Taipei 101 is many things in many moments

The relationship first developed at a distance, when I was thousands of kilometers from Taiwan. Flicking through a magazine it announced itself: "Taipei 101." This building, an ambassador for the city and the country, would feature on airport billboards, be discussed proudly in documentaries, and pop up in barroom conversation. This feat of engineering became a revered celebrity. One you never quite expect to meet.

Then I did.

It was my first day in Taipei. "There it is," my friend, a fellow new arrival, said excitedly. We were on the Wenhu MRT line. He pointed out the window at a gap between two buildings. I turned, but in those seconds, the world's second tallest building had disappeared behind some apartments. We both stared in that direction for a while longer, hoping for another glance. It took a while. Other buildings always in the way. Eventually, though, it reappeared.

It was a crisp day, with few clouds and a rich sun. Rising into the sky was the celebrity.

That same day I stood on the street side just next to Taipei 101 and stared straight upward at all 509 meters. With its pagoda-inspired design of eight outward tapering blocks each stacked on the top the other, the building gives the impression of an overhanging cliff. It is awe-inspiring. The celebrity was as impressive in person as in the photos.

Over these first few days, the building, with its slight turquoise hue in daytime and flashy presence at night, showed a deeper charisma. From a street in the heart of Taipei, a corner of the structure would peak above the other buildings, as if quickly saying hi. Returning from across the river in the north, Taipei 101 — the city skyline's signature — would herald our arrival. Strolling in Xinyi during an afternoon that was turning to dusk, its corners would catch reflected glimmers of sunshine.

This charisma, this strong personality, soon grew into a calming presence. On most nights after leaving work I decide to eschew the taxis and subway and instead walk home along Senlin Road. It is a bustling nightlife. Food stalls with steaming soups, clothes shops with their fashions on the street side. Yet, as I near home, I cross a quiet park. Always to my left is Taipei 101. It is late so it is draped in only a few dull lights. It is more a silhouette, a slightly lighter shadow against a darker sky. Yet it is there, each evening — a constant after a long day.

Taipei 101, with its glass and steel and cement, is just a building. No breath, nor blood, nor sweat. But it is a welcoming and welcomed presence, whether in a full-page magazine spread, or on a billboard; as an overhanging cliff, or a dull silhouette on a quiet evening.