Breakfast At the Grand Hyatt (Taipei, Taiwan)
At first, there was an ominous lack of response from the mother company, but then I got the following reply from Mark W., our UK Project Manager:
"That's the first trip report I enjoyed reading. I note that it doesn't
actually contain any useful information, but that's nothing new for a
trip report."
Once finally getting here, I am having a great time. I was thinking that I should send a trip report. The problem is that trip reports are so bloody boring, if only because they always dwell on issues and resolutions, time frames, and contingency plans. So instead, and in potentially career-limiting fashion, I present:
The Story So Far
This was a short-notice trip. I was comparing notes curbside with another traveler while waiting for our rides at the Taipei airport. In a French accent, he had related that his own trip had been on short notice: he had been informed at 11AM the day before. I told him that I also found out the day before, but at 2:30 PM via a note left on my chair. If life is indeed a competition, I have scored a victory over the French. I savor the moment in silence.
In packing for this trip, I grabbed my copy of "On The Road" by Jack Kerouac and tossed it in with the laptop. It seemed apropos, and besides, it was sitting right there and it saved me the trouble of having to pick something else out. I have to say that "On The Road" is the best book I have never finished reading. I remember the first time I started it, I got to page six (and I even remember that it was page six, and I think I will always remember it was page six), and read:
"Hell, man, I know very well you didn't come to me only to
want to be a writer, and after all what do I really know about
it except you've got to stick to it with the energy of a benny
addict."
I closed the book for two full years after reading that. I guess I was afraid that the rest of it just wouldn't live up to those first six pages. A masterpiece of the English language, at least the short portions I have read (and re-read) so far.
But my metaphorical road has taken me with aforementioned short notice to the Grand Hyatt in Taipei, Taiwan at about 5:45AM after a 13 hour plane flight. After a shower during which I decide that Taiwan must not have a water shortage, I head down to the breakfast buffet.
English seems to be the language of the Hyatt breakfast buffet, and perhaps that makes sense given the number of obviously English-speaking guests. Even so, I do not understand the woman in the dark uniform. She seems to be telling me that I have a choice to make, but I clearly do not understand the ramifications in my sleep-deprived state. I tell her that all I really want is coffee. And fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, which I can smell somewhere off in the distance. This causes my road to fork off to the right towards the source of the cinnamon smell, and then to my seat. It is a prime seat for checking out the room.
Other guests start to filter in. I begin to understand the class structure. Of the hotel workers, I mean. I couldn't pretend to understand the class structure of the hotel guests. The worker class structure is marked by the color of their uniforms.
The dark colored uniforms with the perfectly squared shoulders are the Secret Service. These agents have radio links: ear-bud headphones and lapel mics. The radios are in constant use. Commands are whispered; tasks are performed. Sometimes a smile at a shared joke. Clearly, the Agents are the overlords of the dining room.
The light grey uniforms perform more menial tasks. It is their job to clean the hive and bring honey to us drones. There are crumbs to be removed, spots to be polished out, and packets of sugar to be recounted and then straightened in their holders.
While pondering the class distinctions, I head off for more pastries. I return to find that a grey uniform has refolded my napkin for me. Not a new napkin mind you, just my old one refolded into a new, pleasing triangular pattern. My old plate is gone, too. Along with it, my one and only fork. I certainly won't miss my fork that much, but I fear that eating with my hands might reveal me to be the unsophisticated hick that I am, sneaking into the Hyatt on someone else's expense account.
I see a woman one table over in the same forkless predicament. It is clear to see that she is genuine Hyatt material, a real take-charge person. With less than one second of mental effort, she gets up and swiftly makes off with a complete set of silverware from an adjacent table. Unbeknownst to her, the all-seeing Secret Service are privy to the heist. Words are spoken into the lapel mic and the Special Agent rolls her eyes:
-- Did not the thief know that fresh silverware could have been
summoned at the speed of light, radio waves turning ethereal
desires into physical manifestations? A fork could have been
summoned before bottom had met chair.
No matter, the problem was solved either way. For my part, I am amused to recognize that rolling eyeballs is apparently part of a universal human language. I shrug my shoulders at that thought and I try to take in the entire scene as one.
Electronic trance music fills the voids between gaps in conversation. I feel like the music is a bit out of place here, but it suits me at this moment. Maybe we are both out of place.
In the midst of my reverie, a grey uniform comes over and refills my coffee. The coffee which emanates from the pitcher looks surprisingly weak. She gets a puzzled look on her face, grabs my cup and disappears. Upon the air of her disappearance, I detect the faint scent of tea and the extent of the disaster becomes clear. We can only hope that the Secret Service did not spot the gaffe.
Someone who looks like surprisingly like the uber-geek Richard Stallman sits down a couple of tables over. He is wearing an ill-fitting navy suit, with light blue shirt and a shiny gold tie. It may not be H.R.H. RMS himself, but it certainly does look like someone for whom time stopped when mighty VAX machines ruled the computing universe and nerds were revered, amen.
My coffee cup arrives again. This time, the grey uniform carries but one container, so there is no room for mistakes. I am grateful.
Suddenly, a crisis. The Secret Service spies something on the floor. No time for the radio! The Agent herself leaps into action and gingerly removes the offending article. She holds it like it might be a giant cockroach, although I suspect that it is more likely a piece of the crust from someone's toast. It is hustled from out sight, and a team is dispatched to remove all traces of jelly from the floor.
More people come and go. Some people clearly linger, perhaps to soak in the experience. Others breeze in, eat, and vanish, barely warming their seats to mark their presence.
More coffee. It is the same server. This time, she knows without asking that I want coffee and starts pouring. But this time she gets a truly horrified look on her face as tea comes out for a second time. I can only imagine what sort of inquisition she will be in for when the morning rush is over and the staff holds their daily post-mortem. I am afraid she will be sacked.
And again, a clean cup.
The music has changed now. Too bad -- I was really getting into the trance thing. I drain my cup, rise, and present my bill to the head Agent. She asks for my room number, and I realize that I can't remember it. I decide that this gaffe on my part has revealed my lack of standing in the Hyatt world: I am no rock star or business tycoon that needs extra-special treatment; in fact, it is clean abundantly clear that I am no threat at all. Shedding all remaining vestiges of my fractured facade, I seize the moment to ask the Agent a question that has been bugging me all morning, namely, what day it might be.
She is confused. Do I mean what date it is? With nothing left to protect, I reveal my utter ignorance by again asking for the day of the week. Still, I get no answer. I think she is spending her mental processes trying to assess what would appear to be my rapidly diminishing IQ.
And finally: it is Wednesday.
I thank her.
She laughs as I leave. A team of Grey Uniforms descends on the table, removing all evidence of my visit save the caffeine buzzing in my veins. It may not be benzedrine, but it seems to do the trick.
Wed Jul 14 2004, Room 1841
Rm. 1841, Grand Hyatt, and Powell River B.C.
It will be worth it in the end.
Wright Cyclone in full song.