We bet on who would forget the most essential item; we all forgot the power banks. We stood in the lobby of He Ti Jiu Dian, staring at the black mirrors of our dead screens while the scent of fresh linens and cool AC drifted around us. We wondered if the twenty-first century was actually a mistake.
The milkfish porridge at the traditional restaurant had a salty warmth that felt like a temporary truce. Steam clouded our glasses, and for three minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic clink of spoons against ceramic. Then someone mentioned the neon-lit snacks of Hanxi Night Market, and the peace vanished.
"I told you the 74 highway is the way," he insisted as we rolled toward a dead end. We spent twenty minutes arguing over a map none of us could actually read, the air thick with stubbornness and the smell of old upholstery. It's the most honest part of any friendship: the shared confidence in being completely lost.
The gaming room was our battlefield. We fought over PS5 tokens like they were actual currency, a high-stakes drama unfolding in a space that smelled faintly of ozone and competitive desperation. "One more round!" someone screamed, the blue light of the screen flickering against our determined faces.
I suspect the book wall in the lobby is where He Ti Jiu Dian keeps its secrets. We stopped talking, the silence suddenly heavy and sweet, as we traced the spines of books we would never actually read. The October light filtered in, soft and undecided, dancing in gold motes across the floor.
The bed in our minimalist room was a vast, white expanse that swallowed us whole. After the grueling humidity of the Dakeng Trail, the crisp, cool touch of the sheets felt like the only truth left in the world—a sanctuary of cotton and silence.
Seeking a quiet spot, we stumbled upon a random noodle stall where the owner watched us with a mixture of pity and confusion. We huddled together against the autumn chill, the thick steam blurring our vision and smelling of star anise and rain.
October in Taichung is a gentle thing, a lingering pause between seasons. I think the point of traveling with people you can roast is to realize that home is just a portable rhythm held together by shared mistakes and the warmth of a shared room.
A single red leaf resting on a white lobby table.
- You gotta try the chicken rice at breakfast; it's a game-changer.
- Lose yourself in the book wall before the group chaos kicks in.