Adaptation

Humans adapt. That's what we're best at. Today's exciting and new is tomorrow's grey and moribund. Even tragically shit things become tolerable if they are drip fed to us over a long enough period. That's why Armageddon will be met not with mass hysteria, but a swathe of tuts and grumbles, as we slide slowly into the abyss.

In Taiwan, my adaptation has led me to become less impressed by the charming, the wacky and the downright bonkers. And it's lamentable. Not least because it makes writing this blog harder. So this post's for all the little things. All those lovely little Taiwanese happenings. For getting treated like a King – and taking it for granted like a spoilt little Prince.

This one's for the bus driver who stopped outside my house – not an official stop – and made me feel like Tyler Durden in Fight Club.

And it's for the countless 7-Eleven workers, restaurant staff, co-workers, and builders who tell me that I'm handsome (yes, I said builders. They shouted “handsome guy” at me. Things are different here).

It's for the grandmas on the fruit and veg stalls who always give me free samples. And the aunties in the canteen restaurants who give me extra-large portions for cheap.

And this one goes out to the lady in Carrefour supermarket, who tried to convince Jen that she should marry me, on the grounds that she won't do any better. Simultaneously complimentary and abusive.

This post's also for our landlady, who thought she'd seen me and Jon around her neighbourhood before. And when we mentioned that we were new in town, rendering that impossible, she pointed out that all Westerners look ostensibly the same anyway, because we all have massive heads.

It's for the competitive dad. The one who asked if his son Felix could join in with our kick-about in the park, and then filmed the whole thing on his video camera – while shouting at Felix in the manner of a desperate football manger.

And I wouldn't want to forget my trip to an old fortress in Danshui. The rattly old geezer who was a volunteer in the museum hung off my every word, as if I were Simon Schama, asking me questions about Victorian history and taking photos of me for his own collection.

And, last but not least, the guy outside the supermarket last week who looked less mental than his actions suggested. He stood to attention and saluted me. Twice. A gesture of respect which I do not really deserve and, instead, would like to offer to every wonderful Taiwanese person on this island.

God bless Isla Formosa.