From June to July, the air in Taipei is thick with humidity, wrapping around me like a warm blanket.
At dawn, the city stirs to life with the gentle hum of scooters weaving through early–morning commuters. Street vendors set up their stalls, filling the air with the scent of breakfast foods like 燒餅油條 (clay oven bread) and 豆漿 (soymilk). As the morning sun illuminates the city, temples come alive with the soft murmurs of prayer and the scent of incense, providing a serene contrast to the bustling streets.
As the sun rises, the roads become restless. Office workers and students flood the sidewalks, flocking to the multitude of street vendors now open for breakfast. The calls of the vendors blend with the chatter of the people, the sizzle of fried dumplings, and the rumbles of motorcycles. Tai–chi practitioners fill parks with their graceful movements in unison, and the air is perfumed with the floral scent of blooming jasmine.
By afternoon, the weather predictably and dramatically transforms. The heat intensifies, the wind grows stronger, and the sky darkens suddenly as the afternoon thunderstorms rumble in. Fat raindrops begin to fall, drumming on rooftops and transforming the streets into a network of glistening streams. The scent of rain–soaked pavement melds with the aroma of freshly–prepared street food. Cicadas chirp loudly from the trees, adding melody to the rhythm of the raindrops against the ground.
As evening approaches, the rain subsides, and the vibrant night markets come alive. Colorful stalls brim with tantalizing aromas, from stinky tofu to fried chicken. Lively bargaining between shoppers and vendors fills the air. Neon lights flicker on, casting a rainbow glow over the bustling streets. Street performers entertain passersby with music and dance.
By midnight, the pace begins to slow, but Taipei never truly sleeps. The hum of scooters still echoes through the quieter streets, and the occasional vendor remains open, offering a final taste of the city's never–ending culinary delights. Late–night eateries serve congee and other comforting dishes to night owls. The cicadas’ song fades, replaced by the softer, more subdued sounds of the night. The city's pulse continues, a testament to its unending vibrancy from dawn to dusk.
Every afternoon, you could find me walking home in the rain under my pink Hello Kitty umbrella after swim class. I would pass by an old lady with a drink stall. The highlight of my walk was always stopping for a 冬瓜檸檬愛玉粉圓 (winter melon bubble tea with lemon). The first sip was a burst of refreshing sweetness that was perfectly balanced by the tangy lemon, followed by the fun QQ texture of the boba pearls.
Taiwan was my fixed summer sanctuary. From the day elementary and middle school ended in Los Angeles to the eve of a new school year, I could count on an annual trip to the island. These trips were marked by the joy of reuniting with my cousins, 阿公 (grandfather), extended family, and by the inevitability of enrolling in some form of Chinese class, whether at 新民 elementary school or through the 國語日報 (name of the local newspaper) newspaper. Admittedly, my younger self did not have as strong of a positive emotional tie to these classes as I do now. My younger self could do without them.
I once knew all the restaurants, stalls, and owners in the back alley behind our apartment like the back of my hand. Every day, I would run across the narrow, uneven asphalt, navigating between scooters and stray cats, armed with cash and a determination to pick up food before my multiple classes.
In exchange for my daily breakfast of a 肉鬆蛋餅 (pork floss egg roll), 蕃茄牛肉麵 (tomato beef noodle soup) lunch, and the occasional afternoon 飯糰 (rice ball) snack, the owners and families of each stand would wave and affectionately call me 妹妹 (little sister) as I passed by. Their faces were as familiar as family. Now, I don’t know whether the stands have closed, changed owners, or simply forgotten me.
The last time I experienced this was in the summer of 2019. I left Taiwan that year, fully expecting to return in the summer of 2020 to resume my routine. However, the world had other plans. The pandemic struck, and Taiwan closed its borders. While later reopening, it was only with stringent regulations that made travel impractical. By the time these regulations were lifted, too much had changed for us to resume our extended stays.
My oldest cousin moved to the United States to pursue a master's degree at the University of Southern California. As I grew up to assume more responsibility and freedom, adults I had previously looked up to, whom I believed possessed unlimited strength and knowledge, aged, and their health issues multiplied. Summers once spent playing endlessly with my cousins changed, as they now had goals that overshadowed the languid summers we used to share. Research at a lab in Los Angeles, violin competitions in Austria, and golf tournaments in Singapore became new priorities.
When I left Taiwan in 2019, I took for granted the serene routine of my summers there. I never even felt sad at the end of each summer, believing there was no need to—there would always be a next summer. This unshaken confidence made my goodbyes empty. I never imagined a world where I didn’t realize I already said my last goodbye.
Now, as I reflect on these changes, I realize I have no closure. A part of me remains in Taiwan, a fragment of my identity tied to those idyllic summers. This summer, I plan to return to Taiwan, not just to visit, but to reclaim that part of myself. I need to say goodbye to the life I once took for granted.
I know I can never relive those past summers, but I hope to create new traditions and memories for myself, my younger cousins, and the next generation of the Wu family. Whether that is exploring the island on my own as an adult, learning how to prepare the multitude of dishes that once decorated the dinner table like clockwork, or simply relearning the street vendors that fill the back alley, I aim to honor my past recollections while moving forward.
Taipei is a city that is ever–evolving, where change is built into every new building. Storefronts are continuously swapping out signs and the sounds of construction fill every hour. As I walk through the familiar, yet progressing, streets, I hope to bridge my past with my present, creating a tapestry of experiences that honor both what was, and what is yet to come.
