Cities and Suitcases

The other day, I moved.

Just across the city--from nearish Jingan station to nearish Fuzhong. I'm not entirely certain why I moved, and the Powers that Be never quite communicated a distinct reason to me. But I knew that I must pack my stuff in a suitcase and be at Fuzhong station at 4PM. No, no! I laughingly told my friend Lom (who is big and strong and would have been an immense help, actually). I don't need help! It's just one little suitcase. Don't be ridiculous.

A close reader of my blog may begin to devise its thesis, encapsulated in the following confession: O reader, I am the ridiculous one after all.

I engaged first in a frenetic repacking of everything in my possession. This was accompanied by the constant question, at first silent and then uttered with increasingly wild fervor, how did this all fit before? At any rate, it all fit. Eventually, and with much sitting on my suitcase.

Living on the fourth floor can be nice; my room proved quiet even on weekend nights and other times when noise pollution drowns a city in catcalls and car-honks. However, Moving Day made me regret the height that I had been enjoying for the last month. I attempted to lug my bag downstairs, reasoning that I had carried this suitcase around before. Well, all of my things seem to have doubled in weight: I can't physically lift my suitcase. Yes, okay, I'm small--but I'm stronger than I look, at least a little. I stood for a moment at the top of the staircase, despairing at the dozens of stairs I must now descend.

I made a temporary home for my umbrella and book-bag at the top of said stairs and decided that I could carry my suitcase if I did so slowly, resting on every landing. About thirty seconds after the formation of this resolution, I lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, exhausted and bruised from having fallen over while carrying the bag. Classic rookie mistake: forgetting to correct for my own clumsiness. The new system, far slower and more ridiculous but more Corinne-proof, consisted of my scooting the bag to the edge of a step and kicking it lightly, minimizing the sound of its hitting the stair below as much as possible. Yes, one stair at a time. Yes, for three and a half flights of stairs. About halfway through this process, I felt a drop on my foot, and then another two or three. There's a leak!, I thought frantically. A leak in the roof! 

Dear reader, have you heard the expression "dripping with sweat"? It seems like a hyperbole, an exaggeration to evoke a mental image. Someone who is "dripping with sweat" is simply warm; that person has a faint glow, perhaps, or a lightly sodden back. Well, I can honestly say to you that I was literally dripping with sweat on account of my nine-thousand-pound suitcase, the thermostat-shattering heat, and the inconceivable levels of humidity. My shoes actually have faint salt-stains on them, in noticeable drip patterns.

Anyway, after about twenty minutes I arrived to the bottom of the stairs, soaked in sweat. I began the arduous process of wheeling my case--by which I mean something closer to dragging my case, since the wheels do not particularly work--to the station. About a minute into this walk, I thought to myself, halfway toward true despair: this cannot possibly get worse. 

Well, this is Taipei: cue the rain. The sky opened up, drenching me and my papers and my suitcase. Twenty very long minutes later, I stood shivering in the air-conditioned elevator at Jingan Station, preparing to use my suitcase as a battering ram against the other MRT passengers if necessary. I had three transfers; each required more psychological strength than I had remaining, with the end result being my scowling at everyone and everything. I will cut you, I thought to adorable elderly Chinese couples, young and sweet Taiwanese teenagers, and giddy visiting tourists. I will cut all of you. And then I will run you over with my suitcase. 

Improbably, I arrived to Fuzhong--half an hour late, and when I had planned to be half an hour early!--to meet the person who would show me to my new place. He was middle-aged but very small, and it quickly became apparent that despite my tininess and ineffectiveness, I could nevertheless carry the bag (which I have now determined must be made of dark matter on account of its density) better than he could. I looked out resignedly at the unfamiliar cityscape, gathering all of my remaining strength to combat uneven pavement, endless curbs, rude and unmoving fellow pedestrians, and--at the end of it all--a four-story climb up. 

At least it had mostly stopped raining.