“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.” - Ray Bradbury

I had just graduated from UCLA, and I longed for a journey - for the undiscovered parts of myself that only new challenges could uncover. I packed one suitcase and found my way to Taichung, Taiwan, despite not knowing any Mandarin Chinese.

When I think about that year, it seems like half-forgotten music and I feel I should know the tune. I think that life is like that - all moments are like notes strung together; some images are so full that they almost seem like they are living. Looking back, I remember...

On my first day, I remember finding a way to the roof of my apartment building and looking down at the street below. It was early July, and the rain was soft and warm. Hundreds of umbrellas twirled and bobbed in a dance of color on the street below.

I also remember the sound of the garbage truck that would come by in the morning. In Taiwan, garbage trucks sound like ice cream trucks - music is played from speakers to let people know to bring out their trash. I still remember the sound of  "Für Elise" echoing in the early morning.

I remember riding on the back of a scooter for the first time, weaving in and out of thick traffic - buses, cars, other scooters, and darting pedestrians - and the beeping horns and blinking lights on signs I could not read.

I remember going to night market, with endless stalls filled with wares and steam from food vendor carts turning everything into a hazy dream - sizzling stinky tofu stacked on popsicle sticks and little bags of purple sweet potato fries, cut thick and sprinkled with spices.

I remember the first time my youngest student smiled. She was very small for her age and very shy. She showed me a drawing of a butterfly. It was the most beautiful butterfly drawing I have ever seen (or will ever see).

I remember the temple in Taipei. It was misting in the courtyard, and incense seemed to float on the mist. That mist eventually flowed in the seams between the cobblestones beneath my feet.

I remember hiking through the mountains and looking for lychee. I remember the feeling of the sun and the wind on my face as I looked out at the softly rounded, yet dramatic, landscape. I wished I had seven-league boots so I could travel beyond what my eyes could see, beyond that next mountain, and the one after that...

These memories do feel like a music I heard long ago, and I can't quite remember the tune.