Joseph Shieh

Frances McCue
Honors 345A: Pilgrimages and Idle Travels: A Memoir and Travel Writing Studio
March 8, 2017
East and West
I am Taiwanese-American, one of many who represent the intersection between the East
and West. To most Taiwanese, I am American. To most Americans, I am Asian. And although I
may never completely belong to either spheres of influence, I have touched both worlds in ways
that not many have.
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1937…Somewhere in China
…I know I’m dreaming, the setting precedes my existence by more than half a century.
It’s the year when Japan invaded China (or “entered” depending on the version of history), the
beginning of the Second Sino-Japanese War. It’s an early evening. I’m at the estate where my
grandfather grew up. The open land stretches out for kilometers everywhere. And all of them are
owned by grandfather’s family…that is, before the cultural revolution in China led by Mao
Zedong in the not-so-distant future after World War II. As I walk through the watery, verdant rice
fields, I see a boy. He looks familiar, I’ve seen him somewhere?…it’s my grandfather!…more
than seventy years younger before the relentless years took a toll on him. It’s somewhat
disconcerting. I run up to him, wave, and greet him. But he walks on as if he didn’t notice
anything. I look at my hands. They’re transparent like those of a ghost…like a certain ghost of
Christmas future. I follow my grandfather. I can’t get over his youthful appearance…or the vast
amount of lands that his family owned. Of course, I wouldn’t know what they looked like. I’ve
never been there. I’ve only heard the stories passed from my grandfather to my mother, who in
turn passed in down to my sister and me…one of many stories that led my grandfather to begin a
new life in Taipei, Taiwan. While my cultural roots are in Taiwan, they extend deeper into China,
the land of my ancestors. I hope to visit China someday…Suddenly, something pulls me away
from this world into another…
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 2006…Taipei
…I suddenly wake. It’s early morning. I’m in a bed in one of the rooms of my
grandparents’ apartment. It’s quiet. Everyone else is asleep, with the exception of my
grandmother who is currently doing morning laundry. I prepare myself for the day and greet my
grandmother. I walk down several flights of stairs to the ground level and step outside. I’m in the
Xindian district in the outskirts of Taipei, the capital city of Taiwan. Clouds cover the gray skies,
but faint sunlight weakly makes its way through the overcast. Cool drizzle forms a light mist. As
I walk towards the main road, I notice a complete silence that is only punctuated by the
occasional “zǎo” (morning) that people use to greet each other. Hearing Chinese in public is
somewhat disconcerting for someone accustomed to hearing English everywhere and yet oddly
pleasant for someone who only heard Chinese at home. It allows me to remember the native
tongue of my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and forebears. Sometimes, I worry that
the relentless years will gradually erode away this cultural heirloom. However, whenever I return
to Taiwan, I remember and am assured. Approximately a kilometer later, I reach the main road.
Shops line the road on both sides. The morning street vendors sell a delicious variety of
Taiwanese breakfast cuisine. However, I’m only here to buy my favorite Taiwanese breakfast
cuisine: youtiao and oamisua. Youtiao is to Taiwan as the cruller is to the Western world. It is
slightly sweet with a tad of saltiness in the background; it is crispy on the outside yet soft on the
inside. To the touch, it is slightly oily. And then there’s oamisua, a Taiwanese culinary specialty.
Roughly, it is a Taiwanese soup and noodles. Specifically, it has very thin rice noodles in a sweet
and salty thick soup complemented by oysters and chitterlings, but my mother called it “Chinese
bubblegum” when I was a child due to its chewy texture. I take my breakfast back to my
grandparents’ apartment, where I can slowly enjoy these culinary sensations…
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…I’m outside of my great-grandmother’s farm, approximately an hour’s drive from
Xindian. It’s late morning. My great-grandmother’s house is several stories tall, and each story
has many rooms. Compared to my grandparent’s small apartment in Xindian, it looks like a rural
mansion. It was intended for immediate and extended families living together in the days when
Taiwan was still an agricultural society before its rapid transition to a high-tech society during
the 1980s. Dust blankets the ground everywhere, reminding me of the Dust Bowl of the Great
Depression. The field is nearby. It has seen better years. The plants are unattended. The animals
are gone. Once a place of vibrant wildlife, there is only silence. My mother’s family, who grew
up, now live in the cities. However, they are temporarily back for this family reunion and to
perhaps remember their roots. I’m surrounded by my mother’s extended family: her uncles,
aunts, cousins and their children. Despite our differences, they treat me warmly as if I had known
them for years, as if I had grown up knowing them, as if I am one of them. I am pleasantly
surprised. It is a reflection of a time long ago when Taiwan’s society was very community-
oriented, now replaced by the modern, lonely existence of individualism. Yet, some things are
constant through the ages. Today, the cultural emphasis on discipline, diligence, and
perseverance is still present. I see it in my mother’s extended family. I see it in my extended
family. I can see it in my immediate family. I can see it in my life. In a way, these cultural values
help me connect with other people of Asian culture heritage, as if I understand them and they
understand me…at least more than most people. I stay late into the night. I dislike leaving. It
usually means another two years before I see them again. It has been six years since I last saw
them…oddly enough, even though I don’t know them very well, I miss them…
Two Years Later…Danshui
…I’m in Danshui, a northern coastal city of Taiwan. It’s night time. I’m walking down
wooden piers with my cousins and our parents. Simple, wooden fences line the sides, and the
occasional lamp post softly light the piers, the water, and the reflections. As I continue walking
down the piers, I intermittently encounter simple wooden huts, each with a simple wooden
triangular roof supported by four simple wooden poles. It is almost completely quiet, only
occasionally interrupted by snippets of conversations from my family talking among themselves,
allowing me to think. Everything appears so organic, so traditional, so…Eastern. The fresh, cool
sea air fills my lungs; the gentle sea breeze flows past me. I feel I can fly. I eventually reach the
bridge that spans across the river that leads to the sea. Lights cover the white bridge, brightly
illuminating the bridge, making it stand out in the darkness; its walkway is supported by hanging
cables attached to the inverted “V” structure bisecting the bridge. This bridge is so modern, so…
Western. It is so incongruous with its peers, analogous to Marco Polo in China. The East beckons
me with the night markets nearby…
Two Years Later…Kenting
…I’m in Kenting, a southern coastal city of Taiwan. It’s daytime. I’m swimming in the
sea, trying to catch those colorful tropical fish that swim among the tropical reef, living stones
that populate the shallow seabed. The water is crystal clear. As my fins rapidly propel me through
the water, I feel the same sensation whenever I’m running. I feel free, unhindered, even…
powerful. I am speed. I am lightning…I wonder if that’s the reason why the ancients were so
enamored with the elements…
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…It’s night time. I am at the night markets of Kenting with my cousins and our parents.
The lights contrast with the surrounding darkness. I dodge a sea of bodies. I can hear laughter. I
can hear pieces of conversations in Chinese from nearby people; they are often jokes or
comments. I can smell night market food in the air. I taste the savory deliciousness of night
market food. This is my cultural heritage. I belong here, perhaps…
Two Years Later…Hualien
…I’m in Hulien, a eastern coastal city of Taiwan. It’s morning. I’m outside of my
mother’s aunt’s house. A typhoon is approaching. The rain and mist obscure my sight. The winds
are fierce as if the Anemoi, minor Greek gods of the winds, opened a bag of storm winds like that
given to Odyssey. The oceans roar as if Poseidon were churning the waters. Thunder rolls in as if
Zeus were hurling lightning bolts in the distance. I know I should be wary. But instead, I feel
nature’s power, wild and untamed…
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…I’m hiking up a mountain in Hualien. A heavy, humid mist covers its slope; I can feel
the cool moisture enveloping me. Blooming flowers with bright yellow pigments cover the
mountain entirely, making it glow like the sun. Silence pervades the air, only occasionally
interrupted by nearby people. The scenery looks like to belongs to one of those magical scenes
from Kung Fu Panda. I couldn’t help but think that this place would be a great place for some
quiet meditation and contemplation. Suddenly, I feel a bright light on my face…
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 2016…Roma
…Suddenly, I wake up. Bright sunlight streams into the room and onto my face…That’s
odd. I don’t recognize this room. Where am I? How did I get here?…I suddenly remember that
I’m halfway across the world…in the opposite direction. A whole new world for me to explore. I
quickly prepare myself for the day. I briskly walk out my room and nearly run into one of the
hotel’s maids. She smiles and greets me. Buongiorno. Good morning. Not remembering any
Italian at the time, I awkwardly smile and wave in my attempt to be polite and race down several
floors to the hotel’s entrance. I head towards the Tiber…
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…The Tiber spans at least fifty feet. It reflects a green-blue hue. The current is slow and
lazy. The banks are covered with reeds and other aquatic vegetation. Narrow asphalt-paved roads
line the banks. Enormous slanted stone walls at least fifty feet tall tall loom over the roads. The
banks of the Tiber are quiet with only the sound of the running river in the background. I walk up
one of the occasional stone stairways that lead to the high ground. At the high ground, a sidewalk
lines the walls along with lush, verdant trees. The main road, streets, and buildings are all located
on the high ground. A deafening cacophony of cars, motorbikes, residents, and tourists nearly
deafens me. It’s too much for me; I head back to the quiet tranquility of the Tiber’s banks. Along
the walls of the Tiber, intermittent artwork reference aspects of ancient Rome’s mythology and
its proud history, from the famous Capitoline Wolf who raised the mythical Romulus and Remus
to the mighty conquests made by ancient Roman consuls and emperors. Thousand-year-old stone
bridges intermittently span the Tiber. Latin inscriptions, Ponte…(Bridge…), name the bridges.
Greco-Roman ornamentations and statues celebrating famous figures in Roman mythology and
history decorate these ancient bridges. Many ancient, Medieval, and modern Roman structures
line along the Tiber’s walls, integrated together like a living, continuing chronology of the city.
The modern buildings present a sense of familiarity, an anchor to the present, while the ancient
ones beckon me to explore ancient Rome, drawing me into the ancient world…
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…I reach the Circus Maximus, an enormous ancient elliptical racetrack. Stands that once
held the cheering masses are now replaced by grass. Buildings that once stood at the track’s
center are now replaced by grass and trees. A place where the roar of the cheering masses filled
the air is now home to complete silence. The term “bread and circuses” originated here, implying
superficial entertainment. I note a similar parallelism exists with our society’s odd obsession with
social media, TV shows, and tabloid magazines. I wonder if the U.S. would eventually fall like
Rome. Though instead of having the Canadians invade the U.S. as the Germanic tribes invaded
Rome, maybe the U.S. would lose its superpower status and prestige. That, or a post-apocalyptic
Hunger Games scenario…
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…I reach the Forum Romanum, the Roman Forum, and the Palatine Hill. I wander among
its ancient ruins. Everywhere as far as the eye can see, ancient ruins cover the landscape from the
houses of the living, the houses of ancient Rome’s social elite, to the house of the dead, the tomb
of Julius Caesar. The ruins were left to weather through the days, weeks, months, years,
centuries, millennia, giving the appearance like half-built or half-torn down buildings that were
half-painted or half-bleached. These ruins, tall and proud, are a testament to the might and glory
of ancient Rome. One can see that the Forum Romanum and the Palatine Hill was once a vibrant
community. Two hundred meters away, a series of white columns reaches towards the sky; these
columns were once part of the majestic Iovis Optimi Maximi Capitolini (literally translated it
means Temple of Jupiter Best and Greatest on the Capitoline), the Temple of Jupiter Maximus.
Jupiter is one of the most powerful gods of the ancient Roman pantheon and is also a Roman
renaming of the Greek god Zeus, the god of the skies, lightning, and thunder. Many other Greek
deities underwent a similar process, such as Poseidon to Neptune and Hades to Pluto. As I
continue to wander from one ruin to another, I couldn’t help but marvel at the history of ancient
Rome. Within five hundred years since its mythical beginnings on April 21, 753 B.C., ancient
Rome became the superpower of the Mediterranean and one of most powerful superpowers in
the ancient world, only surpassed a thousand years later by the British colonial empire. To this
day, the social and political institutions of the West can be attributed to ancient Rome, from the
linguistic origins of English and the Romance languages in Latin to the political origins of the
senate. However, Roman imperialism was controversial among its contemporaries. While the
famous ancient Roman adage states, “ Si vis pacem, para bellum“ (“If you want peace, prepare
for war.” In the sense of non-aggressive war, defending peace), Roman orator, lawyer, and
senator Tacitus countered with “Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant” (“They make a desert and
call it peace”). Yet another parallelism exists within our society, the fine, difficult distinction
between defending the peace and imperialism…
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…I reach the famous (or infamous) Colosseum. I remember the first time I visited this
famous landmark. Frankly, I was somewhat disappointed. It wasn’t as grand as imagination
would have it. The interior is so worn down that the stands and arena floor are gone. Though
according to one of my professors in my study abroad, the Colosseum was much grander, much
larger and surrounded with statues of the gods and emperors, that is, before people from the
Middle Ages began using it as a mine for building materials, which is why one can sometimes
see ancient statue or building debris, called spoilia, in Medieval buildings. The Colosseum is so
close to the Forum Romanun that I wonder if the Roman emperors ever used it to eliminate their
political enemies; it was only a convenient distance away, not to mention the entertainment
value. While I was uncomfortable with the Colosseum’s purpose, another professor reminded me
that the Colosseum was a morally acceptable during its time. My discomfort was only a
reflection of changing morality in society. Yet, even that bothers me. Does that imply that a
society can continually redefine its moral values with each passing generation until it destroys
itself? Certo. Certainly. So it seems. Ancient Roman hedonism was one contributing factor to its
downfall. That sounds familiar…
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…It’s night time. I’m wandering the the streets of Rome, observing both people and
locations. It’s odd. The cultural atmosphere here in Italy is very different than that in the United
States. Most Italians aren’t particularly wealthy. Yet, they don’t pursue wealth, being satisfied
with what they have. They live to work, not work to live. They pursue relationships. They pursue
experiences. They pursue beauty. They take pride in their culture and history. They pursue the
truly important things in life. The truly important things in life. I can see it everywhere. The
people. The businesses. The buildings. The ruins. The art. The music. The food. The lifestyle.
Truly, the Y.O.L.O. (You Only Live Once) approach to life. La Dolce Vita (“The sweet life”…
also the name of a certain film by famous Italian director, Federico Fellini). Even though I
appreciate the industrious emphasis in our culture, I wish these cultural elements are present in
ours. Life should have balance, never in the extreme. These Italian cultural values are lessons
that everyone back home can learn. Lessons that I can learn
…A Week Later…Cinque Terre
…I’m actually in La Spezia, a city near Cinque Terre. I’m in a café and about to order.
Unfortunately, the barista does not speak any English. And even more unfortunately, I do not
speak any Italian. The logical conclusion? Speak Chinese. I learn that he is second-generation
Chinese-Italian. His parents immigrated from China. He asks me where I’m from. I tell him that
I’m from the U.S. My parents immigrated from Taiwan. To a certain degree, we connect through
Chinese. I sympathize with him. Maybe he too has to reconcile the contrasting cultures of the
East and West and maybe he too doesn’t belong in either world. Also, there aren’t many people
of Chinese descent in Italy; the population is rather homogenous, which probably means few
opportunities to share his cultural heritage. Also, the native population aren’t the most receptive
of people of Chinese descent. Several days ago in Rome, some random fellow came up to me
and called me Cinese. I didn’t need to know any Italian to know that he called me “Chinese”.
However, it was the tone of his voice that was disconcerting; it was the tone of contempt.
Similarly, I noticed that despite my best efforts to be polite, some of the Italians either glared at
me or ignored me. Perhaps I’m overanalyzing, overreacting. But if my instincts are right, these
incidents suggest that racial bias still linger in Europe despite its quest for progressivism…C’est
la vie (That’s life)…
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…A short train ride from La Spezia takes me to Cinque Terre (“Five Earths”), five
mountainous, coastal villages. Monterosso al Mare. Vernazza. Corniglia. Manarola.
Riomaggiore. I am now hiking the difficult trails that links those five villages. However, it’s the
scenery that captures my attention. The sun shines brightly. The skies are clear light blue with
few clouds. The mountains are covered with lush, verdant trees. The rocky, coastal cliffs
overlook the open, watery expanse of the Mediterranean. Eventually, these cliffs give rise to long
stretches of sandy beaches. The sea is crystal clear; I can see the rocks more than ten meters
below. The quaint village buildings are painted in multi-hued colors. It is quiet, only the
occasional birdsong interrupts the silence. A gentle breeze occasionally flutters around me to
provide some relief. The day quickly passes…I swim in the Mediterranean…I have seafood for
dinner…I walk along beach and see the sun set…Soon, night comes and I have to leave…oddly
enough, I leave somewhat sorrowfully…
A Week Later…Firenze
…I’m wandering the streets of Florence. It’s evening. Renaissance bridges span the Arno.
Renaissance sculptures dot the landscape. Renaissance houses line the streets. Here, I can hear a
string trio playing Pachelbel’s famous Canon in D. The intonation. The phrasing. The dynamics.
The balancing. I appreciate how masterfully the musicians perform this classic piece. I walk a
few blocks to an large, open square; I hear an outdoor orchestra performing several classical
works. I walk another few blocks; I hear someone performing Coldplay’s “The Scientist”. Music
is everywhere. I really, really, really, wish this cultural emphasis on the arts exists back home…
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…After climbing many stairs, I eventually reach the Piazzalo de Michaelanglo that
overlooks Florence. The sight takes my breath away, and I can’t stop looking. The Arno river
slowly winds through Florence. The Florentine lights softly light the river and the city, giving the
Arno and its reflections a gentle glow and softly illuminating the Renaissance landscape.
Florence’s Renaissance past comes alive. The landscape gives rise to fading hills in the
background. The sunset splashes multi-hued yellows, oranges, reds, and violets onto the sky. I
wish I could stay longer, but I have to leave as I will be traveling to another city at 3:00 A.M
oddly enough, I leave somewhat sorrowfully…
A Day Later…Venizia
…Water here. Water there. Water everywhere. Everything is different in Venice. Instead
of standard Italian, a Venetian dialect is spoken. It’s a guess though; I’m basing my conclusion
on the seemingly different phonetics and seemingly different common vocabulary. Instead of
streets, Venice has canals. Instead of crossways, Venice has bridges. Instead of taxis, Venice has
gondolas. As I walk along the sea, I see the distant islands…
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 …I reach the Jewish ghetto. Excluding society, what drives humans to exclude other? To
war on each other? Darwin’s evolution? But that doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t it make more
sense for primitive humans to collaborate to survive? The ghetto also reminds me of Shylock
from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice and his famous quote: “…And if you wrong us, shall we
not want revenge?”. It leads me to ruminate about the fine, subtle distinction between revenge
and justice. Are not revenge and justice the same in that they punish wrongdoing? Our society
tends to use them interchangeably, disturbingly. The former guided by partiality and selfishness.
The latter guided by impartiality and the desire to maintain peace and order. Yet on the surface,
they appear the same. How can one discern intention? One can always claim good intentions but
can rarely, if ever, prove them. Cynical? Perhaps. Realistic? Probably. Thankfully, my thoughts
are interrupted by a nearby string quartet playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons…
A Week Later…Milano
…The city is so modern compared to other cities in Italy. It almost feels like Seattle. I am
now in a museum viewing one of Leonardo da Vinci’s Codex. It showcases many of da Vinci’s
inventions. One of them is an aerodynamic cone-shaped artillery shell, resembling modern
artillery shells. As someone who used to devote much of his spare time studying military
technologies, I can appreciate that da Vinci’s invention is several centuries ahead of his time. I
speculate that a significant aspect of da Vinci’s genius stems not from logic but from his
amazingly creative imagination. Einstein once said, “Logic will get you from A to B.
Imagination will take you everywhere.” As an engineer, da Vinci and his inventions remind me
the one characteristic that all great engineers, programmers, artists, writers, and musicians share:
creativity. Great engineering relies not on logic but on creativity, a certain irony…
A Day Later…Fabriano and Assisi
…Fabriano and Assisi are both medieval towns located in the famous beautiful Italian
countryside. It feels like the clocks stopped during the 1300s or 1400s, freezing both towns in
those centuries. The amount of preservation is remarkable. All Medieval builds and not a single
modern building in sight. I can hear someone fiddling nearby; I can’t tell if it’s Celtic or New
England fiddling. Suddenly, a voice next to me tells me, “Please wake up, sir”?…
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It’s J.A.R.V.I.S., a Siri-like assistant on my phone. I barely open my eyes, trying to figure
how many hours of sleep I had left. 8:00 A.M. Zero hours of sleep left. Great. I rub the sleep
from my eyes, somewhat rueful that I never got to taste some delicious Taiwanese
choah-peng, a Taiwanese shaved ice dessert in my dreams or some creamy, soft gelato.
Sometimes my dreams reflect my experiences, my identity. I am not entirely Eastern. Nor am I
entirely Western. I am some hybrid of the East and West who walks the middle path between
both worlds.