Seoul: Every Day is a New Beginning

It was not until that first morning, when I stepped outside my hotel, nestled in the heart of Ikseon-dong Hanok Village, a labyrinth of artisan bakeries and tea salons, where tradition and modernity merged in dazzling, if not dizzying, fashion, that the realization of my present location became clear. Everything, everywhere at once was vaguely familiar yet distinctly disorientating. As I moved through the city, I did so with a heightened state of awareness, not just of my surroundings, but myself. Finding my footing in this strange new place proved elusive at best.

In short, Seoul was admittedly jarring—one, because everything was rushed (48 hours is not a lot of time), and two, because I felt oddly out of place. Much of my thinking can likely be attributed to the state of my mind at the time. Exhausted, my decision-making abilities impaired, I briefly contemplated visiting Lienjang, one of the many English-speaking skincare clinics in the city.

This impulse may or may not have been exacerbated by the ubiquity of Olive Young stores and the recurring appearance of bandaged-wrapped faces, evidence of those who had undergone plastic surgery or similar cosmetic procedures. Here, aesthetics reigned supreme. How others viewed me was less important than how I viewed myself, though. A quote from the original Jurassic Park film comes to mind: “Dodgson, Dodgson, we got Dodgson here. See, nobody cares.” How I wish I could have better channeled that notion.

When my uneasiness peaked and the energy of Insa-dong suddenly felt oppressive, I sought refuge at Park Hyatt Seoul, an impromptu decision but no less regrettable. The effects of a waterfall shower and breakfast via room service cannot be overstated. Located in the Gangnam District, I admired K-POP square and its brilliant mega screens from afar, high atop the 21st floor of my new digs. The introvert in me beamed. If my fleeting sensitivity and ensuing fastidiousness perturbed anyone (shuffling from room to room before settling on one that promised deep, restorative sleep), I never knew it. The staff were nothing but amicable.

“Why was I like this?” I wondered. My phone buzzed, warning me that the airborne particulate matter of 2.5 micrograms or less (those small enough to enter the bloodstream) was 85 μg/m3, well over the limits set by the World Health Organization. Where wasn’t it? Again, my phone buzzed—this time a message from Lienjang, asking me if I wanted to schedule something. Outside, a barrage of images showcasing one of countless K-pop idols flashed and flickered. The thought of the KF-94 masks in my duffel reassured me as I drifted off to sleep.

Lying there in the dark, my mind wandered like the winding alleys of Changsin-dong, a charming neighborhood of dense apartment blocks and curious, enigmatic cats that I had visited earlier. As if reading my thoughts, my taxi driver had chuckled, glancing back in the rearview mirror, and remarked, “Welcome to Seoul.” Twisting around sharp bends, our ascent brought us closer to Naksan mountain before reaching T(ER)T(RE), one of Seoul’s myriad cafes with incredible views and aesthetic pastries. Gazing at the city stretched before me, vast and sprawling, it became clear to me then that every moment is a choice.

From Namsan Tower to Dongdaemun Design Plaza (DDP) and a thousand other landmarks dotting the horizon, I could go anywhere and do anything. A sea of multicolored rooftops revealed an equal number of choices: a woman tending to a garden, children engaged in some kind of game, neighbors gathered for an afternoon barbecue. The single motivational poster on attitude that I first discovered in my office, nearly 7,000 miles away, came into focus. Every moment was a chance to begin anew. How odd that I had needed Seoul to remind me.

I thought of the city’s official slogan, “Seoul, my soul.” Had it resonated with me? Did I share the same sentiment? While my introduction was arguably too short to ignite a full-blown love affair, a variation of the slogan seemed more apt: “Sigh. My Seoul.” Something pulled and prodded. Back on the main street, everything bathed in the light of a brilliant sunset, the sight of perfectly matte complexions despite the humidity seemed like a stunning improbability. Annoyed, though secretly half amused, I tried to shake the thought. My time was precious. Checking my phone, I silenced the earlier notification from Lienjang. Perfection would have to wait.

What changed then? Having descended from T(ER)T(RE), why had I descended too from the revelation I had had just moments before and then fled to Park Hyatt? Was it the failure to find what I wanted? While good matcha had to exist somewhere in Seoul (I was certain of it), the kind I encountered (culinary grade, pre-sweetened) was disappointing to say the least. A robotic arm that whisked matcha with a fake, plastic chasen at one cafe left me feeling disillusioned. Perhaps it was the knowledge of my time or lack thereof that made me anxious. Zipping from place to place meant seeing less, and the delicate balancing act between doing and not doing was one that I had yet to master.

How pervasive (and persuasive) doubt and uncertainty were at times. Maybe they were implicit in solo travel. At the same time, venturing abroad was a chance to confront them. It hadn’t deterred me yet, nor did I expect it would. On my last morning, I woke with renewed purpose. If my thoughts had unsteadied me, they had forced me to hone my focus, to take greater care in planting one foot after the other. In this way, my heightened state of awareness, my exaggerated sense of perception, no doubt accentuated by Seoul, was a gift. Determined, I set out to see Starfield Library, and at a coffee shop tucked away on the second floor, I discovered perhaps what I had needed most: a decent matcha latte.