It goes without saying that relocating to another country presents a plethora of challenges. I’m gonna say it anyway. Relocating anywhere is difficult, relocating to another planet is hard as F.
Having just landed on Mars, not speaking the language, unfamiliar with the culture, unable to read… anything, with minimal exposure to the local cuisine, and—even if I did have a sense of direction—zero concept of the lay of the land, I’m basically starting from scratch… again.
My meager belongings barely fill a quarter of my new space. The lack of household goods glaring at me has me rushing to Taipei’s version of Walmart, Best Buy, IKEA, and HEB all rolled into one: Carrefour. Open 24 hours. You want it, they got it. By the time I unload all my falderals and twiddle-dees, it’s 10 p.m.—22:00 Martian Central Standard Time.
Consumerism is alive and well in this Galaxy. I grab a shopping cart and step onto the massive escalator, which somehow grabs the ridged wheels of my metal basket, leaving me hands-free for the ride. By the time I reach the 7th floor, the sheer magnitude of the place overwhelms me. Add to that the fact that nothing is written in my native tongue. Apparently, Martians don’t believe in subtitles.
Most items look eerily similar to what we have on Earth, but everything from the remotes and user manuals to the labels and sizes is indecipherable to me. Sheets, towels and plates are pretty self-explanatory, but my head spins when approaching the foodstuffs? Forget about it. Nothing looks remotely familiar.
I’m concerned I may starve to death.
While all the Martians are genuinely pleasant, wandering the aisles of their massive shopping warehouse, I have no idea what I’m looking at. My new flat’s appliances have funny little pictures printed on them—the TV, the washing machine, and the stove, which I’m told is actually a steam oven. WTF?
Chat can speak a little Martian, so he tells me. But I have to snap pictures nonstop, and my cell service isn’t the greatest, making our communiqué sketchy and tedious.
And everything costs hundreds of dollars. A Diet Coke costs 18 bucks. Trump’s tariffs, no doubt. By the time it’s all said and done, I fork over $4,569 NT.
This new world is so advanced in so many ways, yet they have this weird attachment to paper receipts. I first noticed this strange tick of theirs at 7-Eleven. Yes, 7-Elevens exist EVERYWHERE, even on Mars. The first time I purchased something, I started to walk off without my receipt. I was chased down and forced to take the numerous paper slips.
The second time, the clerk tries to hand them to me. I shake my head no, indicating I don’t want them. If looks could kill. Sheepishly, I shove them in my pants pocket. There is never trash anywhere or trash cans, meaning you take your refuse with you and dispose of it at your home base. I mean, I know these guys are massive clean freaks, but this is taking it to a whole other level.
Which reminds me, I forgot to pick up a trash can to throw away this mounting pile of paper I’ve amassed over the last few days.
So, come to find out, the whole receipt business is really a lottery. Yup, Martians are all a bunch of degenerate gamblers just like the rest of us. Once every two months, the government posts the winning numbers, and if anyone holds one of those pesky pieces of paper printed with the matching digits for that time period, they can win anywhere from the equivalent of $6.60 to $330,000 U.S. dollars.
I will murder anyone who tries to withhold a receipt from me. I promise you that.
My new place, albeit small, has three TVs and two mattresses. Three TVs and no cable nor internet. May as well put a case of Rombauer Carneros Chardonnay in a locked cage in front of me. It’s just as cruel. Who knows what rigamaroll I’ll have to deal with obtaining these services. I’m about to find out.
Chat shares with me that the biggest Internet/cell company on this planet has a long name I’m unable to say or spell, but it starts with a C in our language. Not yet comfortable with losing myself in the underground transportation facilities, I opt to hoof it. Fine with me. What better way to see the landscape than to peruse my new habitat on foot?
This C-named business building is massive. I suppose it has to be, since it’s got to broadcast throughout the entire SS (Solar System).
I’m greeted by a pleasant-looking lass who speaks decent English. Awesome. She takes me to another attractive native where we have a combo of printed and spoken information passed between us. The gist of it is that since I’m an alien and only allowed to stay in their country for three months as a visitor, I’m unable to obtain a telephone number or long-term cell service until I’m granted an ARC (Alien Resident Certificate).
I’ve long ago stopped getting annoyed, dismayed, pissed off etc., over the not knowing what I don’t know’s. My new normal is expecting things to never go smoothly. My blood pressure remains at a manageable level this way. Little these days fazes me. I will say that on that rare occasion when all falls into place swimmingly, I bask joyously in the wonder of it all.
Today is not one of those days, but no matter. I’m headed in the right direction. I’m on the precipice of once again “settling down.”
There’s just one more bureaucratic hurdle between me and making Taipei my home for the foreseeable future.
Hong Kong, here I come. I need an FR student visa, a special visitor visa for foreigners studying Mandarin that must be obtained through a Taiwan mission outside the country. Once back on Mars, I have to keep my ass in school, studying at least 15 hours a week, and maintaining passing grades.
After four months, provided I’ve behaved myself, kept up my attendance and enrolled for another three months, the FR visa allows me to apply for residency and the coveted ARC—Alien Resident Certificate. After months of referring to myself as an alien, the Taiwanese government is actually going to give me a certificate officially declaring me one.
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, yet never have I ever been so excited to officially be considered an alien.
