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I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (aka Canada), I lived under the protective embrace of accurate weather forecasts. I planned my outfits, my days, and my life with near-surgical precision. And then—I moved to Taiwan.
Taiwan, where the weather forecast is, at best, a horoscope and, at worst, a government conspiracy. Here, the sky plays a sick game of “Will It Rain?” with no lifeline, no phone-a-friend, just me and my tragically misplaced faith in meteorology.
So when I get my hands on the Woodstock x Baogani Professional-Grade Two-Piece Raincoat, I don’t just unbox it—I clutch it like a drowning person grasping a life raft. My salvation, wrapped in plastic. And the best part? It’s readily available in Taiwan, so you can get your hands on it without any hassle. At NT$1,280, two-piece design, adjustable hood, and storage pouch included, this raincoat is a savior to anyone battling against Taiwan’s changeable weather.
I tear into the package like a starving beast. Out falls the raincoat and—oh?—a free waterproof storage bag? Taiwan’s humidity has given me trust issues, but this gesture whispers sweet promises of a dry tomorrow.
I hold up the raincoat. It’s black. Black, like my soul after years of rain ruining my shoes, my makeup, my dignity. It feels substantial, like armour against the relentless betrayal of Taiwan‘s drizzle.
Sliding into this thing feels like stepping into a high-tech survival suit.
I used to laugh in the face of rain, until one fateful teenage evening, when my best friend and I—both bananas, she from the States, I from Canada—set out on her scooter. She had just received her Tiffany engagement ring from her then-boyfriend, and we were ready to bask in her romantic glow.
Then, the rain came.
Not a gentle drizzle. No, Taiwan doesn’t do subtle. This was an apocalyptic, sideways-blowing, mascara-destroying deluge. And that damn Tiffany ring—oh, the pristine symbol of young love—started slipping off her finger.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. We screeched to a halt outside a 7-Eleven, where our only salvation lay in those horrifically fobby, disposable yellow raincoats. You know the ones—the kind that turns you into a human banana peel, announcing to the world, Yes, I am a foreigner who doesn’t know better.
We grimaced. We gagged. We put the yellow raincoats on. And then we rode through the streets, dripping in plastic shame, resembling two bright yellow blobs of regret.
I swore that day that I would never—never—subject myself to such humiliation again.
I step outside. The sky looks smug. I feel prepared.
The first few drops bounce harmlessly off my shoulders. A downpour follows. Taiwan’s signature sideways rain joins the party. I brace myself. I expect betrayal. But… nothing. Dry. DRY. I AM DRY. The relief is palpable, the comfort undeniable, and I feel secure in the face of the storm. The raincoat has truly become my shield, my comfort in the chaos of the weather.
I strut through the streets like a deity of precipitation resistance. My usual rain-trauma-induced scowl has been replaced with an expression of pure, unadulterated smugness. The raincoat has given me a new sense of confidence and power in the face of the elements. I am no longer in bondage to the rain, I am the master of it.
Motorcyclists splash by. Pedestrians dash under awnings, weeping at the futility of their umbrellas. And me? I stroll. Unfazed. Unsoaked. Transcendent. I’ve triumphed over the rain, and the experience is more than satisfactory. The raincoat has turned the tables, and I’m the one in control.
This raincoat is not just a raincoat. It is an exoskeleton of survival in a country where the rain has a personal vendetta against me. It is a middle finger to Taiwan’s deceitful weather forecasts. It is hope, wrapped in waterproof fabric.
Would I recommend it? Let me put it this way: if you, too, have been personally victimized by Taiwan‘s relentless, unpredictable, soul-draining rain, then yes. Yes, you need this.
Five out of five drenched, miserable past selves agree: this raincoat is the only reliable forecast in Taiwan.
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