Balancing Chakras and Budget: Yoga in a Neon City

October 28th, 2024

Taipei, Taiwan

The first thing that hit me in Taipei wasn't the neon signs or the constant buzz of scooters – it was the dragonfruit. Standing in that fluorescent-lit grocery store, I felt my heart leap at the sight of those purple gems, their scaly exterior hiding the electric magenta flesh within. My fingers trembled slightly as I picked up four of them, remembering mornings in Bali where my bathroom visits left pink evidence of my daily indulgence. The Taiwan price tags were merciful compared to Tokyo's ruthless numbers, a welcome change after weeks of careful budgeting in Japan, and I giddily swiped my credit card, pocketing the four fruits.

Back at the hostel, desperation made me creative. "Do you have a cooking knife?" I asked the front desk attendant. "Or even just a butter knife, a plastic knife – anything I can use to cut some fruit?" When they shook their heads, I paced the lobby, my dragonfruits burning a hole in my bag. I couldn’t wait to taste that purple pulp. Then inspiration struck: "Wait, do you have a box cutter?" They did. I didn't hesitate. There I stood in the lobby, hunched over my prize like a famished animal, purple juice staining my white t-shirt in a way that would make my mother sigh. But in that moment, reuniting with this fruit felt like embracing an old friend – messy, undignified, and absolutely worth it.

The stains on my shirt led me to explore the night markets, hoping to find something new to wear. Instead, I found myself swept into a world where every sense came alive at once. Between stalls selling greasy comfort food that my nutritionist would weep over – fried sweet potato balls glistening with oil, thick sausages releasing their savory perfume into the air, pancakes sizzling on giant griddles – I discovered sugarcane juice. The vendor smiled knowingly as I eyed the green liquid, probably used to seeing foreigners mistake it for some artificial concoction. That first sip was a revelation – nature's candy, unfiltered and honest. A few stalls down, the familiar punch of durian transported me instantly to Kuala Lumpur's streets. The spiky fruit here was paler, less commanding, like a cover song of a beloved hit. But it was enough to trigger vivid memories of endless Malaysian days when durian was my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The similarities between these cities struck me – both beautiful amalgamations of cultures, where Chinese, Japanese, and indigenous influences in Taipei mirror the Malay, Indian, and Chinese heritage of KL. Each city writes its own recipe for chaos and harmony.

Speaking of harmony, it’s striking how quickly I’ve been adapting to new rhythms, compared to the stiffness I exuded at my journey’s dawn. Just months ago in KL, I was fumbling with subway tickets, wide-eyed and lost like those people I used to secretly judge in New York. Now I navigate Taipei's metro with the casual confidence of a local, as if I've been riding these clean, efficient trains my whole life. Next to me on the train yesterday, a man stood with a white parrot perched on his shoulder, both of them swaying gently with the train's motion. The bird looked more at home than most humans I knew, completely unfazed by the underground journey that must have been part of its daily routine.

The spectacle of that serene parrot met its contrast when I spotted something far more unsettling back at the night market – a pig on a leash being paraded through the crowds. Watching it lumber through the chaos, clearly distressed by the cacophony of voices and the assault of food smells, brought back uncomfortable memories of leashed monkeys I once encountered in Marrakech. Some things shouldn't be paraded for our amusement. 

Right next to the pig, people were getting massages on plastic stools – cupping, hot stone, oil, Ayurvedic, you name it – all while loud music played and food smoke swirled around them. They looked comfortable despite the chaos, a perfect metaphor for Taipei itself, finding peace within the beautiful mess. The contrast with Japan's subdued nature couldn't have been starker; one short flight had transported me to a different universe of sensory experience.

In the midst of this sensory overload, serendipity struck through my phone screen. Before I'd even announced my arrival in Taiwan, a comment appeared on my social media post that announced my departure from Japan: "Come to Taipei; I'd love to show you around." Roxy, a stranger, had left this invitation just hours after I'd landed. My reply – "Actually, I'm already in Taipei. How did you know?" – seemed to delight her. She immediately invited me to visit her at work, at what turned out to be one of the city's premier art galleries.

The gallery itself was a marvel, sprawling across a space that could have housed a soccer arena. Every wall, every corner held masterpieces – paintings that drew you in like windows to other worlds, sculptures that seemed to breathe, mixed media installations that challenged reality itself. The place hummed with artistic energy, and somewhere in this labyrinth of creativity, Roxy was waiting.

I spent hours wandering through the exhibition rooms, letting each piece speak to me. The gallery even served authentic Taiwanese cuisine, and I found myself sharing meals with artists who drifted in and out of conversations like colors blending on a canvas. Eventually, I made my way to the media room where Roxy was stationed. The moment she saw me, she burst from behind her desk and enveloped me in a bear hug that carried the weight of intimate digital connection.

"Thank you so much for coming," she exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't explain how happy it makes me to see you. I've been watching your yoga videos online for a really long time, and they've really helped me heal." Her words touched something deep within me, and I found myself expressing my own gratitude for this miraculous connection, for the simple act of her reaching out through social media that had led to this moment.

As we talked, Roxy's story unfolded. "I have to tell you, Etai," she confided, settling into a quiet corner of her workspace, "I'm in a period of weird transition right now. I just got back from living in Tacoma for seven years, and now I'm back in Taipei. I feel like a stranger in my own home." She described her disrupted sleep, her reliance on convenience store meals, the depression that had crept in like shadows in a familiar room suddenly made strange. "I haven't felt at home in my own body," she admitted, "and I'm wondering if you can help."

We delved into both the scientific and spiritual aspects of her struggle. I explained how those 7-Eleven rice balls might satisfy hunger but couldn't nourish the soul, especially when papayas and bananas cost the same amount. "Think about why you're making this choice," I suggested. "The food needs to love you back."

Then we moved to the spiritual plane, and I shared with her the power of positive affirmations. "When you walk into this gallery tomorrow," I told her, "say to yourself: 'I am providing value. Everyone here is graced by the positivity of my presence. I love myself. I trust myself. I honor myself. I value myself.'" I continued, watching her eyes light up with recognition: "'I know that I am at home in my body, and I know that I am the one within the many and the many within the one. I am the same as all the people I love. I am power. I am beauty.'"

"Wow," she breathed, "I never considered these things. I know it's easier said than done, and it will be hard for me to implement those things, but I'm committed to doing it." Her gratitude was palpable, and when she asked for another hug, we held each other for what felt like two minutes, sharing strength and understanding in silence.

Our connection might have lasted longer, but her supervisor's text broke the spell – she needed to return to her station. As I reluctantly prepared to leave, she seemed more grounded, as if our conversation had helped her find her footing in her hometown once again. It felt like one of those rare moments when two souls connect exactly when they need to, each offering the other exactly what they didn't know they were seeking.

Stepping out of the gallery, I found myself at the foot of Taipei 101, a tower transformed by lights into a vertical rainbow. Red at the base, violet at the crown – some symbolism transcends cultural boundaries. The chakras of this urban giant glowed against the darkening sky, each color band marking another level of consciousness reaching toward heaven. The universe speaks in colors sometimes, and that night it was screaming.

Hungry for dinner and curious about Taipei's take on global cuisine, I wandered into a Mexican restaurant. Those carnitas tacos were so true-to-tradition that they could have been served in Brooklyn – slow-cooked pork cradled in corn tortillas, crowned with fresh cilantro, lime, and onions. Scott, a Taiwanese businessman sitting beside me at the restaurant’s bar, wouldn't let me eat them without the house mole sauce, flagging down a server with the urgency of someone who knew a secret too good to keep. He was right – the sauce elevated everything. We took selfies with his goofy sunglasses, talked and laughed until emails drew him into his phone's blue glow. Even as a middle-aged man, he wasn't immune to technology's siren song.

The next evening found me in a tree at sunset, perched above one of New Taipei's extraordinary city parks. Below me, humanity thrived – families uncorking wine bottles, children playing tag, joggers tracing their paths through the gathering dusk. Like the forests I'd wandered, this urban jungle pulsed with life – children's laughter instead of bird calls, picnic blankets instead of forest floor moss. I stayed until the stars emerged, feeling both observer and participant in this beautiful dance.

The train ride home felt familiar in its newness. The bodega near my hostel became a landmark in my temporary world, marking another day in this city that has somehow become home in just three days. Twenty-two years of static routines back home seem far away now, replaced by this constant dance of forming and releasing habits in each new city. It’s a strange art – maintaining good practices while letting each place reshape me, finding comfort in the perpetual state of change.

This morning found me reluctant to leave my nocturnal dreams of Bahamian beaches, the sheets holding me like a lover unwilling to let go. Is it betrayal to sometimes prefer the world behind closed eyelids, where coconuts appear at will and warm sand cushions every step? Regardless, Taipei called with promises of new wonders. I got up. 

Now, gazing out from my hostel’s eighth-floor lobby at this concrete forest, I feel both lost and found, a paradox that only travel could create. The purple stains on my t-shirt have set in permanently – a small price to pay for feeling alive in all the ways that matter, for learning that home could be found in a box cutter, a parrot on a train, a stranger's hug, or up in a tree at sunset.

Love,

Etai