For moments that demand silence: Jiufen, Taiwan

Or, the audacity of stairs

Jiufen did not greet me gently.

It greeted me with stairs.

I stood at the bottom, looked up, and thought: should I even go up?

Not out of fear, exactly. More like respect.

Or caution.

Or the quiet assessment you make before committing to something that looks deceptively simple and promises effort whether you like it or not.

Jiufen felt like a titan before it felt like anything else.

Chronologically, it sat between places that had already softened me and places that would soon demand movement again. I had just come from Hualien, dipped briefly into Taipei, then arrived here, knowing I’d return to the city soon. Jiufen felt like the last leg of a challenge I couldn’t quite name yet.

Not an ending.

A test.

Every climb is a conversation

…that happens in my head because I will not be speaking while I try not to die pretending I’m not out of breath, thank you very much.

The problem with me is that I am nosy.

I wanted to see what’s up there. I saw people coming down holding shopping bags and I was curious about what they could possibly be.

From several levels down I caught a glimpse of floating red orbs and wanted to take a closer look.

I heard someone from a group of people walking down saying “that coffee was better than the one we tried yesterday” and I just HAD TO check see which cafe it was and what other things they could be selling.

So, up I went. Because, goddess forbid, I do not give in to the nosiness.

This, unfortunately, is how I make my travel decisions. The fact that I am still alive is also a marvel to me.

Every few flights of stairs, I’d stop under the pretense of admiring the view, which was only partially true. The view was lovely. My lungs were vehemently cursing me.

Then I’d hear another conversation. Spot another alley. Catch another glimpse of something around a corner. And off I’d go again.

Curiosity has always been louder than my common sense. It’s gotten me into trouble more than once.

It’s also the reason I’ve ended up in some of the best places I’ve ever known.

So yes, up I went.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself, it’s that I will climb an unreasonable number of stairs if I think there’s a good story waiting at the top.

The privilege of passing through

Jiufen is rarely quiet in sound.

There are voices, footsteps, vendors calling out, tourists negotiating space on narrow paths. And yet, the silence I found here came from observing without participating.

I spent time away from the main arteries, at a small café run by an old lady. Her husband sat at the entrance watching television, occasionally standing up to bring orders. They were unbothered by the people who passed by their door.

Some stopped. Some didn’t. Those who came in were served. No performance. No urgency.

It felt less like hospitality and more like routine. They weren’t trying to create an experience. They were simply living their day, and I happened to be allowed into a small part of it.

That daily-ness moved me more than the lanterns.

There was something quietly comforting about it. It was nothing remarkable. Life continued in small, ordinary ways while people like me wandered through searching for beautiful views and good food.

I felt it most clearly at night, standing still in the small square in front of Shengping Theater, where two main roads meet. Red lanterns overhead. Clusters of tourists flowing past. Locals weaving through them, unhurried, practiced.

The place was alive.

I was still.

And somehow, neither of us asked the other to be anything different.

A pause well earned

In Jiufen, I was aware that I was a visitor.

And strangely, that did not seem to matter.

In the smaller places I wandered into, I felt welcomed without being claimed.

No one asked me where I was from. No one asked how long I’d be staying. No one asked me to belong. No one asked me to stay.

There was room to watch, to pass through, to take up just enough space.

I liked that.

There’s a certain freedom in being temporary, in knowing you’re allowed to appreciate a place without trying to make it yours.

The weather helped. It was hot. A little too hot and sunny for November, broken only by occasional cool gusts of wind that felt like mercy. I was grateful it wasn’t damp or rainy. The stairs were already enough of a conversation with myself.

I stopped for a meal at one point, partly for respite and partly because the view refused to be ignored.

And partly because by then, the stairs and I had already said everything we needed to say to each other.

With legs aching just enough to remind me I’d earned the pause, I watched the rooftops tumble down the hillside while eating one of those meals that probably tasted better because I had to work for it.

Food has a way of making effort feel worthwhile.

Or maybe climbing just makes everything taste better.

Either way, I wasn’t about to argue with it.

The things you bring home

Jiufen concerned me at first. Now, it calls me back.

Not because I found rest there. Oh, it was so very not rest.
If anything, Jiufen reminded me that a pause and a rest aren’t always the same thing.

Sometimes you stop so you can breathe. Sometimes you stop so you can keep going.

By the time I returned to Taipei, nothing about my trip had fundamentally changed. I still had trains to catch, places to see, and a growing collection of photos I’d swear I’d sort through when I got home.

But I felt different. Less overwhelmed. More… ready. Ready for movement again.

Before I left, I wandered into a small shop selling teapots and tea sets. I wasn’t looking for one. I am not a tea person.

Then again, I also wasn’t looking to climb that many stairs.

Somewhere between the first step and the last, I became the kind of person who walks into a tea shop just to look because said tea shop looked too pretty to miss in the quiet side of Jiufen.

Maybe after all that exploring, what I really brought home from Jiufen is not a tea set but a reminder that some places don’t change your plans. They change how you continue them.

And the tea set is lovely so I guess I’m a tea person now.

In transit, intentionally,