Thursday 15th September
I have made friends with my next door neighbour, José – or as they call him here – Josie. We met whilst standing on our respective balconies and started to chat, capitalising on the only human interaction available (no offence to him). I learn that he is from Guatemala and is studying here on a contract with a Taiwanese football team! I also discover that his birthday falls on day 3 of quarantine.
In an attempt to make conversation, I inform him that a typhoon will be coming in the next couple days, using a spiral hand signal to accommodate for the language barrier. His eyes widen at my theatrical gesticulation and I immediately backtrack, trying to downplay how terrifying I now realise my sign language appeared. Two days later, I find out that my efforts to console him were in vain.
José points at the now clear sky and asks about the typhoon. I tell him it has been and gone – hence the two days of rain. He tells me off, because since our last conversation he has been anxiously checking the window for signs of a natural disaster. I laugh and assure him, no, this happens a lot – don't worry! He tells me that whilst on the phone to his family, he passed on the news of my weather report, at which point they begged him to come home for fear of his life. Oops.
For the time being, the most interesting part of my day takes place from 8-11am during my online class. Every morning my face appears on a laptop that sits in the middle of the classroom – I am the only student online. When it comes to the dreaded group discussions, the poor student sat closest to said laptop has the job of spinning me in the direction of the speaker. It gets dizzy.
Every lesson, our teacher, 王老師, gives us questions to discuss with our partner. For those in the classroom, it's as simple as turning to the person sat next to them, and speaking. For me, it is mission impossible.
I start by reading the question on my laptop, trying to make sense of the traditional Chinese characters. Then I grab my phone, tilt it so that my mouth is as close to the microphone as is possible without contracting a disease, then I go about screaming my answer down the phone.
There is so much background noise that it's a miracle if two consecutive sentences bare any resemblance to one another.
Todays cheery topic: war. My conversation partner: Russian. What could go wrong? The question is as follows (translated for convenience of course):
If a war broke out in your country, what do you think the disadvantages would be?
An unusual question at any rate, my partner lists several of these disadvantages and I hold my tongue, trying my best not to make this political when there is barely enough technology to hold a functioning conversation. Fortunately, her answer and my retort are both muffled by the hubbub of my animated classmates.
Our teacher has walked in with a box of moon cakes to celebrate the famous 中秋節, or Mid-Autumn Festival! The class flock to collect their cakes, marvelling at their delectability. To celebrate this bonding moment, they call in a teacher from next door to take a group photo and mark the occasion. All the while, I remain sat on the table, facing the opposite wall, feeling like a gooseberry.
The atmosphere begins to deflate and the class sits back down. An ill-fated classmate sits in front of the laptop, and jumps, having forgotten about the gooseberry.
