A Chicken Walked Into a Bar, and Somehow It Made My Day

November 4th, 2024

Cijin, Kaohsiung, Taiwan

Another sun-soaked day unfolds in Kaohsiung, where even the simplest journey – a train ride to a ferry to a tiny island – feels touched by magic. The island's black sand beach stretched before me like a divine canvas, while street vendors painted the air with tempting aromas. I wandered through their domain, collecting treasures: squid that curled and charred over open flames, pillowy pork belly bao that melted on my tongue, mochi wearing a dusty coat of crushed peanuts, and onigiri wrapped in crisp nori.

I'd settled at a beachside bar, toes wiggling in anticipation of a swim, when the most peculiar thing happened. A chicken decided to make itself at home under my barstool. It was gloriously plump, its feathers a pristine white, topped with a proud red comb bobbing atop its head. There was something fascinating about this creature, the way it waddled purposefully across the restaurant floor to choose me, of all people, as its companion. I found myself wondering about its inner world – what was this chicken feeling? Thinking? Did it see something in me worth investigating?

"Oh, look. That's Qiu Qiu," the beach club’s owner announced with obvious pride, materializing beside me. He scooped up the bird with practiced ease. "Don't worry. Qiu Qiu just wants to play right now. Do you wanna play with my chicken?"

"I've never even touched a chicken before," I confessed, both nervous and intrigued. "What should I do?"

He laughed warmly. "Oh, you can just pet him like a dog. Behind the neck, between its wings. You can even stroke his comb. Whatever you do to show affection, Qiu Qiu will be open to it."

That was all the invitation I needed. What followed was thirty minutes of pure, unbridled joy; each stroke of my hand I laid on that chicken’s feathers represented an expansion of my love. There I was, rolling around on the floor with Qiu Qiu, when a group of fourth-grade boys on a field trip discovered our little party. Their delight was infectious – here was this strange westerner, sprawled on the ground, making friends with the local chicken. Soon they joined in, and we were all one, a tangle of laughter and feathers, until Qiu Qiu, having had quite enough of our shenanigans, waddled regally away to wherever chickens go when they're done entertaining humans.

Time moves differently for me now. My first week in Bali felt eternal – it was my entire journey then, the whole of my solo-travel experience. Even Malaysia seems expansively long in my memory; being only two months into my travels, it carried more weight relative to the total of my days abroad. But now, six months deep into Asia, each week comes and goes like a gentle breath. Each new country, each fresh story, carries a little less weight than the last. Not in significance, but in how it bends time around itself. I'm learning to love this new normal, this comfortable dance with the unfamiliar. It shows how far I've come, how adaptable I've become. I'm countering time's quickening pace by staying present, focusing only on today's gift of experience.

Back at my hostel, I sat cross-legged in meditation, counting blessings and sending love into the universe – three things I'm grateful for, three people I love, three tasks I'm pursuing. When I opened my eyes, there it was – a perfectly ripe navel orange placed before me like an offering. In this fast-paced world, someone had noticed my small act of rebellion through stillness and responded with such simple, profound kindness. 

Tonight, as I press these words into paper, I can still feel the warmth of that orange in my hands, still hear Qiu Qiu's content clucking, still taste the salt of the black sand beach on my lips. God's winking at me, and I'm winking right back.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Love,

Etai