ON A DRIZZLY Sunday afternoon in Taipei, my girlfriend and I hop on a bus to Jioufen, a town with a fascinating history that’s nestled in the mountains beyond the sea.

I rock in and out of sleep for most of the bus ride, opening my eyes as we pass through the outskirts of Taipei, then over steely rivers until the town feels smaller and smaller.

It rains heavier as we ascend into the mountains. We don’t have enough money to pay for the bus. A friendly couple pays for us without us really asking, then we walk together to the convenient store so I can get cash. The road is chaotic, bustling with tourists.

I buy an umbrella and pay them back. We knew we didn’t have enough money when we got on the bus. When I was younger, that’s something that would have terrified me. I see the world differently now. I guess I just expected we’d figure it out, so I settled into the ride. Things worked out just fine.

In the 1890s, gold was found in the hills of Jioufen, resulting in a gold rush which boomed during Japan’s fifty-year rule of Taiwan, from 1895 to 1945.

After WWII, the Allies placed control of Taiwan under the Republic of China, eventually leading to the 1947 anti-government uprising known as the February 28 incident, an incredibly important day in Taiwanese history and a key event to Jioufen’s future.

Gold mining in the region tapered off in the second half of the 20th-century until the mine was shut down in the ’70s.

Time passed in these picturesque mountains until 1989, when A City of Sadness was released, a Taiwanese film set in Jioufen which touches on the February 28 incident.

The film won worldwide acclaim and the nostalgic setting attracted many people to Jioufen, setting off a tourist boom from the 1990s onward. Now the town is renowned for its beauty, its history, the arts, and tea.

Shops and restaurants line narrow paths beneath tinny roofs, where red lanterns sway each and every way. Rain pelts down atop the roofs like an endless sea of an ancient army’s arrows; it drips from the red lanterns and creates a visceral atmosphere that has me enraptured.

The setting is one straight out of the 2001 anime Spirited Away — stunning rustic architecture perched into the hill, throughout which wind narrow stone paths — a place with stories, secrets, an ethereal energy.

Because of this, Jioufen became popular with Japanese tourists when the movie was released, as it was believed that the town may have served as inspiration for the story’s aesthetic.

I’ve read the same thing about multiple onsen (hot spring) towns in Japan, including Dogo Onsen Honkan and Ginza Onsen. These places are gorgeous, but I feel like you can say this town was the inspiration for Spirited Away for countless locations in Asia.

The creators behind Studio Ghibli such as the celebrated filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki clearly see the world brilliantly, drawing inspiration from a lifetime of traveling and observing and making connections, as artists do.

Claiming any place inspired one of the greatest animations of all time is a surefire way to attract tourists, though, so why not.

The walkways are crowded and the food stalls are loud, selling buns, dumplings, dried squid, nougat, and tea. Honestly, we came to Taiwan for the food. The sweets are endless and the night markets are epic, specializing in decadent treats such as scallion pancakes, boba tea, knife-cut beef noodles, and xiaolongbao (soup dumplings).

Back on the path of vendors, everything is steamy and wet. I pull off for a gulp of fresh air at each outlet I can find, embracing the rain and admiring the arrayed mishmash of homes, roofs, glowing lights and gleaming flora.

We climb through the town until the crowd thins at a fork in the path: continue straight, climb up, or climb down. We continue straight and find what I’m here for, the Jioufen Teahouse, a quirky space created by artist Hung Chi-Sheng in the early 1990s.

The sky’s becoming blue and deep and clouded. I breathe in clean and cold air. Lanterns shine brighter as the world grows darker, illuminating the cliff side in a red and yellow glow.

We’re seated at a dark wooden table in a corner of the building, surrounded by stone walls with a window looking out upon the view. In the distance is the sea and the various towns below, although barely perceptible and grey through the rain.

Inside the several-story teahouse is a koi pond, an art gallery, ceramics, and various rooms to drink tea. Outside are more tables on the patio.

Beside our table sits an iron kettle on ashy grey coals with steam billowing from its spout, an absolutely lovely scene. The server walks us through the process of brewing the tea (I choose black oolong).

We pour dry leaves in the white porcelain container, pour water in, and let it steep with the cap on. Then we pour the strained tea into another container, and into tiny cups to drink from.

I love the process, one which we walked through a couple of days prior with a man of tea in the town of Miaoli on the west coast of Taiwan. The process is imprecise and feels cyclical like the tides of the sea, filling and draining, swashing this way and that.

I love the steaming white cups, the clinking sounds of porcelain, the hot vessel held in my hand, the filling and drinking and pouring, the warmth of the fire. The sound of strengthening rain outside has me mesmerized.

The stone walls and wooden interior create a wonderful atmosphere which my senses imbibe, the feeling enhanced by the caffeine buzz which builds as the evening progresses.

After a few rounds of tea, I venture outside to take in the fresh air and view. Leaves rustle in the wind above, beautiful and glistening in the soggy sky.

At times, I just want a break from life and the constant search for understanding. I want to pause. I think we all want to make everything stop every now and again.

Yet I’m afraid that if I take a break, I’ll lose something. Momentum, drive, whatever it is I think I’m holding onto. There’s so much I think I have to do, as if I’m just trying to keep up with myself.

But then I have an experience like this, and I feel so alive. My worries lose their grip. I honor my appreciation for the rain, the cold, the mountain air, the trains, the lights, the people. And just knowing how good it feels to appreciate these things seems like enough.

Because I’ll always have that. There’s nothing I have to do. There’s simply appreciating what is — life as it’s always been. That itself is a vital piece of the puzzle, an answer, a childlike wonder and an ancient satisfaction gleaned from the natural elements intermingling in an energetic way.

In the mountains of Taiwan, surrounded by people and nature and history, I’m filled with light, love, and meaning.

Back inside, Coco and I doodle in our notebooks as we drink more tea, discussing the artwork on the wall. It’s one of those drawings that looks as if it could have been done by a ten-year-old, a simple sketch of the village. Yet it’s the mastery of the artist — a lifetime of experience — which creates that childlike aesthetic. In the words of Pablo Picasso:

On our table sits a brass figurine of an odd-looking cat with our table number on it. I love the burnished figurine. When we leave, I ask if I can purchase it. I can, so I do.

Before leaving, we explore the art gallery and the different nooks and crannies of the space. The teahouse is full of art, yet the space itself is most inspiring; the building itself has a spirit, a soul, as if it’s an eclectic and timeworn labor of love floating in the sky.

It would be cool to have some tea with Hung Chi-Sheng.

We take off at dusk. The rain’s falling hard, the town aglow in the haze. After a couple of steamed sesame and pork bao buns, we amble through the soaked central passageway, a labyrinth of raincoats and umbrellas.

Back on the main drag, we find the bus back to Taipei. It’s cold and wet and we sit on the bus in quiet, as if to not let the cold know we’re thinking of it. It won’t win.

I watch the world passing outside, the neon lights of the city shining through the rain. I’m glad to be wet, glad to be home, glad to be alive, experiencing a piece of the past and a vital piece of my heart, this world, steaming and rich and simple.

Afternoon tea in Jioufen.