If you have just moved into a walk-up in Taipei, someone will eventually ask, lightly, whether you know about the garbage truck. They are not making conversation. They are trying to save you from a bag of chicken bones sitting in your kitchen until the next collection day.
Collection is on published days, usually evenings, at a published corner. The truck plays a melody — Beethoven’s Für Elise in many districts, variations elsewhere — and you go downstairs with city-approved bags. The bags are sold at convenience stores and some supermarkets; they are not the ones from the roll under your sink. Recycling and food waste have their own bins, often on a different schedule.
The unwritten rules are more useful than the written ones. Do not put the bag out at noon “to get it over with.” Do not hide it beside a parked scooter. If you miss the truck, you take it home. Neighbors notice, not because they are unkind, but because they live with the same heat you do.
New Taipei, Taichung, Tainan, and Kaohsiung each have their own version of this civic opera. If you are moving cities, look up the local bag color before you unpack the kitchen. It is the least glamorous part of living here. It is also the one that makes a street feel like a place rather than a photograph.