Karma: Think good thoughts, say nice things, do good for others. Everything will come back. Buddha Teaching.
After meeting my wife, dating for less than two years, and then getting married, we waited a few months and took a trip together to her native Taiwan.
I had never been to the far east, never before been on a plane ride for that long (16 hours), and I was more than a bit apprehensive (I don’t like flying). But I was up for the challenge, eager to meet members of my wife’s family, and had been reading quite a few travel books about the country that were most encouraging.
One thing in the books that caught my attention was how many times it was noted how “nice” the Taiwanese people are – I mean, not nice like most people are nice when they are nice, but really, really nice, exceptionally nice, nice to the point that it might even be bothersome nice. One guide even said that it was common practice for Taiwanese people, if a tourist, say, asks them for directions, to drop whatever they are doing and escort the person where they want to go – no matter how far or out of the way the destination.
I quickly saw this “niceness” in action, by the way, my wife’s family did everything they could for me so I could enjoy myself, and also just moving about the city (Tapei) and surrounding neighborhoods. Everyone smiled at me, was patient and kind whenever I asked a question or tried in vain to figure out the currency to purchase something, and generally seemed thrilled that I, someone without any sense of the language and only a modicum of knowledge of the culture, had chosen to spend time in their country.
This abject niceness even came into play when I saw a pick-up game of basketball going on near my wife’s family’s home and made my way to the court (I’m like a lemming that way – I see a hoop and a ball and people, and I immediately shuffle over). Even before I could ask about getting “winners,” the players stopped the game, shooed someone off, and beckoned me to take his place. This was directly opposed to my experience in America for years, especially as I aged, when getting into a game was akin to waiting in line at the DMV with a high ticket number. And once we started, whenever I scored, they would all stop, players on both teams, and applaud and cheer, as if I had hit the game-winner.
And then there is the story of my wife’s nephew. At that time, he owned a bicycle shop in Taipei and was an avid biker. In an effort to bond, and to get in some exercise, I asked to join him on one of us his “usual” rides, up a steep, winding road that wrapped around a picturesque mini-mountain. Our route would take us a few miles up to a vista holding an open-air restaurant where my wife’s family would be waiting to join us for a spot of lunch.
Everything started well. My wife’s nephew had lent me one of his best bikes, much fancier and better than I was used to, and I was able to keep pace for one or two turns uphill. But then gravity and jet lag and my lack of conditioning began to set in and I started to fall back. Seeing this, my nephew would turn around and implore me (with hand gestures) to get off my bike. He would then take out some tools from a small pouch he kept around his waist, shake his head as if in deep concern, and then go to work on the bike – tightening screws, checking the spokes, shifting the seat, etc. He would toil away while I gulped air and regained some confidence in staying vertical. Then we would begin again. This stopping and fixing happened at least five or six times, until finally we made it to the restaurant and greeted my wife and her family.
Despite all the stoppages on the ride, I was still in a state of near-collapse at the finish. But I was proud to have made it to the top, especially as I had a bike with seemingly so many technical issues. It was only later that my wife told me, breaking the confidence of her nephew who did not want her to tell me, that it was all a ruse: there was not a thing wrong with my bike. He just didn’t want to embarrass me by asking me if I needed to rest, even though I did need to rest and I would not have been embarrassed at all had he asked. But he didn’t want to risk putting any shame on me, and so he pretended to repair the bike so I could save face (which, by the way, was flushed like a ripe beet from the first pedal).
So that’s how nice the Taiwanese are.
And then there is my wife’s father, Mr. Pei, who was born and raised in China but had moved to Taiwan as a relatively young man. After our marriage, Mr. Pei would visit us each year, usually in the late spring, and stay a month or so with us at our home. From there, we usually arranged some fun trips, domestic or abroad. One year, for example, we went to Paris. And on our last excursion, we visited Ireland.
To start, we went to the Black Valley, a remote and achingly beautiful spot at the southern end of the MacGillycuddy’s Reeks mountain range in Kerry. We were to stay at stone house owned by a dear family friend. The home fit the environs in quaintness and had a solid foundation between the past and the present. But it was even more remote in location than the overall remoteness of the area. For a chicken like me, that was a bit daunting.
Further, there were goats and sheep all about, which are fun to see in daytime, but their brays and snorts and bounding about outside during the night unsettled me and connected my fearful mind to banshees of lore. The first night, I must say I did not sleep a wink, listening to every sound and ready to fight or flee, depending on the situation. My wife, beside me, told me she slept like an angel. But when she asked her dad about his slumber, he shared my same concerns, as unfounded as they were. So that was a bonding point.
We connected again, Mr. Pei and I, over the home’s enormous fireplace. It was the size of a city block, and as it was a bit chilly, early into our second day we decided to make a fire. Soon Mr. Pei and I were scouring the grounds and throwing anything into the blaze made of wood or that looked like wood. Later that night, over bowls of rice soup my wife made, feeling the flush of ancient fuel gathering, warmed by the hearty food and the roaring fire, and having each a glass or two of whiskey that made me at least more than a bit emotional, I asked my wife to tell her father in Mandarin that “I loved him.”
She hesitated, but I pushed for it and she did. I’ll never forget Mr. Pei’s face. The smile. The hint of shyness. And then a laugh, a slap on the knee, and he, in broken English, thanking me very much for telling him this. I’d like to think that was his way of returning the sentiment.
From the Black Valley, we went to another part of Kerry, the town of Balleylongford, where my grandmother, my father’s mother, was raised. We found her house and knowing a relative still lived there, we knocked and knocked and knocked, but to no avail. Disappointed, we started to leave, when a passerby asked us who we were looking for. I gave my relative’s name, and they said she was inside for sure.
They then came and knocked and she opened. It seemed she was a bit caught off guard at first, seeing three strangers at the door, and two of them Chinese. I hadn’t called ahead, but once we told her who we were there was never a more genial and warm greeting given to us. We were invited inside, shown my grandmother’s house from nook to cranny, and looked over oodles of old pictures while sipping tea. My relative was loving and sweet and took us outside later to show us the well where my grandmother and her family would get water so many years ago. The well overlooked the River Shannon winding below. I saw in my mind’s eye my grandmother, as a girl, getting water for the family, and when Mr. Pei stood next to it for a photo, I felt something akin to closure about the moment.
Our final destination in Ireland was Cork. On our way, we stopped at the Jameson’s Distillery and took a tour, learning how they made whiskey and also how scotch was made as well. At the end, we sat at long picnic tables with others, including a small group of men from Italy. The tour hosts passed out min-shots of whiskey and scotch for us to take a test to see if we now had the knowledge to taste the difference. I believe we each received four thimble-sized vials filled with spirit. Mr. Pei was further down the table, amidst the Italians, and I wasn’t keeping a close eye on him. But after a while, I saw that he had about eight or ten empty vials next to him. It seemed he liked his first shots so much, that the Italians had given them theirs, and being too nice to reject a gift, he had downed them all.
Needless to say, well into his 80’s, he was quite drunk by the time we left, and we more or less led him to the car and back to our bed and breakfast.
That evening, after we all had cleared our heads, taken naps, and processed our day, my wife and I went to Mr. Pei’s room and talked. Well, she talked and also translated my words to Mr. Pei and his to mine. We discussed the Black Valley, how it reminded him, especially the fire, of his youth in China, when his family lived a simple, rural life, before he had to flee, years later, from Communist oppression and make a new life in Taiwan. We talked about Ballylongford, and how happy and honored he was to see my grandmother’s home, to see that also like his youth, she had a well to draw water for the family. And we laughed about the distillery and drinking too much, but how much fun it was to meet the group from Italy.
Mr. Pei was happy that night, and so was I and my wife. He was truly a nice man, a forgiving man, a strong man, and a man who had gone through so much and was still taking on the world and finding enjoyment from it moment to moment. He is gone now, like my father, like so many fathers of people of my age, but those times in Ireland with him I will always remember.
And that, I truly believe, is very nice.
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