Like a good number of my northern Taiwanese brethren, last weekend saw your humble scribe and his motley brood fill the rusty old family car with zongzi of various flavors and make the annual migration south to visit wayward pockets of the Neihu clan for the Duanwu holiday.
Ever since they opened the second north-south freeway, this trek has become less of an ordeal if you know when to leave — and when to rest.
On your way down and back, you’ll probably explore the freeway rest areas. At these bustling microcosms of this good society you can park among hundreds and hundreds of like families and spend an hour or two eating, drinking, buying souvenirs, sitting around and gossiping, enjoying muzak piped through the car park speakers, disposing of your accumulated car trash, walking your mutt around the grounds (or pushing it around in a pram), filling up with gas, exercising with your kids/grandkids in areas with brightly colored playground equipment, scanning wall maps and learning about local tourist attractions, admiring displays of local agricultural produce, sleeping off your fatigue in the car or in the cafeteria and (my granddaughters’ favorite) shooting hoops on a video game arcade machine.
Some of the rest areas, particularly the newer ones on the Formosa Freeway (No. 3), have added attractions. On weekend evenings, the Chingshui Service Center in Taichung County, for example, seems to crawl with people who are there for no other reason than it has a great view and free parking — sometimes even live music and concerts. The downside at Chingshui is that you run the risk of having your ass blown clear off the mountain by the winds that frequently whip in from the Taiwan Strait.
But, like 95 percent of everyone else who drops in, you are there first and foremost to use the public toilet.
I am delighted to say that the designers of these rest areas have been faithful to the traditions of Taiwanese architecture by ensuring that at least 10 to 15 urinals are in clear view of each man, woman and child who strolls past the entrance. Another tradition scrupulously maintained, and which is close to my heart, is the female toilet cleanliness officer standing right behind you with a mop as you relieve yourself, or waiting right outside the cubicle door to clean up the mess that you’ve left behind.
So you see, dear reader, it was at freeway rest areas that I discovered that there is such a thing as taking a dump politely.
But on this trip something struck me. Standing up at the plate, you still see the standard “Don’t overtake using the freeway shoulder” and “Heavy fines if you don’t secure your load” cartoons, but now you will also see, perched on the urinal’s bone-white ceramic top, a picture of Andy Lau (劉德華), God of the Hong Kong entertainment industry, smiling warmly and wearing a brightly but tastefully colored suit and tie, his hand pressing against his heart, promising that he (and the manufacturer of the urinals) will be with you for life.
Every time I hold my member with one hand and lean against the wall with the other, Andy is there, comforting me and reminding everyone that all is well and that one can re-enter the world beyond the wet tiles with confidence. Each and every time, I emerge from these freeway public toilets with a fist triumphantly punching the air (after I’ve washed my hands).
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