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August 16th, 2024

Itaewon, Seoul, South Korea

I roam, freely naked, around the labyrinth of Hongdae’s premier basement bath house.  Such establishments, boasting saunas, steam rooms, hot baths, cold plunges, cafes, sleeping chambers, showers, and massages all under one ticket, stem from deep Korean tradition, as does the normalcy with which bathers let their private parts hang.  Coming from a society wherein toxic masculinity widely dissuades men from engaging in physical contact or casual nudity with each other, I was delighted to see groups of Korean boys playfully wagging their meat, feigning wrestling moves, and unapologetically displaying their full-frontal selves in front of their brothers.  They giddily splashed each other in the ice bath between snickers of complaint about how unbearable the temperature was.  Their liberal comfort pushed me to face discomforts I’d been dealing with since my arrival in Korea: they seemed friendly, so I struck up conversation with them in English.  The claustrophobic mental wall I’d built for my alleged protection crumbled as they cheerfully reciprocated my niceties in impressively competent English.  As a result of overcoming my foolish assumption that our language barrier could not be vaulted, I’ve been able to connect with several fascinating Korean boys during my stints in the local bath house.  One boy, in the warm embrace of the sauna’s roasting oven, confessed to me his aspirations of becoming a triple-threat Disney Channel star, his desire of severing his course of study as a classical composition student, and his fear of his parents’ reaction to his fantasy.  Another, one day later, in the very same wooden box, extended an invitation to his DJ gig in Itaewon.  In their vulnerability and hospitality, these spa-dwellers taught me how similar we all are.  

Beyond being energized by the spirit of the bathers beside me, I’ve found a therapeutic routine in bouncing from the hot tub to the ice bath and back again.  The high contrast of this hormesis prompts my body’s subtlest messengers to speak their truth.  Over the past few days, practicing asana and pranayama in the heat of the sauna and the chill of the cold plunge, rather than in my stuffy, dusty, and rambunctious party hostel, has thrown extreme temperatures and comfort-in-nudity into the factorization of healthy challenges that I face during my daily yoga practice.  After each session, I emerge tingling, rejuvenated, and energized.

Outside the bath house, my life in Seoul has picked up significantly, thanks to the arrival of Ethan and Max, two high school friends of mine.  Wandering the streets as a trio has given us persuasive gravitational orbit. 

Consequently, we’ve spent most of our moments prowling Seoul not as three, but as six, seven, or eight, for our circle expands every time we invite friends and strangers alike to join our moseys.  Our cast of supporting characters is numerous.  Michael and Peter, two middle-aged business associates of Ethan’s father, treat us to authentic, gluttonous, and expertly-prepared restaurant meals every day, never ceasing to offer glass after glass of soju and beer. 

Justin, Max’s friend from Colby College, having found himself in Seoul at an opportune time, accompanies us on every escapade, lifting our spirits with his adventurous fearlessness. 

Lily, Ethan’s friend from Ithaca College, joined me in singing duet versions of California Gurls by Katy Perry and Fantasy by Maria Carey at karaoke. 

Mister Han, the owner of the karaoke bar we crooned at, a former member of the Korean National Soccer Team, and a longtime friend of Michael and Peter, welcomed us into a private room of his establishment with bottles upon bottles of alcohol, platters of fruit, nuts, and dried fish, and collectible soccer memorabilia dating back to his years active on the field.  Jisu, a millennial Seoul native, connected to me professionally (she works at Warner Records, the label I was once signed to) and personally (we share a mutual friend, Jenny, who’s traveled across the world to see me perform), takes us all on challengingly mountainous hikes and into the back rooms of hidden culinary gems, serving as our local tour guide and translator. 

Cora, my Norwegian hostel mate, joined us on our latest hike, generously cooling us off with her Japanese fan and encouraging us to persevere in spite of the elevation’s attack on our hamstrings.  Q, a Korean native who befriended Cora at Amsterdam’s most esteemed film-studies university, treated us to hot beverages as he dished on his experience serving in the Korean army.  

Vignettes of our excursions flash before my eyes.  I see a massive warehouse hangar converted into a bustling two-story fish market: on the ground floor, we claimed our specimens from a massive display of salmon, tuna, cod, flounder, mackerel, anchovies, catfish, crab, lobster, sea urchin, scallops, squid, shrimp, and octopus, while, on the top floor, we were ushered to a long dining table on which the same catches we’d selected, now beautifully prepared using traditional Korean recipes, were laid out for us to feast on. 

I see the basement speakeasy of an unassuming coffeeshop, decorated with bottles of American whiskey, designer Danish furniture, ambient colored light, shelves filled with rare vinyl records, floor-to-ceiling audiophile speakers, and Saramhana, a stylishly tattooed twenty-three-year-old Korean electronic musician, who took a break from preparing the room for his upcoming performance to share his favorite ambient music, his personal artist journey, and his Seoul music-scene recommendations with Ethan and I. 

I see a tranquil library at the top of a lush mountain, bordered on all sides by readers leafing through pages with their toes dangled in refreshing freshwater streams.  I see Justin forcibly slamming his forehead against the surface of a dinner table, in attempt to topple a balanced formation of two chopsticks, rested in parallel, against the mouth of a full beer glass, atop which a full shot glass delicately balanced; the successful dunking of the shot glass into the beer beneath it, caused by the impact of Justin’s cranium against the table, signified an invitation for Justin to swallow the alcoholic mixture in one brave gulp. 

I see Max singing Born in the USA by Bruce Springsteen at karaoke, putting on the most impassioned display of patriotism I’ve ever witnessed, and in a foreign country no less.  I see Peter introducing himself as Julius Caesar; in my gullible naïveté, I truly believed that was his name.  

The good times have been perpetually rolling, in my case, at the expense of rest, yoga, journaling, and watercoloring.  In other words, I’ve consciously chosen motion over stillness, refusing to sleep through this lightning-in-a-bottle confluence of energies.  My bold assertion to sleep in, journal, and extend my yoga practice this morning created my first moment of quietude since before the arrival of Ethan and Max.  It’s my responsibility, as the captain of my vessel, to strike a balance between movement and rest, finding presence in both extremes.  Now that I’ve momentarily stopped to reflect, I must acknowledge the serendipity of these Seoul memories.  I thank God for bringing these wonderful people and experiences into my life.  In this city of wondrous skyscrapers, I’m more awestruck by the towering human figures with whom I share my days and nights, looming larger than any inanimate structure could.  

August 17th, 2024

Somewhere over South Korea

I remember when the mere smell of airplanes would make me sick.  The volatile uprooting that the unmistakable scent heralded caused me to tense up defensively.  Often, I’d throw up in my seat-back-pocket’s paper bag, not in response to nausea, but simply due to the threats that airplanes imposed upon my adolescent stillness.  My negative associations with being flung across the globe in a tin can programmed me to erupt in queasy disgust immediately as I stepped onto any aircraft.  During those unending spells of suspended limbo, I longed for the familiar stability of my crisp bed sheets, smelling of rosy fabric softener.  

Somewhere along the way, I developed the habit of applauding excessively whenever my flight successfully landed, out of sheer relief.  This negative pattern of sensory overwhelm persisted until I was introduced to yoga, for the ancient craft taught me that I am simply an observer of external stimuli, not a victim.  Its practice has helped me center and ground myself in the most chaotic situations, even during mile-high turbulence.  

Now, on the fourth month of my indefinite solo-travel voyage, I see my relationship with aircrafts resetting.  The cabin of this flight I’m currently taking from Seoul to Jeju Island possesses an aroma that is effectively identical to that of every plane I’ve ever boarded, yet, when I inhale its essence, my body recognizes it as a thrilling reminder that I’m headed towards my next adventure in uncharted territory.   I smell newness, rebirth, exploration, excitement, and optimism.  

Examining the context behind this commute reveals how the exact same scent could trigger such juxtaposed emotional responses in my past and present self: I booked this ticket on my own computer, with my own money, and using my own logistical judgment, whereas, as a child, being indisputably dragged along on family excursions, I had no such freedom.  In my eyes, air travel, no longer a confusing fright, is a symbol of my autonomy and capability.  The act of buying myself plane tickets has incited paradigms of enriching experiences, including my descent down the cliffs of Kelingking Beach, my tropical sea turtle snorkel, my discovery of durian, and my introduction to my Seoul community.

The faces of these friends that have colored the Itaewon days and Hongdae nights of my electric week in Seoul linger in my mind as I prepare for my next destination, a tropical island off this peninsula’s southern coast, commonly regarded as the Hawaii of Korea.  I would have certainly enjoyed basking in the interactive spectacle of Seoul’s nonstop vibrance for another week, but instead I’ve opted to eject, trading urban bohemianism for the volcanoes and beaches of Jeju Island.  

The cocktail of contradictory feelings that this swift decision has inspired in my gut reminds me of the swirling sensations I sat with on my flight from Brooklyn to Bali back in May.  In both cases, I revered the circumstances I left behind.  But I won’t let my comfort trap me.  I embrace my unshakable belief that blessings lie ahead.  A more fearful traveler might have stuck around longer in Seoul, worrying that its power as a conductor of connection couldn’t be matched elsewhere, but, I intuit that the entire world holds this power.  As such, I keep moving, confident that I’m convening with the universe in every step I take.  No high-speed aircraft could rob me of this presence, this alignment.  My expanding consciousness touches every particle on this planet, even the nitrogen atoms of our lower stratosphere.  I smile at them as this metal bird whizzes past.  

August 18th, 2024

Jeju City, Jeju Island, South Korea

In South Korea, it’s customary to use both hands when offering objects to others.  

The act takes me back to shedding my alternate sticking skills, at ten years old, sitting behind a drum kit in a dingy basement practice room in Tribeca.  Drummers idealize ambidexterity.  I would fume whenever my left hand couldn’t keep up with the speed of my right.  Despite my frustrations, I maintained that fruit would arise from projecting the accomplishments of my stronger limb onto the potential of my weaker one.  

My Nepali yoga teacher training taught me that the left and right hemispheres of my body are complete opposites.  One is unable to interchangeably execute the role of its complementary partner.  The pair represents a timeless duality: dark versus light, masculine versus feminine, warm versus cool, calculating versus sentimental.  Yogic tradition instructs us to practice each asana on both sides of our body, cultivating a harmony that fuses our juxtaposed polarity into infinite oneness.  Balance is the north star.  Any solitary limb, exerted excessively, drains the body of its prana.  The union of both halves perpetuates power, not only diminishing the draining effects of applied strength, but even healing and bolstering our spiritual mindfulness.  

Whether in awareness or blindness, drumming follows this principle.  Similarly, Wing Chon, an ancient Chinese martial art, only permits its practitioners to move both hands in unison.  Moreover, Thich Nhat Hanh, my favorite Buddhist teacher, implores his students to wrap all ten fingers around their cups when raising liquids to their mouth.  Korean culture takes this principle of ambidexterity, discovered independently by countless spiritual sects, to a pervasive extreme, indoctrinating its participants into the belief that any gesture short of two-handedness is impolite, while extending money, food, or gifts with both limbs in tandem signals respect and presence.  

Yet, such collapsing of duality tends to go against our programmed instincts.  Why are we born with one of our arms, legs, or eyes stronger than its partner?  I hypothesize that it’s because we’ve all come into this world forced to inherit the human imperfections of our ancestors.  Cosmically, our essence is perfectly symmetrical, but living innumerable generations as Earthly organisms has shrouded the divine light of our unchanging spirit in volatile materiality.  So, when we leave motor functions to the unconscious synapses of our cerebellums, without thinking twice, we hand cashiers our tender using one limp fist, we give acquaintances side-hugs, and perform more unbalanced movements than we can keep track of.  

Is it purely coincidental that South Korea, a nation that firmly puts its feet down in defiance of this imbalance, is also devoid of crime and violence?  Perhaps both physiological deftness and societal peace are manifestations of a wise lineage too old, too deeply entrenched, to trace.  Perhaps societies have always had these tendencies, but some have simply fumbled them while South Korea upholds them.  There’s no way to ever definitively know, but the question is far more important than the answer.  The question catalyzes a journey towards divinity, while the answer retires such pursuits.  There’s unending joy in the act of simply looking, chasing, trusting.

Today, that voyage commanded me to get my ass out of bed at four-thirty in the morning, before the first crack of sunrise.  After pissing and meditating, I hopped on the back of an ebike, relying on its headlamp to guide me down the paved road of Jeju Island’s northern coast.  The seabreeze of pre-dawn salted my face and swept my hair.  

My pedaling led to a sunrise yoga class taught by Yumi, a twenty-three year old yoga practitioner of ten years.  We flowed atop our mats outdoors, faced by ocean waves lapping onto volcanic rock and sunstreaks creeping out from behind pillowy clouds.  Gusts of shoreline winds tested my momentary hold on eka pada galavasana.  Yumi offered me hot herbal tea from her thermos after savasana.  Her warmth and generosity energized me.  My heart sings whenever I encounter Gen-Z yogis.  One day, we’ll all form a powerful coalition that will free our generation from capitalism-inflicted victimhood.  

Jeju Island is famous for its tangerines.  I bought a bundle from Seven Eleven after class.  My jaw fell agape at the first bite I took of the citrus fruit.  It tasted so good that I nearly texted my clementine-obsessed ex.  I didn’t, though.  

Love,

Etai