Several weeks ago, a good friend introduced me to a source of Taipei fun that even most locals are unaware of.
In the world’s greatest chip-manufacturing hub, what could this source of fun be, you might ask? Is it a high tech, immersive AR experience? No (although Taipei has those). Is it an electronics market where you can see all of the most recent consumer gadgets gathered under one roof? No (although Taipei has those too). Or is it perhaps a museum that celebrates Taiwan’s rise as an electronics powerhouse? No (although it is possible to see that, too).
No, what I’m talking about is actually something decidedly more analog. It’s the delightfully simple rubber stamp.
Or rather, it’s hundreds of rubber stamps, hidden in plain sight throughout the city. At every metro station, at the customer feedback station, or at the station attendant’s booth, or on its own little lectern, there is a rubber stamp that is unique to that station.
As my friend Patrick (he of East India Company sign-spotting fame) groaned, “You’re not gonna do some cheesy post about gamifying the daily commute, are you?” Firstly … oops? (Sorry, Patrick.) But also, I think there’s something a little bit more to think about here than simply the idea of gamifying the subway, the city, the daily grind. Instead, it’s worth thinking a little bit about how tiny, everyday acts of art influence our experience of the city through which we move. This is particularly critical to think through at a time of ever more drastic disinvestment in public services, when it seems that cities in much of the world are forgetting why mass transit isn’t just a convenient tube to keep the carless decently out of sight, but rather a network of arteries that keeps major cities moving.
Subway Stamps and Easter Eggs
First, I should confess two things: 1) I like collecting things; 2) I’m cheap. This is generally a mutually exclusive combination. Here in Taipei, though, for the small fee of a stamp book and a subway ride, I can collect to my heart’s content.
The stamps are hefty wooden affairs, with an ink pad beside them. The ink color at each stop corresponds to its metro line color, while the stamps at interchanges are given black ink. Further distinguishing each of the lines from each other, the stamps for each line have their own shape—the orange line has square stamps, the red line’s are circular, while interchanges are ovals with a spiky outline.
Finding the stamps is a bit of an adventure. Most stations have only one stamping table, although a couple of the largest stations have two. Further, these tables are not in a consistent location. This means you often have to hunt around near exits that you’re not aiming for, or even go to a different floor to find the stamping table. (You could always ask the station attendant, but where’s the fun in that?)
The act of stamping itself has also led to some interesting interactions. On one occasion, I was out with a Taiwanese friend when I stopped for the stamp at the station where we had just disembarked. One of the station janitorial staff who was cleaning in the area announced to her boss that she was taking a break, because the “two foreigners” hanging out at the table were making her nervous. (My friend was particularly tickled at being temporarily converted into a foreigner on this occasion.)
On another occasion, it wasn’t possible to get to the stamp table without either swiping into the station and leaving via another turnstile (something for which I would have to pay), or else exiting the station and reentering on the other side of the street. The attendant at this station, however, was deeply committed to getting me my stamp. He swiped me into the station, and radioed his colleague on the other side of the station to swipe me back out, all so that I could continue building my stamp collection.
Each station stamp also has its own design. As is to be expected, these designs are a mixed bag. But in theory, each stamp includes several symbols of the area. And this to me is where things get interesting, moving beyond simple collecting, or even “gamification.” You see, some of these symbols are initially sort of impenetrable. For example, at one of the stations near where I live, there’s the relatively anodyne outline of the station entrance, in front of which are posed two gown-clad female silhouettes.
What are these two ball gowns doing at the subway station? Is this a hub of Taiwanese haute couture? Is this a high-class neighborhood where gown-wearing is de rigueur? Is Cinderella’s carriage staff off for the night? Answers (in order): No; oh God, no; how should I know?
But what I found out as a result of this stamp was that the neighborhood around this station used to be known as Taipei’s destination for wedding dresses. Any bride who wanted a custom-made dress would go to this neighborhood first in search of her dream wedding gown. (Having formerly lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, I seem to be developing a habit of living in erstwhile wedding dress neighborhoods.) Today, most of the wedding dress makers are gone (although some more general tailors still cling on), but the neighborhood’s history of the wedding gown industry is engraved on a simple piece of rubber, from whence it was transferred into my book of memories.
The same is true elsewhere: a small church hidden in a narrow alley, a camera, a belltower on a hillside, a wooden bath. These are all artefacts whose meaning might not be immediately apparent, but which nonetheless bear some relationship to the neighborhood around the station. The stamp reflects the life and history of the surrounding neighborhood, but also sparks curiosity about the images on the stamp.
As such, I don’t think this is simply about gamification of the daily commute (after all, who has time to poke their head into multiple exits in order to seek out a stamp when they’re running late for work?) Similar to the way that video game developers insert Easter eggs into games to reward those who explore beyond a strictly goal-oriented storyline, so too do these stamps create a virtuous cycle of searches begetting searches. First you search for the stamp. Then you search for the items on the stamp. Then, having found the stamp and the items on the stamp, you consider whether you might be able to incorporate a new subway stop into your route home, finding new stamps, new symbols, and new chances for exploration.
But this sense of play, and the distinct aesthetic that it helps engender, isn’t limited to a few stamps at train stations. Rather, it spreads out further than that.
Subway Songs
Hands up, who picked their favorite Mario level based on the music, and why was it the underwater theme?
Soundtracks can do a lot of work in media, whether presentational (like films and TV shows) or interactive (like video games). They can enhance a mood, as in pretty much every Disney kiss ever, or when they create an aura of mysticism in the Magic Kingdom story arc of Chrono Trigger. They can create a mood where dramatic context alone wouldn’t create the desired effect, like when a repeated half-step in Jaws turns bobbing in a dinghy into a preposterously ominous undertaking, or when music turns wandering through the Escher-like landscapes of Monument Valley into an exercise in melancholia. They can emplot us in a specific historical era, as in the countertenor plainchant theme music to Cadfael, or the medieval fantasy idyll of Final Fantasy IX. They can also create comedy or discomfort by working against the mood on screen, as in the use of Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” in Good Morning Vietnam, or when a boss fight happens on an opera stage in Final Fantasy VI.
Music on the Taipei Metro fulfills many of these functions. Here, management wasn’t just satisfied with a chintzy warning beep. Instead, every line has its own jingle that plays when trains are arriving and departing the station. There’s the jazzified Chopin of the Green Line, which the arranger chose to reflect the “artistic and academic temperament” of the neighborhoods through which the line runs (the first video below is cued to this jingle). The chiming of the red line that somehow manages to be simultaneously crystalline and cozy (in both the old and the new versions), in an attempt to “take passengers from historic Old Tamsui to the ultra-modern Taipei 101.” There’s the 16-bit stylings of the Orange Line, chosen to be “light and humorous” (in the second video below). And there’s the asymmetrical, 5/4 monstrosity that unhinges the Blue Line riding experience. (The Brown Line is, for reasons unknown, the stoically silent one of the bunch, refusing to sing in public.)
Like the stamps, this is about more than simple gamification or ambient music. It’s also about directly intervening in the emotional life of passengers. Several of the composers mention specifically searching for “soothing and enchanting” sounds that can help “ease the agitated mood” and “relieve stress” of riders.1 On the one hand, this is clearly for the benefit of stressed commuters. But it’s also about using music to create positive associations with metro ridership, making the metro into a desirable space that people return to not only under duress, but as a space that carries its own positive associations. As cities like New York, Chicago, and LA struggle to attract riders back to their filthily utilitarian public transit systems, they would do will to pay attention to strategies like Taipei’s.
Gamified Consumption
Stamps aren’t just limited to public transportation. Museums are also in on the action, in some cases having multiple stamps. Some of these are permanent stamps, some of them are for limited-time exhibitions.
Elsewhere, private corporations like Eslite have gotten in on the action. (Eslite will feature prominently in a post a couple of weeks from now, so I’m not going to explain further right here.) Although these are more abstractly conceived than the metro stamps, each store has its own image, turning Eslite shopping into a collectible experience. Combine this with gamified loyalty apps like Eslite’s, which reward shoppers with bonus points for fulfilling certain “tasks”—showing up at the store on certain days, buying a certain number of books, reaching particular spending thresholds—and this gamified approach to customer engagement starts to look like a ubiquitous fixture of life in Taipei. And it’s certainly a far cry from the 86-foot-long receipts that masquerade as CVS’s customer loyalty program in the US.
What strikes me in all of this is that, in the grand scheme of corporate budgets, these are all relatively low-investment programs. Sure, it takes a bit of money to design a stamp, and you need to keep the ink pads fresh. Sure, it costs money to commission and record a 25-second jingle. But that’s ultimately chump change in the grand scheme of corporate ledgers.
Personally, I find that programs like the bespoke stamps and customized music that abound in Taipei reflect a degree of thoughtfulness and curation that is often lacking in American settings nowadays, whether they be public or corporate. They suggest to me that there is an active curatorial mindset, that is thinking how to improve not just the “product” (that is to say, the act of transporting me from place to place, or the process of selling me a book), but also the experience. And this thoughtfulness makes me willing to explore, not just as a utilitarian means of acquiring desired goods and services, but also as a way of moving past my limited checklist and giving myself over to the curated experience reflected in these kinds of thoughtful gestures.
There is, however, one slight caveat to all of this.
“You Want What, Now?”
I have rhapsodized for a while about the care and thoughtfulness shown by stamps and soundtracks. But it turns out … most people don’t know these exist (at least the stamps—the soundtracks are hard to miss). When I’ve sheepishly told local friends about my metro stamp collecting habit, I have most often been the one informing them of the existence of these stamps.
When it comes to stamps at corporations like Eslite, the results are a bit more varied. One time, having made my way to the service counter to use the stamp, a staff member inquired politely, “Can I help you?”
“I’m just here to use the stamp, thanks,” was my reply.
“The what?”
“The stamp. This one, right here.”
Our conversation ended with a somewhat baffled, though still very polite, “Oh. Oh … Yes, well, please help yourself.”
A couple weeks later, at a different Eslite location, I approached the service counter and asked, “Do you have a commemorative stamp at this location?”
“Yes, we do!” came the immediate reply. “Turn right around this corner, and then head to the back, you’ll find it there.”
In this interaction, I was impressed with the employee, who very clearly knew what was on offer at her store. Unfortunately, what she knew was on offer was a collection of very cute scrapbooking stamps, on sale right alongside the scalloped scissors, decorative rolls of tape, and glitter rollers. If I wanted the stamp, I was going to be on my own. (I ultimately found it.)
So the question is … when even local residents or store employees often don’t know about these things, what’s the point? I realize that the plural of “anecdote” is not “data,” but in my limited experience, I have found that the music, the stamps, the Easter eggs, the scavenger hunts have had a positive impact on my experiences of some of the spaces through which I most frequently travel. They have given me the opportunity to slow down, to take a deep breath, and to explore beyond my usual goal-oriented patterns of movement.
But in order for programs like these to have broad impact, people need to know about them. How would one go about raising awareness? Absolutely no idea. But it’s certainly something to ponder as I wander around looking for my next stamp.
For a full article about the engineered soundscapes of Taipei’s metro systems, see https://nspp.mofa.gov.tw/nsppe/news.php?post=128282%26unit=410.