Street Stories

Some say man is a myth maker; that what separates us from other primates are the stories we tell to make sense of things. I don’t know enough to judge the truth of the matter, but I do believe the world has stories to offer, time permitting.

It’s been raining since dawn. I can’t recall the last time we had to stay in. It’s ok. Pa and I had hoped to visit Maekong Village, Taiwan’s tea-growing center. Perhaps tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere. We did venture out yesterday, but not beyond the neighborhood.

I read an article recently about a Mumbai artist who leads locals on walking tours. They never go beyond the neighborhood. It’s his experience that most don’t know the nearby, assuming that what’s of interest is elsewhere. Without an itinerary or map we set out, free of constraint.

Our street looked considerably different from the night of our arrival.

Each time of day has its place. Light, shadow and the movement of strangers hold a certain allure. But daylight is for the details.

Just around the corner is a laundry,

a good find. It’s been a month. Perhaps when the rain lets up we’ll take advantage of it.

A few doors down is a barber,

and a little restaurant.

At the corner a grocery,

and across from it a general store.

A short distance further, a workplace for seamstresses,

a hangout for locals, cats included,

and a garden in progress.

There’s an intersection where the buildings are taller.

One in particular caught my eye.

But Pa pointed to one adjacent,

suggesting it might be of greater interest.

Soon we were at Ching Shui Yen Tsu Shih Temple,

home to the deity that protects the An-Hsi people.

The altar was compelling,

and deserving of respect.

But overhead,

stories were being told

of a time when myth and the day-to-day

were inextricable.

Lamenting the passing of that magical time, we happened on a park on our way back,

the art not as compelling as that of the Temple.

But Pa suggested we slow down, and listen. There were stories being told.

Simple.

Profound.

Stories of feeling,

of sadness,

and of possible futures.

Stories demanding to be heard.

There was little to say, our generation having failed those who’ve come after.

Instead, we went searching for soup, and found a possibility.

I pulled out the scrap of paper the young man had given us.

The waitress nodded and soon delivered

the best meal we‘ve had since Kathmandu.