Then she whispered something I still hear whenever I'm afraid.
“You don't have to make yourself small to fit into somebody else's idea of who belongs.”
I held her tighter.
Then boarded the plane.
I didn't know that those words would follow me all the way to Moonbridge Pavilion.
Or that one evening, years later, I would repeat them to myself while an elderly businessman pointed at my face and told me I was only a waitress.
Taipei overwhelmed me during my first month.
The city moved with a rhythm I didn't yet understand. Scooters filled the streets, trains arrived with astonishing precision, and markets glowed beneath bright signs long after dark. The smell of fresh scallion pancakes drifted through narrow lanes, while tea shops and small restaurants seemed to occupy every available corner.
I had imagined arriving in Taiwan and immediately feeling like a serious international researcher.
Instead, I spent my first week getting lost.
I took the wrong train twice.
Misunderstood a bus announcement.
Accidentally ordered a drink I hadn't intended to buy.
And once spent fifteen minutes trying to explain to a shopkeeper that I needed a specific type of charging cable.
The woman listened patiently.
Then walked around the counter, found the cable, and smiled as though my terrible Mandarin had been perfectly understandable.
I thanked her approximately six times.
She laughed.
That was one of my earliest lessons about Taipei.
Many people were patient.
Some were curious.
Others were uncomfortable with unfamiliar accents or appearances.
But I couldn't reduce an entire city to a single experience any more than I wanted someone to reduce me to my skin color or nationality.
I needed to learn.
And I intended to.