The taxi dropped me on the wrong side of Wanhua. Taipei has a way of surprising you from the first moment.
It was 10:30PM on my first night in Taipei. I'd just flown 14 hours from JFK, spent 45 minutes in a queue at immigration, and somehow gave the taxi driver an address that was two blocks off from my hotel. He pointed vaguely down a dark lane and drove away.
The lane smelled like soy sauce and exhaust. A group of old men sat on plastic stools outside a betel nut shop, staring at a small TV mounted on the wall. A scooter squeezed past me close enough to feel the heat off its engine. I had no SIM card, no WiFi, and approximately four percent battery on my phone.
So I walked toward the only light I could see.
Longshan Temple appears on you before you realize what you're looking at. One moment you're on a regular Taipei street — convenience stores, shuttered clothing shops, a 7-Eleven with its perpetual chime — and the next, a wall of carved stone and incense smoke materializes through the humid air.
It was nearly 11PM. I didn't know the temple was open 24 hours. I didn't know it was one of the oldest and most important temples in Taipei, built in 1738. I didn't know any of that. I just saw candlelight through an ornate gate and walked in because I was tired and lost and it looked warm.
The courtyard was open to the sky. Incense spiraled upward from bronze urns the size of bathtubs — thick, sweet smoke that stung my eyes and stuck to my jacket. A dozen people stood in prayer before the main altar, holding bundles of lit incense with both hands, bowing in rhythmic waves.
I stood near the entrance and watched.
Longshan isn't a museum. It's not preserved behind ropes for tourist consumption. At 11PM on a random Wednesday, elderly women knelt on stone floors doing jiaobei — dropping crescent-shaped wooden blocks to divine answers from the gods. A man in a suit, clearly coming from work, stood at the Guanyin altar with his eyes closed, lips moving silently. A teenager in a school uniform sat on the steps scrolling her phone, waiting for her grandmother to finish.
The temple smelled like sandalwood and burned paper. The altar to Guanyin (Goddess of Mercy) was backed by a wall of tiny golden statues — hundreds of them, each one different, each one donated by a worshipper. The offering tables held oranges, packaged cookies, bottles of Coca-Cola, cans of Taiwan Beer. One person had left a box of Pocky. The gods of Longshan have diverse tastes.
I found a wooden bench along the east corridor and sat down. My phone was dead. I had nowhere to be. So I just sat there and watched the smoke and the people and the light.
After maybe twenty minutes, a woman in her sixties approached me. She wore a floral print shirt and carried a clear plastic bag with temple supplies — incense, paper money, fruit.
She said something in Mandarin. I shook my head. She tried again. I said "English?" and she laughed, then gestured for me to follow her.
She led me to the incense station near the front gate. Pointed at the free incense (yes — the temple provides it at no cost). Demonstrated: light three sticks, hold them between your palms, raise them above your head, bow three times. Then she showed me the sequence of altars — the main hall's Guanyin, then the right hall's Matsu, then the left hall's Wenchang, the god of literature and students.
At each altar, she bowed. I bowed. She murmured prayers. I stood in silence, which felt appropriate.
At the final altar, she pointed at me, then at the god, then clasped her hands together and smiled. A blessing, I think. Or maybe just: "I hope your hotel has good WiFi."
She walked away before I could thank her properly. I never got her name.
I eventually found my hotel — it was three blocks south of the temple, and the night receptionist buzzed me in with zero judgment about my disheveled state. But I couldn't sleep. The jet lag was winning, and I was wired from whatever had just happened at Longshan.
So I went back out.
Wanhua at midnight is a different neighborhood than Wanhua at noon. The tourist version is Longshan Temple plus the Bopiliao Historical Block — restored brick buildings, artisan shops, selfie spots. The nighttime version is Huaxi Street Night Market (Snake Alley), where the remaining snake soup vendors still operate alongside totally normal stalls selling oyster omelets and herbal tea.
I found a stall with no English signage, just photos of food. I pointed at something that looked like a noodle soup. It turned out to be mian xian (thin vermicelli in a thick, sticky broth with intestines). It cost 45 TWD — about $1.40. The intestines were soft and a little chewy, the broth was garlicky and dark, and I ate the entire bowl standing at a metal counter next to a taxi driver on his break.
Was it the best meal of my life? No. But it was exactly what I needed: something real, in a place I hadn't planned to be, eaten with my hands slightly trembling from fatigue.
I've been back to Taipei three times since that first night. I've done the standard circuit — Taipei 101 at sunset (600 TWD for the observatory, absolutely worth it), Jiufen on a rainy Tuesday (the only correct day to go), Beitou hot springs in January (40 TWD for the public pool, pure heaven), Shilin Night Market's underground food court (large fried chicken, 70 TWD, bigger than your head).
But I keep coming back to Longshan.
Not because it's the "best" temple. Dalongdong Baoan Temple in the north has more elaborate carvings. Xingtian Temple near Zhongshan MRT has a more dramatic atmosphere. Longshan doesn't win on architecture or history or any ranked metric.
It wins because it was the first place in Taipei that felt alive in a way I wasn't expecting. I'd arrived bracing for neon and technology — Taipei 101, the MRT's efficiency, the phone-obsessed culture. Instead, the first thing that grabbed me was a 285-year-old temple where people still ask the gods for help at midnight, and a stranger still takes the time to show you how.
Every time I visit Taipei now, my first stop is Longshan. Not the morning after — the night I arrive. I take the Blue Line MRT to Longshan Temple station (exit 1), walk up the stairs, cross the park, and step through that carved stone gate.
I light three sticks of incense. I bow at Guanyin's altar. I sit on that same wooden bench in the east corridor.
The temple hasn't changed. The incense still stings. The offering tables still have Coca-Cola next to oranges. Someone's grandmother is still doing jiaobei at 11PM.
Taipei changes fast — new buildings, new MRT lines, new bubble tea brands replacing last year's favorites. But Longshan stays. And there's something comforting about a city that moves at the speed of technology but keeps its oldest temple open all night, just in case someone stumbles in lost and needs a place to sit.
I never found that woman again. I don't expect to. But I think about her every time I stand at that altar.
Three sticks. Above the head. Three bows.
That's how you arrive in Taipei.
