I don't often take time to stare out the window. Maybe a glance now and then, but it is a rare moment when I really take the time to look. I don't have my camera with me, but maybe I can describe a bit of what I see.
Hundreds of mopeds are parked across the street. They stand in a long row, the white liscence plates facing out. They all look the same and I often wonder how the owner finds his bike. Maybe it's by the helmet hanging on the handle, screaming out individuality in a sea of sameness.
A man stands by the street--sometimes he sits in a portable chair he has brought with him. He is wearing a tan, Japanees style hard hat and a red cape. Yellow trims the cape that is draped to the ground. He stands still, facing the ground as people walk by. He has something in his hands. I don't know if he is a monk, but no one has offered him anything. He will be there all day, barely noticed by anyone but me.si
A taxi stops and the driver helps a woman get into a wheel chair. It takes all he has to heft her out of the car. She is wrapped in shawls and pink blankets. Someone runs up and whisks her away.
A young couple stroll by. She is on her phone, her straight, long black hair flung over her shoulder. He holds her hand as they briskly walk by.
Shades of green marble the park across the street. Like a Monet, indiviudual leaves blur together creating dimention and feeling. The wind blows the long leaves of the palms in ribbons across the sky.
In the center of the park is a large, renaissance sytle building. I am told it is left over from the Japanese occupation of Taiwan in the early 1900's . It is an oasis of Savanah charm in the midst of steel and glass.