Without and Within

It took fourteen years living in the same Taipei apartment, but my neighbors finally treat me like a member of the community, not a transient foreigner

When it rains, it pours

It started with a picture I sent to the Line chat with my neighbor, a tailor. She’d made me a custom pillow for my cat’s nap house, and I wanted to show her how cute he looked on it. If we both had time, we would chat long after I’d picked up my adjusted clothes. Politics, neighbors, tips for raising cats, where to get good secondhand furniture, whatever. She had two of her own, Ko-pi and Huan-huan. As we chatted I’d give Huan-huan the butt pats she loves so much.

She had a round swirly sofa in red velvet that was impervious to cat scratches. It was procured from a KTV doing renovations; I suppose with that history, the upholstery had to be impenetrable by just about anything.

The cats treated it like a chew toy, but it soldiered on. It was out of place in her otherwise typical Taiwanese apartment: white tile, white walls, wood dining table, some orchids. But it was also just right, that eccentric crimson swish, an out-of-placeness gave it a place.

I offered to watch her cats when she traveled; that never came to fruition, but she cut me a great deal on a travel bag I wanted made custom. I designed it, I bought the fabric, she brought it to life.

I don’t know if we’re friends exactly, but when a massive storm caused my back room to flood a few weeks ago, she was the one I messaged to find out if I should contact someone in the building while our doorperson was off.

Rainwater was spewing up from the drainpipe like a play area at a kids’ water park. The floor below us fared worse; the daughters came upstairs to see how we were doing while their father quite literally bailed out their home. I mopped to keep the water level from rising too fast; it still reached my ankles. I could hear the father’s labor below.

While I mopped, Brendan filled buckets with wet towels. They’d been our first line of defense, now useless. I watched the green-grey tiles as they disappeared below the water margin. Their groovy 70s curved lines and faintly iridescent finishes made the water look rippling, perhaps even attractive. It had to go, though, or we’d lose our retro curvy-shiny green floor, left instead with a ruined one.

Our landlady lives in Tainan; I informed her, but there was nothing she could do. I called her brother who lives nearby, but his place was flooding too. “I’ll come tomorrow,” he said. Kind of him, but the problem was happening right now, and I didn’t know what to do.

No plumber would come out on Sunday night, but the flood was affecting multiple units. There’s no doorperson (管理員) service on weekends, but surely someone with the power to help should be informed that the building itself had an issue. Right?

Right?

So, I messaged the tailor. She tells me about the neighborhood chief (鄰長), and where they can be found. I’d known such a person existed, but nobody had bothered to give me any information about them. They’re not responsible the way a super would be, but if an issue is urgently affecting the building and the doorperson isn’t there, they’re the de-facto leader.

The neighborhood chief was useless (“I’m cooking dinner!” was the excuse, apparently, when the 6th floor neighbors contacted them). I felt a flash of annoyance at someone who appeared to be not doing their job, but realized I wasn’t sure what else they could have done. Call a plumber? I’d tried that. Was it even their job?

Not being given the contact information for the neighborhood chief was just one sign among many that until very recently, we’d been treated, intentionally or not, like an outsider. A couple who perhaps didn’t really belong in the building they’d called home for fourteen years. Neither our landlady nor our doorperson seemed to think we’d need or want that information. ur landlady hadn’t told us, and neither had the doorperson.

I do not suspect any of them of previous unkindness. It’s just a part of life in Taiwan (and other countries, I presume) that the very obvious foreigner who speaks the local language, but accented and imperfectly, and has different cultural habits, will be something of an outsider. Foreigners are assumed to have a home “somewhere else”, so they’re not really “of” this community of people not like them. It’s not intentional; it’s a rarely-interrogated base assumption.

But I don’t have a home “somewhere else”. This is my home. For years, I’ve wanted to be treated like I really live in it, alongside these specific neighbors, not imagined American neighbors that would be eagerly awaiting my return. Those American neighbors do not exist. The best I can say is that my in-laws have a house, and my father has a house. Brendan and I are welcome in both at any time, but they’re not ours, although one of them is our official US address.

The assumption of my transience had showed in other ways over the years. When I’d have furniture delivered, the doorperson would only allow the gate near the road to be opened if she was there: Monday to Friday, nine to five. If she wasn’t, the truck would have to park on the road, and I’d have to pay more to have my items carried upstairs. Other residents were able to open the gate at any time; I’d seen it opened for movers on weekends.

Lotteries were held for parking spaces; I was not informed. That’s fine, I don’t want a parking space. Community meetings were held; I was not invited. I can tolerate this: I’m a tenant, not an owner. Eventually, the doorperson started posting notifications about them in the lobby, but that hadn’t always been the case. The notifications are always in Mandarin only, but that’s fine. I can read it.

When we’d had to quarantine for COVID in 2022, I’d asked the doorperson if there was anyone I could contact if needed, her or someone else. Let’s say, getting groceries delivered and just confirming she’d be there to let the deliveryperson up the elevator. She does take days off, and is occasionally away from her desk to do other things in the building. She gave me a non-response, which is Taiwanese for “no”.

I accepted this. Quarantine was a mess, but not for any reason that concerned the doorperson. I never did figure out what I would have done if, unable to contact her, I ordered delivery and there was no one downstairs to open the elevator. The tailor told me that during everyone else’s quarantine, they’d send her a Line message to make sure it was a good time to order. Why not us?

It took awhile for people in the elevator to chat with me in Mandarin, and even longer for them to get over the “your Mandarin is so good!” phase of the typical conversation. Those who didn’t say that would pretend I didn’t exist. They weren’t being mean, they’d just worried — assumed, I dunno — that someone with my face couldn’t possibly communicate and it would be awkward to try. I hardly knew anyone in the building for a decade. Familiar faces, no names. There’s another white person in the building, but we rarely run into each other.

This, and not my language ability or my willingness, has been my biggest barrier the last two decades in making local friends. Also, perhaps, cultural expectations and norms. I’m not angry about it, but I did notice. It lasted for about a decade, far too long to consider us temporary. We’ve lived here longer than that doorperson has had her job.

The first signs that things were changing appeared a few years ago. Mrs. Yang, who lives in the unit next door, started chatting with me in the hall on our floor. She invited me over for tea once, but I had to run to work. I’ll accept if the offer comes around again.

Other residents got over their assumption that I couldn’t speak Mandarin. It only took a decade of speaking it within earshot. They started to let me know about neighborhood activities. I didn’t go — I’m not into Chinese pop oldies or political rallies for KMT politicians — but I appreciate that I was invited. They started talking to me like a normal person, and stopped telling me how good my Mandarin was. Finally!

I’m not sure why it took as long as it did. I'm naturally outgoing (yet also socially anxious — thanks, brain chemistry!) and it’s not an effort to smile in the elevator or start up small conversations with people I don’t know. I just sort of do it. I don’t set out to ingratiate myself per se, but I’m always just naturally reaching out to people.

On the other hand, I do have a Taiwan Independence (台灣獨立) red Lunar New Year scroll over my door, a Miao Po-ya scroll (春聯), and a rainbow flag in a heavily KMT neighborhood. Maybe it’s me?

But then why would they know what’s on my door? Mrs. Yang leans green (told you, she’s cool), the neighbors across the hall spend most of their time in Japan, and the third unit on my floor is occupied by a woman who tried to sell me her pyramid scheme weight-loss medicine but doesn’t appear to care at all about politics.

Then there was the old lady on the 17th floor. She went to every KMT rally but also made the best turnip cakes. I’d buy them from her when I could. We couldn’t talk much; she barely spoke Mandarin, just Taiwanese, and I hadn’t started learning the latter language. I haven’t seen her in awhile, and fear she’s passed on or in a care facility.

A few months ago, a fire in our building resulted in a woman’s death — an event that appears to have been not entirely an accident, as she told her son to evacuate while she stayed. While we all sat outside in the chilly 3am air and the fire department ran up and down the stairs, chatting neighbors shifted position to let me into their chat circles. I was able to get some details on the scene; the tailor filled me in on more later.

I went, in my pajamas, to the building-wide meeting about the fire. We were in the middle of a dense urban district, but “grandma’s house rules” seemed to set the etiquette in this tight-knit community.

It was held in the recreation center, with plastic folding chairs and long plastic tables. The tables had snacks and water bottles branded with our district’s national legislator, Lo Chih-chiang (羅智強).

I expected to go to that meeting and be ignored; I’d intended to listen for potentially important information, although I didn’t know what information to expect.

That’s not what happened: the person next to me helped with a few words here and there (it turns out I hadn’t known “smoke inhalation” in Mandarin, though once explained the phrase made sense).

I had a few chats on the way back to our building, me in my purple flannel pajamas trying to act normal and not give myself away as a fiery pan-green anarcho-socialist or whatever it is that I am now. I learned quite a bit just from talking to people.

An Indian couple moved in, and the doorperson called me down to translate (explain, really) how the garbage collection system works. It took awhile, but she finally believes I can understand her point in Mandarin and translate it to someone else in English.

Then, just a few weeks before the flood, I bought a sofa on Facebook Marketplace and hired Lalamove to deliver it on a Sunday afternoon. As usual, I explained this to the doorwoman. I expected, once again, to be told the gate had to remain closed because she wouldn’t be at work.

Then she opened a drawer in her desk and pointed to a key with a purple plastic keychain.

”The key is here. Make sure you lift the gate a bit to shut it or it won’t line up. You can also pull one of the sides out of the ground. Just put the key back when you’re done.”

Finally, Jenna the Foreigner gets gate key access! It only took a decade and a half!

Access to this kind of community information happens when people have decided you’re actually a neighbor, not a temporary presence or an Other. Considering Mrs. Yang and the tailor (Ms. Huang) as not just people I live near but friendly neighbors — perhaps even friends? — took some time, but it did happen.

So, about that flood.

After about an hour, the drain stopped spurting rainwater and quickly reversed its flow: most of the flood sluiced back through the drain within minutes. It’s not a bad design, really. We were left with some drying up and cleaning.

Ms. Huang, the tailor, replied with the neighborhood chief’s information, but we no longer needed it. She even showed the doorperson my horrifying video first thing Monday morning, before I was even awake.

The doorperson called a plumber to check the building; he found a problem and fixed it, and informed the floor below us that they might have to fix a pipe or clear a blockage inside their unit.

I asked the doorperson (Ms. Wang) what to do if it happened again and she wasn’t at work.

”Oh, let me give you my cellphone number,” she said.

It was really a very small thing, but it meant a lot to me. It meant I was no longer on the outside; I was a real neighbor who, in her neighbors’ minds, really lives here.