Where heritage lives: A weekend in Tainan
At six in the evening, Swallow exists between two states. The sky outside has deepened to a soft, dusky blue, and inside, the lamps cast a warmth across the glass walls of this refurbished shophouse. It takes a moment to reconcile the incongruity of it all—a delicately crafted drink in a hundred-year-old space, its bones intact, its identity transformed.
It is the perfect introduction to Tainan, Taiwan’s oldest city and its first capital, which carries more than 400 years of layered history. Here, past and present meet without friction—a dialogue that runs through its art and architecture, alive in the sensibilities of its creative community.
A shophouse after dark
Swallow, a cocktail bar hidden in plain sight along one of Tainan’s residential alleys, draws its name from the humble bird. As I move further into the space, I notice a handful of particularities: an open-air courtyard, a ladder rising to an upstairs loft. On the far side, stacks of recipe books and jars of pickled ferments line polished wooden surfaces. It’s a living room you willingly sink into as you nurse a slow drink.
For the newcomer, the menu reads like a flavor map of the region, where familiar spirits are recast by local inflections: pandan leaf, shiso, spiced smoked plum, and black sesame. It is, somehow, a fitting metaphor for Tainan itself—a town made richer, more captivating, by everything that came before it.
The shophouse tells of a longer narrative, one stitched into the city’s urban fabric. Narrow and double-fronted, these structures are rooted in the Fujian architectural tradition, their facades later refined by the decorative influence of Japanese colonial architects. Tainan’s relatively measured pace of modernization is precisely why so many of them still stand, and why, in the hands of a new generation of designers, they are being intelligently reimagined rather than erased.
Objects of intention
Yu-Sian Li knows Tainan, not just as a place, but also as a feeling. It has always been home. He left only for university, studying abroad in the UK before returning to found Atelier Senseware, a select shop where Danish craftsmanship and an instinct for the sensory come together in service of more considered living.
For him, Tainan is a philosophy of sorts. “History here is not something preserved in the past,” he says. “It is something that continues to live within the present, and is constantly being reinterpreted through everyday life.”
Inside the atelier, the furnishing is deliberately sparse, an expression of Li’s strong curatorial eye. Objects and curiosities—home scents, botanical body soaps, linen bathrobes—are chosen with such purpose that browsing feels almost meditative.
In the corner, my eye catches a lived-in leather couch. “Actually, this belonged to my father,” Li says. “I used to lie here as a child.” In retrospect, the presence of that very couch captures Tainan’s greater ethos: that heritage is meant to be held and kept close.
An hour at Li’s shop slipped past unnoticed. We spoke at length about his work and of the persistent pull that kept him close to his roots. As he wraps my purchase, I ask for advice on how to more thoroughly experience the city. “The best way is simply to walk,” he says. “The old city’s layout naturally guides you.”
Beneath the banyan tree
With Li’s counsel in mind, I set out with renewed eyes. Among the former capital’s cultural pillars, the Tainan Art Museum (Building 1, specifically) is another living example of this duality. Originally built in 1931 as the Tainan Police Department, it remains the earliest surviving police station in Taiwan. Though now home to contemporary art, traces of its former authority linger beneath the building’s eclectic Art Déco facade.
As guests step through the historic structure, the museum reveals its modern other half. Its extension rises with sky-high ceilings and steel lattices, a stark counterpart to the time-worn facade of its predecessor. With each passing gallery, a calm settles over me. There is a certain pleasure in the work on display: muted, pastel palettes depicting mundane landscapes; bold brushstrokes giving new form to reinterpreted Chinese characters.
Out in the courtyard, I find myself drawn to the scale of the banyan tree, its canopy wide and tangled. Around it, young couples lounge on benches and children run freely, their laughter sharp against the heat. Yet there it stands, in the center of it all, undisturbed.
Five stories of heritage
With the rest of the day ahead of me, I take a short walk to Hayashi Department Store. Locally beloved as the “Five Story Building,” it first opened its doors in 1932, when it stood as a symbol of modernity. To browse through Hayashi is to play a game of make-believe, one that allows visitors to feel as though they had wandered into another era.
Each floor is a treasure trove of artisanal finds, from sugary treats to vintage stationery. I procure a postcard or two, hand-drawn illustrations bearing the city’s iconic motifs. Then, in a moment of indulgence, I leave with a pair of black Mary Janes from Hanamikoji, a Taiwanese label whose name evokes a thread between Tainan and Kyoto—two cities bound by time.
Rituals of the everyday
In Tainan, every coffee shop reads as a thesis on atmosphere and materials—and, ultimately, on the rewards of patience. Take Anäyama, a more recent addition to the local beverage scene.
The room is dim, lit almost theatrically. Long-armed task lamps cast directional pools of light over the bar, while the rest falls into shadow. A pair of audiophile speakers sits prominently, grounding the space in the tradition of Japanese listening bars, kissaten-style concepts where sound is central to the experience. It’s this tasteful interplay of elements that makes Anäyama at once cozy and electric.
Behind the counter, the barista works with the deliberateness of an artisan. Dressed in a gray workwear smock, he prepares each drink with methodical movements. The café specializes in hand-drip coffee, paying close attention to the brewing variables (water temperature, for one) that shape each cup.
A quick glance tells me several guests have ordered the same thing: an ice shaken coffee with milk. I follow suit, forgoing a closer read of the menu and resisting my tendency to weigh every choice. It is delicious—sweetened with what I take to be kuromitsu, a dark Japanese sugar syrup that has long been a staple in Taiwanese coffee and tea culture.
Notes, en route
On the high-speed rail back to Taipei, the steady rhythm of the train has me pensive. Though I leave with much still unseen, a weekend spent in the old capital was enough to catch a sliver of its reverence for heritage. A drink poured with care, a building preserved with intention, an object chosen with thought—these are rituals that define the ebb and flow of everyday life in Tainan.
Li had said something similar to me. He believes that these smaller moments gather within its ancient spaces—perhaps nowhere more so than at the Confucius Temple. Red-walled and distinct in its quietude, it opens up in the late afternoon, when the light has softened.
It is there, he says, that the city’s spirit finds its fullness.
