Whenever I smell
stinky tofu and earth drying after the rain,
it is midnight in July in Taiwan,
and I am with friends and relatives,
walking along the streets of the night market,
trying not to be hit by passing cars and scooters,
bartering with difficult street vendors,
and getting ripped off on a $20 shirt sold for $5 in the store next door.

But that is not my story.
My story is meeting new friends,
curious as to where I am from,
assuming I do not speak their language,
all the time believing I’m an Eskimo from Alaska,
that somehow found their way to the street markets of Taiwan.