How will I remember Korea?
The thing about travel is that it's not really glamorous. It's not always happy. It can be overwhelming. Crappy at times. You're transplanting yourself so far out of your comfort zone. It can be scary, even. I find that my radar for risks is slightly wonky when the rules of daily life are temporarily suspended.
But Korea? It was there for me. It gave me soft landings every time I felt vulnerable. I kept finding pockets of peace in unlikely places, in less-than-ideal situations, when I needed them most. Over and over and over.
My idea of peace is evolving. I made a vision board for what it represented to me last year – or what it was represented by – but recently I realised it needs some expansion. More on this another time, but as I was adding little peaceful vignettes to my Instagram collection, I realised more deeply what I had already figured out: as the days slipped across that June fortnight in Korea, a theme had begun to emerge.
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| (Also above) Gyeongbokgung, Seoul |
But there were other little moments of warmth in Seoul before this too. Basking in the sun that played hide-and-seek from a bench facing Gyeongbokgung as three women chatted near me. Watching people (and pianists) amid the fountains of Gwanghwamun Square. The lady who, when I thanked her for topping up my T-money card, said, "저도 감사해요" when she totally didn't have to. The cashier at Paris Baguette at the end of the hardest day who answered my broken Korean in the softest, kindest voice and didn't switch to English.
Then there was Busan, bursting with colour. The most obvious contender was Gamcheon Culture Village, with its murals of magic and The Little Prince and clouds and BTS. There I walked alongside electric blue houses and up yellow stairs, looked out on a mosaic as far as hill met sea, befriended an artist who exclaimed encouragingly at random Korean words I threw out. It was in Busan that I remembered why I love walking. Emerald leaves shone in golden sun rays on the path to Haedong Yonggungsa, the temple by the sea. Stone sculptures mingled with nature, thousands of bright lanterns drew patterns on the floor, shiny red-gold wishing leaves swayed in the breeze, and the azure sea sparkled. I made a wish for a slightly more magical world, because in that moment, it really felt possible.
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| Haeundae Beach, Busan |
Haeundae Beach transformed at sundown. Where there had been a stretch of sand surrounded by monstrous buildings, suddenly there was music. Buskers every ten steps, some be-costumed; walkers and dog walkers; yellow glows, and neon windows reflected in water, and blinking ships; royal blue horizon. As the night turned darker, I walked leisurely but purposefully to the end of the beach, and up the illuminated wooden staircase to enter Dongbaekseom, the Camellia Island-that-was, surrounded by a wooden walkway. For the most part, there was just me, and the whispers of waves, and the breeze. I talked to the trees a little, I think. My crowded mind settled with every step, and I felt like I was coming back to myself. I had a packaged meal set from the supermarket with strawberry milk on a dim park bench and enjoyed it all. Sometimes that's what I need.
I could have been miserable in Gyeongju. My heart was full of hurt and fire, and was met with...rain. Incessant rain. I hate being out in the rain, but I only had a day with this chapter in history. Maybe I would have given up if it weren't for the fire; or maybe the rain washed it away. Maybe both. Something kept me going, anyway, from noon until nightfall.
Places enshrining death are places of memory, and often places of peace and beauty. Gyeongju is no different. As I walked in Daereungwon amidst the lush green burial tumuli, I could see why the region is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I did wish I could sit on a dry bench to admire them more, like I saw in the stunning show One Day Off. Onward through endless fields, pathways lined with some sort of woven carpeting; past gorgeous hanoks from whose roofs the rain literally went pitter-patter; the observatory surrounded by flowers in every shade of pink and purple.
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| Daereungwon; above: tumuli tombs, Gyeongju |
I've travelled in the rain before, and it's hard, but often ends up being a unique experience, a test of love. I realised that though my airy cotton pants were soaked knee downwards, they weren't sticking to my skin, and dried quickly. My sandaled feet stepped into puddles of every shape and size, but could be washed later. I had an extra shirt in my bag for when the breeze turned chilly on my bare shoulders. I had an umbrella that was not very effective, but was doing its best, even when perched awkwardly between my neck and shoulders so my hands could be free for my camera. And between it all, I could be present.
I could dip in and out of roofed places for respite. I could find warmth in a beautiful restaurant I chanced upon, Julie's, where the owner was as nice as the space and food she had created, where I ate the best quesadillas of my life. I could sit on a plush stool to watch a little film, exiting just as the Welseong Moat lights turned on. I could dry off my clothes and feet with the high pressure air hoses so helpfully installed outside. I could enjoy a cheesy sibwonppang under an awning and watch the street glisten.
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| Donggung Palace and Wolji Pond, Gyeongju |
If I needed another sign, it came at the palace. The rain let up for exactly an hour, allowing me some time to soak in the shimmering night view it is known for. As I was leaving, I encountered the tiniest kitten, coy at first, but when I spoke to it, I found my toes being thoroughly licked. Maybe we both needed a moment of comfort before other people found us. I felt proud as I walked across the Woljeonggyo bridge, for not giving up despite a hard day.
The rain allowed me all of this before returning with a vengeance. I won't lie, I was cursing the skies by then. I ran through the rain, with only enough energy for cup ramyeon. I was paying for it when I got the first compliment for my Korean. I said more words to be extra impressive, and wasn't disappointed by the reaction. Fuelled again, I smiled through the last torrent, at the end of which the sweetest hotel room was waiting.
I felt rather far away as I stepped off the bus by the harbour in Guryongpo. But it was time for my love for K-dramas to shine. A woman waved me over from the tourist office, speaking Korean. I didn't really need help, but I decided to chat anyway. What followed was a 20-minute conversation with her and a colleague in Korean, ranging from the history of this village and Pohang bus routes to my story of learning Korean and mutual compliments (I received them for my smartness, pronunciation and bravery, and I admired her bracelet and helpfulness). They made phone calls and debated and offered me options for the directions I sought, handwritten in hangeul; and then found me at the museum to make sure I had the bus timetable.
I walked quaint streets with Japanese-style houses – destroyed, then rebuilt as a reminder of a painful history – with little cut-outs of a cartoonised Kang Ha-neul from When the Camellia Blooms peeping out from corners that made me giggle. The cafe next to the famed stairs lined by historic pillars played the best music; the view from the top, over blue roofs stretching to blue water, was worth the climb. I ran into fellow fans and we took photos for each other. Later, I had a peaceful seat on a wicker chair on the roof of the three-story Camellia shop, having crossed a bridge and a little frog and vines with lives of their own and book nooks, all in one building. I bit into the little Dongbaek shortbread filled with raspberry cream.
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| The lighthouse at Seokbyeong, Pohang (same above; filming location of Hometown Cha) |
I was the only person in Seokbyeong. Well, that's not true, but I was definitely the only person prowling around. It was a quiet residential neighbourhood by the sea, so I tiptoed around the homes from Hometown Cha Cha Cha. The occupants are probably used to it, but I didn't want to disturb their peace. I tiptoed to the lighthouse, which I could see from Hye-jin's house. A fog folded in with the darkness. A few men fished quietly. I didn't want to disturb their peace. I worried about returning from this almost-ghost town. But as the darkness set in, two lights glowed alongside the red beam of the lighthouse, and I couldn't help but linger for more photographs.
I cursed myself at the bus stop, wondering if I was too late. I was not quite panicking but definitely proceeding in that direction when the bus arrived. There were three people on it, including a sweet old lady who called me pretty three times, in case one wasn't enough. I smiled, thanked her, talked a bit. I felt safe again. She couldn't seem to stop looking at me. I briefly wondered if I had something on my face, but then I just decided to believe her. No one knew me there anyway; it wasn't like an inflated ego would be a hindrance.
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| Igari Anchor Observatory, Pohang (filming location of Run On) |
On other days: I was alone in "Gongjin" beneath a fluffy-cloud sky and giant octopus. Naver directed me through a forest from Wolpo to Igari. I scared some birds, and they scared me in turn as they suddenly flew away. Later, in a cab, the driver asked, "윤치과?" (Yoon Dental Clinic; a filming location) and helpfully tapped his teeth. Beside murals from one of my favourite dramas, I witnessed the most beautiful sunset. As I walked alone in the dusk, an old man unloading his car looked at me, and I bowed slightly from a week-long habit. He smiled and said, "수고하세요". And on a hot morning before my return to Seoul, I ascended the Space Walk, where the wind suddenly blew through my hair and I felt like I was on top of the world.
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| Yonsei University, Seoul |
There was music in Seoul. On my somewhat agitated walk to Cafe Hyuga, which used to be a BTS dorm, I stopped to help a man trying to stuff a gigantic suitcase into the boot of a cab. He thanked me and we shared a mutual thumbs up. A little lighter, I found the cafe tasteful, providing just enough fan context, but lots of space to be. It wasn't teeming with fans; there were a few people enjoying quiet moments, like me; and there were tunes. And at Starfield Suwon, which felt much more like a mall than Coex, I sipped a latte next to a stranger working on her laptop. The song changed to one we both recognised. My neighbour dropped her work and started dancing to "APT." in her seat, and even I, with my mixed feelings, couldn't resist bobbing along. On the way back to my hotel, a little "apt." really, the elderly couple opposite me held hands the entire ride.
The day to depart arrived. I woke up super early, made a cup of tea. I was just about to sip it when I saw an email about a flight delay. My room had a microwave. I placed the mug on the desk and went back to bed – Korea's last gift to me was two extra hours of sleep. I spent 45 minutes at the airport colouring and assembling a paengi at the cultural centre. I received a generous food voucher to make up for my flight delay. I ordered more than I could eat, then proceeded to eat it anyway.
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| View from the Space Walk, Pohang |
I came to Korea with curiosity. I wondered whether it would match my vicarious visions. Whether I'd be able to actually speak and understand the language I've been learning for three years. It was weird at first, just like all new places are overwhelming. But also like all new places, the trajectory went from aching calf muscles unused to a walkable city, to the exhilaration of returning to the hotel-home at night without care. From unfamiliar surroundings to intimate landmarks and alleys. From not comprehending the language to throwing around slang. From feeling faceless in a crowd to dressing like everyone else. From the overwhelming to the very familiar.
That is what I love about going to new places. They remind me that pushing my comfort zone is stressful but so rewarding. That I will never know how much I can grow if I stay within my limits, that I will never learn about the worlds I can inhabit if I don't go looking for them.
It happened again, the bond with a place. It wasn't that Korea caught me when I fell. It was more that it kept meeting me where I was at. A mutual respect, if you will. Acceptance. Safety. Warmth.
If a place is a feeling, Korea felt like a hug. And for some reason I don't yet know, I think this will be significant.
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