxi drove up. I felt a bit guilty, as we then turned the corner onto the main street and I saw the crowd of people waiting there. But that’s life in the big city I guess.

Here, I introduced my own little bit of bad luck. I’ve learned that taxi drivers, left to their own devices, will take a bad route to my office building. This building is on Bade Road, which is one of the bigger and most well known roads in Taipei. A taxi driver will naturally head to Bade Road first and then drive up it. Since Bade Road runs at an angle to all the other major roads in Taipei, this is the worst way to get to my office. It’s much longer and goes through all kinds of crazy intersections and bad traffic. The far faster and more efficient route is to go straight down Nanjing and then turn right on Beinan. Essentially, I want the taxi driver to go to the corner of Bade and Beinan. I’ve learned that if I say Bade Road first – as in “the corner of Bade and Beinan” – they take the long and bad route. If I say Beinan first – as in “the corner of Beinan and Bade – they take the short and efficient route down Nanjing. I’ve experienced this over and over and over again and I’m careful to say it right. I’ll even just say Beinan first without even mentioning Bade. Then when we are established on the direct route down Nanjing, I’ll throw in the added information about the intersection with Bade. That way, I can nullify the hypnotic pull that Bade Road has on taxi drivers.

That morning, I wasn’t thinking. I was annoyed by the umbrella, I had no Corn Flakes and milk in my stomach, and I could feel the rainwater soaking into my shoes and beginning to soak my socks. I hopped into the taxi and then I blanked on where I wanted the driver to go. I couldn’t summon the words. Then I remembered and I told him, and I said Bade Road first. I couldn’t believe it. I knew I was doomed. I tried repeating it with Beinan first. I did it several times, in fact, but it was no good. I’d said the magic phrase and I couldn’t take it back. The taxi driver turned at one of the first major intersections along Nanjing and headed toward Bade Road. It was so depressing.

My work day seemed to be largely free of the bad luck. It was just work. It’s true that someone from the bizarro world of the 12th floor appeared at my desk and out of the blue handed me an entire book that had to be proofread and recorded right away. But that’s pretty standard for how work goes. You don’t get any warnings of big projects or any chance to schedule your work. It is simply handed to you and it is always needed instantly no matter what other work you have to do. One just goes with the flow in these cases, and this particular book looked to be in good shape. It looked to be a relatively easy task to proof it and then record it.

The MRT and Unlucky Seat Double 13

No, the only other bad luck started to creep in toward the end of the day and it was connected to the poor beginning. The thing was that I was going to see a performance of Beethoven’s ninth symphony in the evening. It was something I’d been looking forward to a great deal, and my decision to take a taxi in the morning was connected with then being able to just walk down to the MRT and take the MRT directly to Hsimen station, where Zhongshan Hall is located. This avoided having to drive my scooter during rush hour in the rain, park it, and then take the MRT. I did not anticipate, however, just how crowded the MRT was going to be on a Friday evening. And it was crowded! I almost never take the MRT to or from work anymore. I always drive my scooter. People who do take the MRT say that it is so much better than driving in Taipei traffic. However, they’re insane. I’ll take the craziest rush hour traffic in the world over that crowded MRT any day of the week. It was so crowded it was inhuman.

I did what I guess people the world over do in those situations. I just endured. I scrunched up my body and listened to my podcast and tried to tune out any awareness of how ridiculous it was to be packed inside such a small space with so many people. I suppose it was actually better for me than for most because I’m a foot taller than most other people in Taiwan, and at least my head is up there in open space. I can’t imagine how claustrophobic it feels down there with the shorter people.

I got to Zhongshan Hall with plenty of time to grab a snack and then relax and get into the proper frame of mind for the performance. And, being me, I even had a spare pair of dry socks in my knapsack, and I surreptitiously stripped off my soaking wet socks and put on dry ones. Aaaaaah! It felt so good.

I had gotten one of the last tickets to this performance, and my seat was in the second to last row in the balcony. I didn’t mind that when I got the ticket. I sat in the balcony for the two other performances I’d seen at Zhongshan Hall, and my impression is that the balcony has advantages over the main floor. You get an aerial view of the entire stage and can see all the performers clearly.

I showed my ticket to the various people at Zhongshan Hall, and they directed me to the proper stairway and then entrance to the balcony. I started walking up the balcony, and then I finally looked at my ticket to see what my seat number was. I let out an amused “Huh.” I was in Row 13 Seat 13. Unlucky double 13.

Strauss and Beethoven’s Ninth

At this point, I’d like to leave the unlucky theme behind me. I am, after all, talking about a performance of Beethoven’s ninth. No one who is settling into a comfortable seat with a perfect view of a stage where Beethoven’s ninth is about to be performed has any right to complain of anything. Let me just say that in the row in front of me and a bit to the right, there were two mothers who for reasons that passeth all understanding had brought two 11-year-old boys (otherwise known as the spawn of Satan). All right, people. You have to bring children to a performance of classical music? You absolutely have to? You have no choice? Well, bring your daughters. Bring girls. Leave the boys at home. Please. Do us all a favor. These boys were so badly behaved, and despite complaints from people sitting around them, their mothers did not rein them in. Baffling behavior to be honest. It was hard to stay really angry with the boys, though. They’re boys, after all. I don’t expect anything like proper behavior from little boys (especially in Taiwan). Still, were someone to have bodily picked them up and hurled them over the balcony, I’d have found it hard to stifle the urge to applaud.

The evening began with two pieces by Strauss. The first required the full orchestra. The second featured a French horn, and far fewer instruments. Between pieces, all the unused seats and music stands were removed. It seemed like a lot of work, but I liked it. It was a nice touch. Knowing I’d be sitting quite high up, I brought a small pair of binoculars with me, and that transformed the evening. Normally, I would see the entire orchestra and think of it as one unit producing one sound. I see the individual musicians, of course, but my attention is generally on the musicians actually playing. In classical music, some musicians can have nothing to do for long stretches of time. Not everyone plays their instrument all the time. I don’t generally think about that because I’m watching the orchestra as a whole. But with the binoculars, I found myself focusing on individual musicians, and I could get close-up views of them. I ended up being much more aware of all the individual musicians and how they might be experiencing the performance differently.

One of the reasons I like Beethoven’s ninth is that it has variety. It changes a lot, concluding with the choral parts of the fourth movement. So some instruments, such as the cymbals and the triangle, aren’t used at all until very late into the piece. The musicians who play those instruments sit and wait most of the time. They get to enjoy the music just as much as we in the audience do, but they are still just sitting there, their mind wandering and their butt getting sore.

I enjoyed having my binoculars very much, and I spent a long time just looking at the individual faces of both the singers and the musicians. I went through the rows methodically and looked at their faces. I tried to imagine the entire lives they each led – where they lived and who they lived with, how they got to the hall tonight, what they were going to do later on. I noticed how the strings musicians applauded – by waving their bows up and down rapidly. I watched as the French horn players emptied the spit from their horns directly onto the floor and I wondered why there was not some kind of container down there – a kitty-litter box or something. I guess French horn players the world over do this all the time. Perhaps no one really notices because they only do it (obviously) when they are not playing, and so our attention is focused somewhere else. Binoculars Man, on the other hand, saw everything.

When the soloists came out for the fourth movement, I looked them over from top to bottom, noticing their shoes, their jewelry, the sharp lines of the baritone’s goatee. I reflected that despite enjoying classical music, I knew nothing about it. I could accurately name only a few of the instruments being used, and I didn’t understand at all how most of them worked. Even a violin. I have a vague idea, of course, but I have never in my life held a violin. I’ve never pulled the bow across the strings. I’ve never held a cello. I’ve never pressed my fingers down on the strings of a cello. I’ve never blown into a bassoon. I’ve never lifted a pair of cymbals and felt their weight.

The cymbals fascinated me. How does someone become a professional cymbal player? How much do they get paid? How much training does it take? How do you practice? Do cymbal players lie awake at night and worry about dropping a cymbal? That must be the worst nightmare for a cymbal player, born of numerous slapstick moments in movies. I noticed that the woman who played this monstrous drum (also used for only a brief time in the fourth movement) and the woman who played the cymbals shared a talc bag to keep their hands dry. Important, I would imagine, for a woman whose worst nightmare is having a cymbal slip out of her hands. A particular concern also has to be picking up the cymbals and putting them back again. They were kept in a special rack in front of her, placed in individual padded slots. Cymbals, for all their unassuming appearance, are loud. Just touching their edges together while picking them up could send a crashing sound out over the hall. How many cymbal players have been fired for that? This woman did not make that mistake and she picked up her cymbals without mishap and played them well. She made only the smallest of movements at the beginning, but even in unlucky seat double 13 way in the back, I could hear it clearly and sharply. When the fourth reached its heights, she moved her hands farther apart and brought the cymbals together with more force. The sound was huge in the hall.

One can’t help but marvel at the complexity and beauty of something like Beethoven’s ninth – all those people, all those instruments, all those precise movements coming together to produce this incredible sound. The French horn on its own is something of a miracle. During the second piece by Strauss, I had ample opportunity to study the French horn and marvel at the complex structure of the thing. Does it really need all those tubes to make a sound? And how did someone figure it out? Imagine a massive meteor striking the Earth right now and wiping out all life as it exists now. How much time would have to pass before a life form emerged and created the French horn again? Could it ever happen again?

My heart soared with the Ode to Joy, as I’m sure did the hearts of everyone around me. The man sitting across the aisle from me was practically having a heart attack. He gave the impression of someone who had heard the piece a thousand times and knew it backward and forward. Only the two little boys – the spawns of Satan – were unaffected. They were both sound asleep and slumped over their armrests.

 

Tags: Bade Road, Beethoven, Beethoven's 9th Symphony, MRT, Ode to Joy, Rain, Taipei, Taipei Symphony Chorus, Taipei Symphony Orchestra, Taipei Taxi Strategies, Taiwan, umbrella, Umbrella Troubles, Unlucky 13, Unlucky Seat Double, Zhongshan Hall