The youngest pressed his cold nose against the window glass, leaving a small, foggy circle that slowly vanished into the December air. "Where does the hot water come from?" he whispered, his voice small against the vastness of the Yilan mist. He spent the next ten minutes sprinting down the hallway of Evergreen Resort Hotel Jiaosi in a white robe that trailed behind him like a small, misplaced ghost, his footsteps entirely swallowed by the plush, cream-colored carpet.
I sank into the onsen water, which felt less like a bath and more like a warm, heavy blanket that demanded I forget the hour. The steam rose in thick, sulfur-scented ribbons, refracting the light into soft, indistinct shapes. I sometimes think that the point of such heat is to blur the edges of one's identity, until you are no longer a father or a writer but simply a collection of warm skin and slow breaths, drifting in a liquid silence.
In the game room, the sharp tock-tock of ping-pong balls created a frantic percussion, a temporary truce between the eldest and the middle child who had spent the morning arguing over a toy. The air smelled of rubber and excitement. There is a specific kind of joy in watching your children compete with such intensity in a space that echoes with the laughter of other families, a shared noise that makes the eventual return to the quiet of our Deluxe Western Room feel like a reward we had all earned together.
Breakfast arrived as a series of small, precise discoveries, most notably the king crab chawanmushi, a custard so delicate it felt as though it might dissolve if you looked at it too closely. It tasted of the cold Pacific and a sudden, quiet luxury, the kind of flavor that makes you slow down your chewing. I watched the steam from the tea curl upward in the morning light, mirroring the haze outside the window, while the children whispered in hushed, sleepy tones.
At six in the morning, the light over Guishan Island began as a thin, shivering line of gold on the horizon before expanding into a glow that filled the entire room, turning the furniture into sharp silhouettes. We stood there together, four of us, watching the sun peel back the grey layers of the coast. It was a moment of optical clarity, a silent agreement between us that felt, in some ways, more honest than any conversation we had held all trip.
The hotel slippers were far too large for the children, who shuffled through the corridors of Evergreen Resort Hotel Jiaosi like a line of small, determined penguins, their heels clicking softly on the polished floors. I watched them from a distance, thinking about how home is often just the rhythm of people you love moving in the same direction, even if they are tripping over their own footwear in a luxury resort.
There is a particular blue hour in the room, just before the day breaks and the chaos of the swimming pool resumes, where the only sound is the synchronized breathing of three sleeping children. I lay there in the dim, indigo light, feeling the portable nature of my own peace, realizing that the stillness I seek is not the absence of noise, but the ability to be present within the beautiful, messy noise of a family.
A single, wet footprint on the wooden porch.
- Visit the game room before breakfast to let the children burn off their early morning energy.
- Wake up at 6am to watch the sunrise over Guishan Island from the window.