.
The air is a few grades denser in Taiwan; if fog felt like it looks, it would feel just like this.
It is familiar as the smell of warm baked bread, or salt ocean spray, except it contains the oily residue of life and the vibrancy that comes naturally when an abundance of it is compressed into a small space.
Overstuffed upholstered chairs, like Japanese Manga marshmallows, absorb the sway and jostle of the bus as it wheels a grey snake of concrete highway that winds through hillside emerald. Hills invaded by explosive drapings of flora and trees. It is wildly jungleously green. Achingly green, as only humidity and heat produce. Layered highways lead to a desert camouflage of grey, rose, beige and yellow tiled structures, the boxes, alleys, and neighborhoods upon which the life and blood of Taipei thrive.
The twitchy, hyper-vigilance that is the required body armor of the mainland begins to melt away. It is like being able to converse deeply in your mother-tongue.