Crossing Taichung: A Slow Adventure Across the City
5–6 th July 2025
I’ve just realised how long it’s been since I last wrote a blog post. Life caught up with me, I suppose. I always had the mindset of “I’ll do it later”, but later never really came.
Not much has changed, if I’m honest. I’ve still been hiking in the nearby hills, still exploring bits of the city I now call home. But this weekend, I did something a bit different. Something that gave me time — and a reason — to reflect.
Thanks to the typhoon currently sweeping across the island (Typhoon Danas, in case you’re reading this from the future and wondering which one), today has been a rare gift: a Typhoon Day. No work, no schedule. Just me, the wind outside, and a full twenty-four hours of Monday to do whatever I fancy.
So I thought I’d use it to write about the adventure I finished only yesterday — an imperfect, sweaty, two-day crossing of Taichung City on foot
Houli District
I stepped off the train at the high platform of Tai’an Railway Station — the northernmost station in Taichung — and took a moment to soak it all in. The view stretched out quietly around me.
Tai’an has a proper countryside feel to it, even though it still technically falls within the city limits. The land was calm. No hum of traffic, no city bustle. Just the sound of bugs chirping and the occasional chicken having a shout at nothing in particular.
In the distance sat Fire Mountain, perched on the edge of Miaoli County. A fine-looking mountain, bold and lumpy in all the right ways. Closer by, I could make out the smaller hills to the south and east — part of the Taichung foothills — a string of low mountains that trace the city’s eastern spine.
I say “small”, but you should try walking up one when it’s over 35°C and humid enough to cook rice in your socks.
I do rather like this corner of Houli District — it’s a proper escape that isn’t too far from home. You’ve got farmer’s fields, little trickling streams, and a forest that reaches along the southern and eastern edges. This flat, agricultural land feels like somewhere I could happily call home — if only my wife didn’t prefer the city buzz. We all know the old saying: “If she’s chuffed, I’m off the hook,” something like that.
Life here moves at a snail’s pace. After leaving the station, I reckon I saw no more than four people in total: two police officers parked up and ready for a crime that never came; a farmer in a wide Chinese sun hat bent over his crops; and an elderly lady perched by her garden wall, eyeing me like a stray cat in her territory. And just like that — poof, magic trick complete — I was gone. The quiet haven melted away, and the road out of Tai’an towards the built‑up sprawl of Houli District was already bearing down on me.
I trudged up the little rise that marks the edge of Tai’an and paused to glance back at that quiet patch of countryside. In that moment it struck me just how varied Taichung really is — every bend in the road promising something new. I couldn’t wait to press on and see what came next.
I must confess I veered off the Google‑mapped route and cut through the heart of Houli proper — albeit on the one road so quiet you’d swear you were still in Tai’an countryside. The forests pushed right up to the pavement, and just below, I spotted an old Japanese‑built railway line slumped into a shallow cutting — easy to miss if you’re whipping past in a car.
A couple of chaps in hi‑vis were shovelling clods of mud out of the way — their construction project having dribbled muck onto the tarmac — while a digger and its crew were elbow‑deep in sticks and leaves, freeing up a little canal. Proper manual work, that.
To reach Houli’s centre I had to duck under a grim‑looking tunnel beneath the tracks. I half expected some odour, but it smelled as neutral as a library — certainly preferable to the longer road route that might have felt safe, but lacked character. The dogs along the way didn’t even bother to bark; you could tell they were wilting in the heat.
Moments later, I found myself back at Houli Railway Station — funny how that happens — and slipped into the lobby for a blessed blast of air‑con while I re‑charted my course. My plan was to cross the Dajia River, preferably via the old iron bridge and its shadowy tunnel, but common sense won out: I’d stick to the modern bridge with a pavement, rather than wrestle with a cyclist’s tunnel in the dark.
Back outside, three soldiers had set up a recruitment table. I nodded; they smiled. I may not be their ideal candidate — too foreign, too thirty‑something — but it felt oddly civil.
And so I slipped away down the back lanes, heading for that lone safe crossing. The next district beckoned — onward.
Dajia River
I followed Fengke Road, which shadowed the cycle path leading to the tunnel — probably the more scenic route, if I’m honest. But I took the straighter, more mundane line: a semi-busy road, flanked by forest on both sides. It wasn’t much to look at, but it did the job.
I stayed on the shady side to avoid being cooked by the sun. I crossed the road when I found a gap — not entirely sure it was legal, but it felt necessary. A police car passed me once… then again. Same one, same faces. They didn’t stop, though. Just gave me the kind of look reserved for foreigners who seem a bit too enthusiastic about walking in the heat. I carried on, and so did they.
Eventually, the bridge appeared — the one I’d picked purely because it had a pavement. The other road bridges offered nothing but a few inches of shoulder, which I don’t mind in theory, but I had no reason to play chicken with traffic that day.
This bridge took me over the Dajia River, one of the three big rivers that cut through Taichung. The water below was a murky brownish-grey — less mountain-spring postcard, more city-fed survival flow. Still, I’ve always found rivers calming, and I let my gaze drift for a moment.
Construction workers were busy fitting a new pipeline — another invisible part of city life clicking into place. I knew there was a big dam upstream, though it was hidden from view.
I let the water carry my mind for a bit, until the whine of scooters and cars behind me reminded me I wasn’t alone. I looked up at the mountains in the distance — the ones I had originally planned to hike. But with the heat, the storm clouds, and the typhoon edging closer, I decided to leave them for another day.
A few more steps, and I crossed into Fengyuan District. Another piece of the city. A new chapter of the walk.
Fengyuan District
Fengyuan is somewhere I spend four days a week. It’s where I grind the hours and make my bread and butter. I teach at two English schools here, and another one over in Daya District. It’s a decent place. Fengyuan feels like a city within a city, separated by a ring road that loops around it like a moat. It’s got its own major train and bus station, and more restaurants than I’ll ever get round to trying.
But the Fengyuan I walked into that day wasn’t the Fengyuan I thought I knew. When you commute, you tend to move through places on autopilot — same route, same turns, same set of traffic lights. But coming into the northern edge of the district on foot felt like stepping into an alternate version.
Farmland bled into urban clutter. Old tin-roofed warehouses stood shoulder-to-shoulder with half-finished apartment blocks. It was gritty, chaotic, and full of traffic — not the tidy routine I was used to.
I ducked under a large tree to catch some shade, and for the first time that day, the heat really hit me. My head was foggy, and I felt a bit light-headed — dehydrated, probably. No matter how much I drank, the humidity seemed to sweat it back out of me just as fast.
Just up the road, I spotted the ever-reliable sign of a Seven-Eleven. Like a lighthouse for the weary, it promised air conditioning, a flavoured drink, and most importantly — a place to sit. I went for a lemon tea, the kind that tastes like sunshine and chemicals in just the right balance. I couldn’t get enough of it.
But as I sat there, limbs cooling and brain defogging, a thought crept in: What if I did an adventure with no convenience?
No Seven-Elevens.
No iced tea.
No air-con.
Just me, the sun, and what I could carry.
The idea settled in my head like a stubborn fly.
I looked out the window and across the road, where a small stage show was in full swing. Two puppets were jabbering away at each other, but there was no audience. No kids, no parents, no passers-by. Just the traffic roaring past and a few temple lanterns swaying in the breeze.
It took me a second to remember what I’d seen many times before here in Taiwan: temple performances not for people, but for the gods. A whole stage — bright, loud, and empty — set up not for applause, but for reverence.
I’d just about finished my tea when disaster struck. I knocked the carton over, right across the wooden table. Sticky lemon puddle. I offered to clean it, but the clerk waved me off and did it herself. I apologised profusely. She smiled in the way that says, “It happens, mate. Don’t sweat it.”
And with that small dose of caffeine, spiritual theatre, and personal embarrassment, I got back on the road.
As I carried on heading south, the Fengyuan I knew began to reappear. The roads widened, the trees thinned out, and the air filled with that familiar urban orchestra — the chug of trains pulling into the station, the mosquito‑buzz of scooters weaving between cars and buses like it was some national sport. Yep — this was definitely my Fengyuan.
By the time I hit the centre of the district, I decided to stop for lunch at a waffle shop I knew. I was craving something sugary — my body needed fuel, and my brain needed a reward. I ordered a honey waffle, and because I’m British, another tea — this time Amber tea, whatever that means. It tasted like a cross between something ancient and something marketed by influencers. Still, it went down a treat, barely touching the sides — my mouth hoovered the lot.
Funny thing was, the other customers were still sat there, slowly munching away, deep in weekend chat. By the time I’d ordered, waited, eaten, drunk, reflected on life, and left, they hadn’t even made a dent in their waffles. Maybe I was moving a bit fast. Or maybe they just weren’t crossing a city on foot in the heat of a typhoon weekend.
Either way, I was a man on a mission.
Fengyuan is actually one of the oldest developed areas in Taichung. Back in the early days of Han Chinese settlement in central Taiwan, Fengyuan (then known as Huludun) was a major administrative and trading centre. In fact, the name “Hulundun” comes from the indigenous Pazeh language, meaning “gourd-shape mound,” a nod to the terrain.
Its easy to forget, walking past tea shops and scooter repair garages, that this place has been important for centuries — long before the ring road, the train station, or my waffle shop.
Just around the corner from Fengyuan Station stands a beautiful old building I’ve had my eye on for years. Once an early 20th-century police station, built during the Japanese colonial era, it’s a fine example of that era’s architecture — solid concrete walls, tall, narrow wooden-framed windows, and a proper bit of government flair with the Republic of China emblem still perched above the door like a stern reminder of its past.
I’ve always wanted to poke around inside. I’ve got a soft spot for old buildings — places with layers, cracks, and stories in the walls. For the longest time, it was just sitting there, shut and empty, like a museum that forgot to open. So when I saw it had reopened — albeit as some kind of coffee–ice cream–packaged cake hybrid shop — I had to go in.
They gave me a free sample of a mystery cake (fruity, spongey, not bad at all) and a black coffee on the house, which I took upstairs. The second floor was airy, modern, and spotless. Big windows let the sun pour in. It was hard to imagine this space once held desks, filing cabinets, and the odd criminal.
After all the freebies, I felt I should buy something. I eyed a box of the cakes I’d sampled — around 400 TWD for what looked like tiny treats. Bit steep for a bloke carrying a sweaty backpack. Instead, I grabbed a 60-dollar scoop of mango ice cream and headed back into the heat.
After two hours of lingering, lunching, and loitering in Fengyuan, I figured it was time to move on. I’d treated it like a kind of halfway-house — a comfy intermission before the final stretch south to Beitun. Ice cream in hand, I made my way toward the walk/bike path that could, in theory, carry me all the way to Chenggong.
But here’s the thing: as neat and tidy as that route would’ve been, it would’ve made for a bloody boring adventure.
So instead, I turned east, aiming for the Han River (Hanxi), passing through yet another slice of Fengyuan I knew well — thanks to its proximity to one of the schools where I teach. Familiar, yes, but less travelled on foot.
I was left with two options:
Option One: Take the official walk/bike path, an old railway line that runs from Fengyuan city centre all the way to Beitun. It’s flat, efficient, and takes about 1.5 hours on foot. Trouble is, I already cycle that route four days a week — hardly the stuff of epic wanderings.
Option Two: Head east to the Han River, follow it as it meanders toward my home. That way I’d get more mountain views, riverbanks, and wildlife — and a lot fewer people. Technically, it’s also a bike path, so it’s safe enough. But it’d add an extra hour or more to the journey, clocking in at around 2.5 to 3 hours.
It wasn’t really a choice. I took the river.
Because between convenient and interesting, I’ll pick interesting every time.
Han River (Hanxi) — Fengyuan District/ Tanzi District / Beitun District
I stood on the bridge, looking down at the shallow, sluggish flow of the Han River, a waterway most would pass without a second glance. It’s not a glamorous river — there are no boat rides or tourist signs — but I found something poetic in the idea that the very water drifting beneath my feet would reach my home before I did.
With that thought, I started walking.
To my left, the green mountains of eastern Taichung stood in silent watch. A temple clung to the hillside, its red roof and ornate structure making it look like something pulled straight from a scroll painting. Below, the riverbanks were overgrown — long grass, shrubs, tangles of wild things all reaching for the sun. I considered stepping down and walking the water’s edge, letting the wildness lead me, but that would’ve added hours I didn’t have.
Instead, I stuck to the path.
Some large birds known as egrets were patrolling the shallows — tall, thin-legged things, moving like little fishing monks, they looked professionals, standing still for minutes before lunging at some poor, unsuspecting fish.
Here and there, concrete structures jutted out, remnants of past efforts to control the river’s flow — floodgates, diversion walls, strange slabs positioned at odd angles. Functional, but oddly sculptural, like a brutalist art exhibit hidden under the sky.
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The sun baked my skin, and I could feel the telltale sting on my arms. I tucked them awkwardly into my T-shirt sleeves like I’d done on many a hike before. A patchwork tan was the price of persistence.
As I drew nearer to Beitun, the scenery began to shift. The tangled spaghetti of freeway loops came into view, coiling and crossing like some kind of giant concrete noodle bowl. The hum of traffic above me wasn’t irritating — it was almost meditative. A low, steady reminder that the city was near, even if the river ran quietly beside it.
Under one of the bridges, I passed a homeless woman, her modest living space arranged beneath the shelter of the flood wall. She sat across from me, perched calmly, gazing out at the water. We exchanged a brief glance. I gave a small nod. She nodded back. No words. Just quiet recognition. A police car was idling further up the road, probably waiting to catch someone taking a wrong turn.
Then I saw it — my building, poking up from behind a new cluster of development. Day one was coming to a close.
I needed to get up onto the bridge with the stairs that crosses the river. This is the only bridge that would get me closer to my home. The other small bridges would obviously get me to the correct side of the river, but it was a bit of a detour as the didn’t allow me to safely walk to my home for another ten minutes after we had passed my building. The only option I had, was to walk onto the road on this side, slightly quieter than the other. Head down the grassy bank, jumping over drainage gaps, dash across the junction under the bridge avoiding the blind spots and then up the stairs on the far side.
And just like that, I was back in my neighbourhood, slipping in through the quieter back entrance.
Moments later, I stood outside my home. A full day behind me. One more ahead.
Day 2 — Beitun District / East District / Central District / South District / Wuri District
I decided to start Day Two of the crossing in the early hours of Sunday morning. It was just past half three when I stepped out from my building into the eerie calm of pre-dawn Beitun. The tall apartment blocks around me — usually lit up with glowing architectural lights that trace their edges in colour — were now completely dark, switched off by whatever timer controls Taichung’s skyline. Only a few scattered window lights remained, quietly marking signs of life within.
The traffic lights blinked their sleepy amber, and the streetlamps hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the pavement. Everything felt paused, like the city hadn’t quite woken up or gone fully to sleep.
Being so close to the edge of the countryside, my neighbourhood has its quirks — a nightly invasion of slugs and snails being one of them. The pavement turns into a slow-moving obstacle course most evenings, and this morning was no different. I picked my way carefully along the path, making sure to avoid any unfortunate missteps. No crunches — mission complete.
I’d worried that heading off with no real sleep would come back to bite me. And it nearly did. I’d tried to get some rest — honest effort — but ended up just rolling left to right, more awake as the night dragged on. You know that kind of fatigue where your body’s tired but your brain decides it wants to relive the entire plot of your week at 2am? That.
At some point I gave up entirely and turned off my 5am alarm, surrendering to the insomnia. I got up, prepared a breakfast of champions: a chicken popcorn sandwich with a lashing of ketchup, an old mango from the fridge, and a glass of lukewarm water. It wasn’t glamorous, but I figured it would do the job.
Before long, I found myself in a pitch-black park I’d never been to before — Nanxing Park, apparently. Whether it was beautiful or a concrete afterthought, I couldn’t tell. It was too dark to judge, and frankly I wasn’t in the mood for bush-whacking in torchlight. I pushed on, making my way back toward the Han River, though this time further downstream than yesterday.
As I walked along the quiet residential road, the world was starting to stir. Birds in the trees above me rustled and chirped their way into consciousness, and for a while it felt like I had my own private dawn chorus, singing just for me. The Han River flowed gently, a soft hiss in the background, breaking the silence in just the right way.
I checked the map and saw that I had to follow the river for the next five bridges before cutting away. From a distance, I could see its winding form reflecting the dim pulse of traffic lights, a strangely ominous glow slithering through the city like some kind of urban serpent. But up close, it was calm. The shrubs and rocks, caught in those early hours, looked almost painted — quiet, deliberate, a little bit forgotten but still beautiful.
The odd car screamed past, but the roads themselves seemed to grow with the light. As the sun rose behind me, the sky slowly stretched itself out, yawning pinks and golds over the rooftops ahead.
By the time the sun had risen properly, casting real light across the city, I turned away from the river and made my way toward Jingwu Station. I rejoined the old railway path I’d mentioned earlier — the one that runs straight into the city like a stitched seam, forgotten but functional.
The path was mostly quiet. The occasional cyclist zipped past, and a few walkers nodded politely. But between the gaps, the city was starting to show its rougher edges. As I moved closer to Central District, I began to see more and more signs of people sleeping rough. Some had taken shelter beneath the new elevated rail lines, tucked up against the concrete, their belongings bundled into bags or carts. Others lay out in the open, sprawled on thin mats or cardboard, their shoes placed neatly by their heads, like that small act of order might hold the chaos at bay.
I couldn’t turn away. I didn’t want to gawp, but I couldn’t ignore them either. Each one was a person with a story — choices, accidents, bad luck — whatever mix it is that ends with you sleeping under the railway while a commuter train rattles past above your head.
As I walked on, I spotted Nantian Temple in the East District, its roof decorated with ornate dragons and a statue of the God of Wealth — Caishen (財神) — arms outstretched as if bestowing good fortune on all who enter. The irony wasn’t lost on me. In a district where people sleep under bridges and by ticket machines, here was a temple promising wealth and luck.
Life’s funny like that. Sometimes it offers a mango from the fridge and a free coffee. Sometimes it offers concrete, cardboard, and traffic noise.
Central District has always been one of my favourite parts of the city. It’s an area desperately trying to reinvent itself — shiny new mall, glossy train station, and the usual concrete polish that comes with modern redevelopment — but no matter how much lipstick they slap on it, you can’t scrub off the grit.
And I like that.
The buildings are still rusted and ageing, clinging to their original bones. The homeless sleep beneath the gleaming canopy of the new station, sheltered by the very thing meant to represent progress. But there’s something more honest about this part of town. It has character. It has layers. Unlike the flashier districts where everything feels like a showroom, Central has stories, even if some of them are rough around the edges.
It’s also where the migrant workers gather, especially on weekends. You don’t just get Taiwanese restaurants here — you get Filipino barbecue, Vietnamese pho, Thai curries, and Indonesian snacks, all tucked into tiny shopfronts or pop-up kitchens. There’s even a little supermarket inside the battered shell of ASEAN Square, catering to people from across Southeast Asia. It’s one of the few places where Taichung feels properly international.
But as I passed through, the city was still half asleep. None of it had opened yet. Even the Taiwanese breakfast joints hadn’t started frying eggs or flipping danbing. My stomach wasn’t happy about it, but I did what every hungry wanderer in Taiwan does — I stopped at 7-Eleven, bowed to the gods of convenience, and grabbed something edible.
I passed by Taichung Old Station, a beautiful relic of a city that once had steam in its veins. Built back in 1905 during the Japanese colonial period, this was once the beating heart of central Taiwan’s railway network — a hub that connected people, produce, and the odd bit of coal across the island. These days, it’s been retired from service, but they’ve kept it alive as a kind of living museum — a tourist spot, where you can grab a coffee in one of the old train carriages, soak in the nostalgia, and imagine what travel must’ve felt like before plastic seats and air conditioning ruined the romance.
But just like everything else that morning — it was too early.
The shutters were still down, the carriages dark and motionless, no baristas in sight. Just me, the morning light, and the faint smell of oil and rust that never quite leaves a place like that.
The station itself is a handsome old building, all red brick and white stone, with a sloped European-style roof and arched windows that look like they’ve seen stories. A mix of Baroque and classical architecture, it stands in stark contrast to the glass and steel monster next door — the new Taichung Station. One has history, the other has escalators.
I stopped for a moment, took it in. Silent trains, no coffee, but plenty of atmosphere. It’s a good place to pause, even when it’s shut.
The rest of the adventure, I’ll admit, was a bit dull — the kind of dull that creeps in when the adrenaline wears off and all you’ve got left is your feet and whatever thoughts are bouncing around in your skull.
I followed the bike-walk path southward into Wuri District, weaving between power-walking pensioners and cyclists in full Lycra, all of them looking considerably fresher than I felt. At one point, an elderly man — who must’ve been in his nineties — was moving at such a pace he overtook me. It was a proper “Tortoise and the Hare” moment, only I was the hare that forgot to rest and still nearly lost. Thankfully, he stopped to stretch, allowing me to preserve what little dignity I had left.
The further into Wuri I went, the quieter the city became. The tower blocks gave way to residential neighbourhoods, which eventually turned into wide open spaces, the Taichung skyline retreating into the distance like a memory. It felt like walking through the edge of the city’s imagination, places still waiting to become something — future developments, plotted on signs and guarded by cranes asleep in the heat.
I passed Daqing MRT Station and allowed myself a brief sit down on one of those coin-operated massage chairs, the kind that thumps your spine like it owes you money. I sat there in silence, staring into nothing and thinking, “This is luxury.”
Nearer Chenggong, things shifted again — a blend of residential flats and industrial parks, the kind of places where life doesn’t shout, it hums. I ducked through a narrow tunnel, shared with scooters, beneath the railway line — one of those places that smells faintly of oil and two-stroke — and came out the other side blinking in the daylight. There was also a statue of Mazu (I believe) blessing the people coming into the city.
There was also a small river, winding its way through the area. Its name is the Fazi River (Fazixi). If you squint past the concrete pillars and bridges, you could almost imagine it as something wild, like it once belonged to a forest before the city draped its roads and cables across it. A little leftover pocket of nature, trying not to be noticed.
Eventually, I arrived at Chenggong Station — small, unspectacular, and barely marked, the kind of place where you wouldn’t think a two-day adventure would end. As fate would have it, a train heading back home was already on the platform. The screen claimed it was delayed by two minutes, but it left right on time, of course it did. My legs were screaming, feet pulsing with every step, but I still gave it a go — hobbling, limping, running like a half-cooked spaghetti noodle trying to make it over the bridge to the far platform. The train doors beeped and shut. I let out a quiet curse under my breath.
But then it hit me.
In the rush, I’d completely forgotten what I’d just done. I’d walked across Taichung — from its sleepy northern fringe to its industrial southern edge — and somehow, I hadn’t stopped to reflect on any of it. No victory pose, no arms-in-the-air celebration. Just a sweaty man missing a train.
So I did the next best thing.
Still soaked in sweat, I snapped a photo next to a small platform sign that read “Chenggong”. That would be my proof. No ribbon to cut, no medals — just a picture with a plastic sign, in a quiet station, sitting on a plastic chair that — after two days on foot — felt like a throne.
I dozed off a little while I waited, head nodding, the occasional shuffle of strangers waking me up. When the next train finally rolled in, I boarded, looked out the window, and saw the storm clouds gathering over the mountains to the south-east. They were dark and brooding, but behind them, the sun still clung on.
I was heading home.
It was, in the end, an interesting sort of adventure. Not heroic or dramatic — just me and my legs moving through the shape of a city. And what a shape it is.
Houli had the feel of somewhere else entirely — country roads, chickens, silence. A part of the city that doesn’t really feel like it wants to be one. Fengyuan, by contrast, strutted about like a city within a city, busy and bustling, old and industrious, but with that comforting smell of waffles and exhaust fumes. Then came Tanzi, following the winding Han River, where the edges of the city blur into the wild — shrubs clawing at concrete, birds darting over drainage channels, nature stubbornly refusing to pack up and leave.
By the time I reached Beitun, my own stomping ground, it was like walking back into a half-remembered dream. Same river, but tamed, straightened, groomed. The city pressing in. New apartments going up, cranes swinging above as if they’re painting the sky with steel and glass. My neighbourhood, though modern, still felt familiar — an end, but not quite a finish.
The further I went, the more the city revealed its patchwork self. Central District was a collision of contrasts: historic charm, peeling walls, the glint of new developments, and a gritty honesty you can’t polish out. Here, I walked among the homeless under the new train station roof, where Filipino workers, fresh out of the disco, laughed and staggered through the morning light. It’s where families lined up for trains, vagrants curled up near stairwells, and I — somewhere in between — drifted by like a ghost with a backpack.
South District came and went, concrete and bland, the sort of place that holds up the rest of the city but doesn’t ask to be noticed. And then there was Wuri — open space, empty plots, the skeleton of future towers waiting to be filled. It felt like the end of a sentence, or maybe the pause before a new one begins.
Two days of walking taught me more about this city than two years of commuting ever could. I saw its veins, its scars, its empty lots and its prayers. I saw how Taichung breathes, how it spreads, and how it somehow keeps everything — beauty and boredom, chaos and calm — under the same sky.
