08:00, the breakfast hall
The morning began not with a meditative silence, but with the youngest asking why the toast was square when the plate was round—a question that seemed to occupy the center of the room. We were gathered in the breakfast area of Lv Ren Yi Zhan, surrounded by the low hum of other travelers and the savory, comforting scent of braised meat sauce rice and fresh coffee. I watched my wife navigate the buffet with the precision of a military commander, ensuring the children had fruit while I stood there, feeling the warmth of a ceramic mug against my palms. The kids were a whirlwind of energy, their voices overlapping in a messy symphony that echoed off the walls. For a moment, I thought the noise might swallow us whole, but then the eldest shared a piece of melon with the youngest, and the arrangement of bodies shifted into a brief, quiet alignment. We were just a few steps away from the bus station, the gateway to the city, but in that golden morning light, the only place that mattered was this small, crowded table where we were all trying to eat and speak at the same time.
14:00, back to the room
By mid-afternoon, the May heat had settled over Taitung like a heavy, warm blanket, the air thick with a humidity that made our clothes cling to our skin. We retreated to our room at Lv Ren Yi Zhan, the door clicking shut and instantly replacing the roar of the city with a cool, conditioned hush. The children collapsed onto the beds, their limbs sprawling in every direction, the soft mattress absorbing their exhaustion as they drifted into a shallow, twitchy sleep. I caught my reflection in the dressing mirror, noticing the salt-rimmed exhaustion on my own face, a visual marker of a day well-spent. I stepped into the bathroom and noticed a certain silkiness to the water, a slippery quality that felt indulgent against the skin, as if the minerals were trying to soothe the friction of the day. I sometimes think we spend our lives searching for a permanent place to belong, yet here I was, in a room that belonged to a thousand strangers, feeling a profound sense of rootedness simply because my family was snoring in the next room.
19:00, the walk to Tiehua
The evening air had shifted, carrying the salt of the Pacific mixed with the sweet, wild scent of lilies blooming in the valleys—a fragrance that felt raw and honest. We walked toward Tiehua Village, the distance short enough that the children didn't complain, though the youngest insisted on walking backward for a full block just to see the world in reverse. The energy of the East Wave Carnival was beginning to bleed into the streets, a distant thrum of music and the laughter of crowds that made the city feel alive and expectant. We stopped at a small stall for some local tofu; the taste was salty and warm, a simple pleasure that felt more significant than any gourmet meal I'd written about in my magazines. I watched the way the neon lights of the village reflected in the children's eyes, their faces illuminated by a curiosity that I had long ago traded for a polished kind of attention. We weren't searching for anything in particular, just drifting through the crowd, our hands linked, a small, portable island of kinship moving through a sea of strangers.
22:00, the silence of the adults
Now, the room is finally quiet, the children surrendered to a deep, honest sleep that only comes after a day of walking through the wind and the sun. My wife and I sit in the small space between the beds and the window, sharing a final cup of red oolong tea from the hotel's self-service bar, its earthy aroma grounding us in the present. The silence is not an absence of sound, but a presence that allows us to finally hear ourselves think. We don't talk about the logistics of tomorrow, but instead, we watch the way the streetlights cast long, amber shadows across the floor, a visual echo of the day's movements. I realize that the beauty of this trip isn't in the destinations we checked off a list, but in the moments of friction—the arguments over the map, the spilled juice, the sudden bursts of laughter in the elevator. I suppose home isn't a fixed point on a map, but this specific, temporary frequency we tune into when we are forced to be close to one another in a two-room sanctuary.
One small, blue toy car left forgotten by the bedside table.
- Walk from the hotel to Tiehua Village at dusk to catch the lights turning on.
- Try the local tofu near the village for a taste of Taitung's honest, simple flavors.