Under the influence of a typhoon, Taipei felt so lonely, as in a Hou Hsiao-Hsien film.

Beside the endless stream of raindrops rolling down the window-pane outside, the streets had an unspeakable sense of desolation to them. With a greyish look, most of the streets of Taipei are lined with greyish buildings. And the bluish-grey raincoat of a motorcyclist, the nylon texture of which is too slippery to grasp, would become a picture of bravery and loneliness.

The 24-hour Eslite Bookstores was under renovation. Wrapped in bamboo scaffolding and nylon sheets, it looked like wounded sculptures. Only the Hsinyi store was still opened. But with the typhoon, all the Taiwanese customers were gone, leaving behind only those from Hong Kong. Like empty souls drifting in pairs, they had no choice but to raise their voices in an attempt to dissipate the loneliness with a touch of coldness.

Amid all this coldness, part of it came from a pair of dripping-wet trousers.

In the absence of the street vendors, that tantalising feeling of warmth was also gone. I was like an unwitting traveller barging into a time warp, prying into an unready Taipei without its make-up. When I pushed the door open, I began to feel a slight sense of remorse for my presumption and indiscretion.

Without the hustle and bustle on the streets, even the variety shows on TV seemed a little fake with the canned laughter, and would not suffice to save the day.

By Yi-hing Ong

*Translation from Chinese article.