Scooters, Rain, and the Taste of Forever: Reflections on My Time in Taiwan

There are places that never leave you, no matter how far away your passport ends up — and Taiwan, for me, is one of those. It sits in my mind like the aftertaste of a perfectly brewed oolong: faint, floral, and impossible to forget.

I went there for work, the sort of trip that looks glamorous in hindsight but at the time mainly involves wondering what your body clock has done to deserve such punishment. Taiwan was a world away from the grey drizzle of Britain, and yet, on one of my trips, it rained. Tropical rain, though — the sort that doesn’t fall so much as descend in sheets, drenching everything in moments. The first few days of any visit to Taiwan was an exercise in surrender: to the heat, the pace, and the cheerful chaos of a place that seems to live entirely in the present tense.

The heat in Taiwan doesn’t just arrive — it occupies. It slides under your clothes, into your thoughts, and rearranges your priorities. You learned to walk slower, talk slower, even think slower. By 9 a.m. you’d be glistening like a well-basted roast, and yet, somehow, everyone else seemed immune — locals dressed impeccably, sipping hot tea as if to mock thermodynamics. I discovered that air-conditioning wasn’t a luxury but a moral necessity, and shade wasn’t something you found — it was something you negotiated. The sun there had personality: loud, unrepentant, and utterly unwilling to share the sky.

Taichung was my city of choice and was a symphony of contradictions. High-speed trains and street markets. Buddhist temples glowing quietly between 7-Elevens. The sort of traffic that suggests every moped rider has made a private deal with a higher power. There’s a rhythm to it all — fast, friendly, fearless — and after a while, you find yourself falling into step.

The food, of course, deserves its own chapter. There are smells in the night markets that can both enchant and terrify. I learned, eventually, that the courage to try without understanding what was being offered is the same courage that gets you through most of life: you hesitate, you question your judgment, and then you go for it. Sometimes, you regret it. Sometimes, you discover something entirely new about yourself — namely, that you have a fondness for almost anything accompanied by chili sauce at 11 p.m.

But beyond the culinary bravado and the bustle, what made Taiwan special were its people. The warmth was unrelenting — not just from the weather but from the kindness of the people. Taxi drivers who turned into impromptu tour guides, colleagues who quickly became friends inviting me to brunch, baristas who taught me how to pronounce “thank you” properly (“xièxiè” — though I never ever did manage to get the tone quite right).

There are any number of differences between Taiwan and Britain but one that takes some adjusting is the occasional earthquake. My first, it began as a shiver beneath the soles of my feet, a tremor so slight I thought it was a passing lorry. Then the world swayed. Not violently, just enough to remind you that solid ground isn’t a promise, it’s an arrangement. Drawers rattled, the curtains danced, and for a few surreal seconds I stood frozen, half in awe, half in disbelief. When it passed, the locals barely looked up — one man finished his coffee, another checked his watch. “Small one,” someone said with a smile. I, on the other hand, needed a sit-down and a quiet word with gravity. There’s nothing like the earth moving beneath you to make you realise how precariously calm our days usually are.

I worked hard there, we all did — long hours, intense projects, the kind that leave you hollowed out but proud. Yet, somehow, Taiwan made even that worthwhile. I remember walking through Taichung Central Park one afternoon, the distant Mu Shan peak casually inviting me to ‘give it a go’, groups of people performing the slow and graceful movement of collective afternoon Tai Chi. It felt like stepping into a dream directed by Hayao Miyazaki. The kind of beauty that humbles you. The kind that insists on being remembered.

Now, I don’t know when — or if — I’ll go back. Both I and the job have moved on; the world has too. But every now and then, I’ll hear the hiss of a scooter, smell sesame oil on the air, or catch sight of a beautifully written logograph — and I’m there again, lost in the sights and sounds, and intense heat of a Taiwan summer.

We think travel is about seeing the world, but really, it’s about seeing yourself differently — through the eyes of those who welcome you, the food that challenges you, and the landscapes that quietly ask you to pause.

If life ever hands you the chance to go somewhere you can’t pronounce, take it. Go far, eat bravely, talk to strangers. Because one day, you’ll find yourself sitting thousands of miles away, and a memory — of scooters, rain, and kindness — will tap gently on your shoulder, reminding you that you were once somewhere utterly, wonderfully alive.