As I see more of the world, I see more of myself. The fear of being alone dissipates with each act of independence.
My latest adventure for work took me all the way to Seoul, South Korea. I kept this trip a relative secret until we actually took off. I’ve never been very mysterious, as I post most of my life online and have an open book attitude in regards to friendships. But, on my first trip to Asia, I knew plans could change in an instant and I would be left disappointed and answering questions from loved ones if the plans fell through. And they almost did, thus my superstition was confirmed- tell no one until I arrive.
Humble brag, I am the kind of person who has a friend in every city. Even in South Korea, I have a mutual friend that I had to meet for dinner. A friend recently asked me, “Is there a city where you don’t know someone?” I meekly answer that question with an honest, “Not really?”
It could be described as “lucky” to have connections all over, but often that is synonymous with “lonely.” It comes at the cost of being all over, all the time. I don’t have established roots in any one city, nor any semblance of a routine in my lifestyle.
We started the flight in Anchorage, Alaska, where we switched crews and I continued with our passengers to their final destination. When we left, it was 4pm on Wednesday, and when we arrived in Asia, it was 8pm on Thursday. Time travel with a 17 hour time difference.
Upon landing, my pilots were wiped, as was I, but my excitement outweighed my exhaustion. They didn’t care to explore the city. That is their prerogative but their unadventurous spirit was not contagious. I had people to see and places to be.
I checked into the JW Marriott and marveled at my room on the 18th floor, with stunning views of the bustling city below. This was my first time outside western culture, the first time I've ever faced a real language barrier. My galavants about Europe are generally pretty predictable at this point. While cultures vary country to country, I am familiar with western etiquette. I am not familiar with eastern culture nor their symbolic alphabet. My excitement could easily have been confused with anxiety had I not been careful.
I met JH about 10pm on Apgujeong Rodeo Street, a vibrant alley with bars and late night bites. I ate kimchi fried rice and drank a popular whiskey cocktail and tried to ignore the fact that I was becoming delirious from lack of sleep. I push myself in situations like this- when am I going to be back in Seoul meeting a friend of a friend to show me around the city? When am I going to be 27 and unshackled by responsibilities? What if I have to grow up one day and be sensible?
She was bubbly and bright and we babbled along as I assumed we would considering our mutual friend in common. Just two girls from opposite sides of the world with matching vocal frys bonding over boys and a burning passion for New York.
To end the night, she took me to a German-Korean bar called Keiz, with arguably the best dessert I've ever put in my mouth. A bruleed sweet potato. With a torched marshmallowy cream filling, the caramelized sugar atop broke to a seductive filling blended with the sweet potato it was encased in. The bar was sexy and provocative, hidden below street level with an exclusively red lit lounge doused about with wax candles burning their drippings down the walls.
It’s interesting how simple decor choices can be social commentary. A taboo defiance to Korea’s strict purity culture.
After a strange night's sleep, attempting to rest with jetlag, I forced myself to stay in bed until 9am. I sprung out of bed, ready to explore the city in the daytime. I took an Uber to the Anguk neighborhood, to try the famed salt bread.
At Artist’s Cafe, there is a line out the door to dine in, doubt thanks to social media. I opted for a to-go order and filled in line, cafeteria self-serve style. You grab a tray and a pair of tongs and grab whatever you’d like.
The bread is slightly salty, as the name states, with a light, milky, creamy interior filling. They had just about every flavor you could imagine, from savory to sweet to a combination of both; I also tried the cheese and honey flavor. Filled with almost a nacho cheese, tasting slightly like spray cheese you find in the usa, the distinct flavor grew on me in the aftertaste when the sweetness of the honey hit the palate.
I enjoyed my treats and my matcha on a bench in the sun. I wandered around the city, not a spot of trash in sight. I came upon a beautiful park, rich in wildflowers with rolling fields, and their backdrop was the city skyline. Tiny hummingbirds, the size of butterflies hovered among the flowers and batted their tiny little wings so close to my fingertips, I could feel the vibration against the flowers.
I asked a stranger to take a photo of me, clearly American. This is often my only nuisance of travelling alone, as sometimes there isn't anyone to take the perfect photo of me. That, and bearing the burden of the itinerary and navigating a foreign city alone can be quite stressful.
I continued my walk to Gyeongbokgung Palace. I purchased my entrance for 2 USD and blended among hundreds of visitors in traditional Hanbok dress. Women in large skirt overlays, with the midline coming just below the chest, creating the illusion of a long lower half with long sleeves on the top half and often floral designs adorning the outfit. Often with umbrellas perched over their shoulders, to protect from the sun's rays and maintain the esteemed glass skin.
I walked through the palace gardens, admiring the authentic architecture, the likes of which I've only seen recreated at Disney’s Epcot.
After my cultural excursion, I went for a shopping excursion. I went to Lea et Miel, a local Seoul brand, for some unique pieces. I ended up buying two items I can best describe as a thneed.
A thneed is coined by Dr. Seuss as a “fictional shape-shifting garment” from The Lorax. These items can be a layering piece over a sweater, a scarf or a hood. I bought them in two colors and shapes.
I heard Seongsu described as the Brooklyn of Seoul, with popups and the epicenter of fashion. So I headed there next for skincare and an immersive experience. I went to a local pharmacy for the well-known Korean skincare and found the people to be incredibly helpful. I first went to Olive Young, a viral hotspot with an allegedly skin scanning technology, but I found it to be more of a gimmick to sell certain products. So I went to Doremi Pharmacy, a local business with actual pharmacists who picked out products for me based upon my requests rather than a computer's alleged photographic analysis.
Arguably my favorite excursion of the day, I made it to Haus Nowhere, a Korean concept store which is more accurately described as an immersive art exhibition with a side of shopping.
Larger-than-life sculptures hunch over you as you shop for sunglasses; plush bunny radishes make eye contact with you as you enter the store. A garden of plush veggies with the cutest faces are hung as purchasable keychains. The culmination of art, fashion, and the culture's adherences to individual creativity is perfectly surmised in this location. I wandered each story, until I eventually splurged on a pair of chic yet reasonable sunglasses.
For dinner before departure, I decided I needed to have my first-ever Korean BBQ. I went to Samwon Garden, a high-end restaurant recommended by the aforementioned friend. When I first sat down at my table for four, with a party of one, I was struck by the realization that no one around me looked like me.
This was the first time in my life I looked around the room, and I was the minority. I was in a foreign country, and with a language barrier, I couldn’t communicate my needs. I tried informing my server that I had never had Korean BBQ, and in fact had no idea what to order or what it came with. She pointed at things in broken English and evaded my questions, not understanding what I didn’t understand.
The couple at the table next to me had at least ten side plates arrive with their meat. Did I need to order each one separately? Did it come as a set? Eventually I picked a meat, Korean marinated beef, and my eight small plates of sides arrived. No one could explain what they were, and I was too afraid to ask. So I desperately fiddled with my chopsticks and took small bites. There were no napkins in sight. Suddenly I realized I hadn't seen one all day, and I noticed no one in the restaurant had one. Eventually, the English-speaking manager came around when she realized she was the only one able to properly communicate with me. She explained each dish and gave me tips and grilled my meat on the charcoal flame in front of me.
I don’t blame them for the language barrier; I don’t go to an Eastern culture and expect them to adhere to my Western ways. But it was the first time in my life I've felt true foreignness. Only united in the room of sharing a meal in the same vicinity. With each staff member who did not speak my language, I was greeted with a smile, a small bow, and occasionally a phone arrived to translate in English. Their kindness and welcomeness to the one person in the room who did not look like the rest will not be forgotten.
For dessert, I was brought a cold bean soup, “for digestion,” she said as she plated the small bowl in front of me.
As I stood outside the restaurant and waited for my Uber back to the hotel, the sky faded to a dusty pink and I watched children play in the shaded courtyard; I wished I could bottle this feeling. At the time I didn’t know what it was, but a profound respect for a new emotion I experienced at 27 years old. The satisfaction of having successfully navigated a foreign city alone, in Asia was a new high. I suddenly understood why billionaires go crazy and why people run marathons and why have babies. We’re all chasing a bottomless profundity. The craving to commodify new experiences to break up the modern-day mundane.
