I love riding the Taipei subway. The gentle womb-soft corners, the careful lively beings. It brings me great joy to see young couples, her clinging to his arm as the train stutters still1. The glances at strangers are soft and curious, never hostile.
I love the snippet of Chopin’s Nocturne in E announcing the arrival of the red line. I love the light brown floor and baby blue plastic seats. I love the punctuation of young and old, smiling, obeisant.
I love the girl with leather thick-heeled boots, dragon silver ring atop pinky, nose piercing and headphones, standing next to the grey-headed grandpa, eyes barely open now.
I love how even amidst the thickness of bodies in rush hour at Taipei main station, people still line up at the door exits, angled so as to give room for the exiting passengers.
I suspect one reason I love it so much is that I can feel safe. In the offensive aggressive Manhattan subways I need to always beware — yelling, twitching, tweaking, and the smells. But here, here I can feel safe. Nothing bad ever happens in the Taipei subway (how can they, when the instructional notices are cartoon Shiba Inus, reminding you to take off your backpack on a crowded train).
I never cry, but somehow the tenderness of the people, all gathered in a subway cart, brings wetness to my eyes. Something is unbelievably precious about the pockets of civilization we have found in our legacy of 200,000 years as a species — violent and bloody it has been. Down underground, hearing the soft voice announcing your stop, how could you know of the White Terror, or centuries of the most ghastly conditions you can imagine in the mainland? The weight of everything that has led to peace, the lightness of the peace itself — I cannot say much more than thank you, thank you.
Enjoy subway ride