Seoul: Every Day is a New Beginning

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 more elusive than I had imagined.

Seoul was admittedly jarring—one, because everything was rushed (48 hours is not a lot of time), and two, because I felt surprisingly anxious amidst the sheer prevalence of glass skin. How much of this was driven by my preconceived notions, I don’t know, and while I don’t mean to perpetuate stereotypes, much of my warped thinking can simply 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 occasional, though certainly not infrequent, appearance of black eyes and bandaged cheekbones, evidence of those who had recently undergone plastic surgery or similarly intensive 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 came 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 one I don’t regret making. The effects of a waterfall shower and breakfast via room service cannot be overstated. Nestled 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 finding 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. Outside, a barrage of images showcasing Jin, one of countless K-pop idols (the power of Google), and advertisements for his new solo album 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 in that moment: every day is a new beginning.

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 stories: an old woman tending to a collection of plants, kids passionately engaged in a game of some kind, friends gathering for a barbecue. The single motivational poster on attitude that I first discovered in my new office, nearly 7,000 miles away, came into sharp focus. Every day was a chance for a fresh start, a chance to write a new story. 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 similar sentiments? 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. Smiling, 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 earlier and then fled to Park Hyatt? Was it the matcha? While I’m sure a proper variety exists somewhere in Seoul, 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 just the time (or lack thereof). 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.

Doubt, uncertainty. Maybe these things would always be there. Maybe they were implicit in solo travel. At the same time, venturing abroad was an opportunity to confront them head-on. It hadn’t deterred me yet, nor did I expect it would. On my last morning in Seoul, 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 each foot after the next. In this way, my heightened state of awareness, my exaggerated sense of perception, accentuated by Seoul, was a gift. Determined, I set out on a quest to see Starfield Library, and at a coffee shop tucked away on the second floor, I discovered perhaps what I had longed for most: a decent matcha latte.