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August 10th, 2024

Hongdae, Seoul, South Korea

South Korea’s peaches are pink on the inside.  They’re sold, ripe and unbruised, protected by firmly padded packaging, on the refrigerated shelves of Seoul’s convenience stores.  I’ve never bitten into a pink peach before, nor have I ever entered a 7/11 that sold fruit.  

While on the topic of my inexperience, it’s also worth mentioning that I’ve never before visited a country with such distinct cultural norms.  In South Korea, we remove our shoes at the entrance of every abode and temple.  We speak softly as we walk the streets.  We only cross the street at crosswalks, and we always wait for the pedestrian traffic light to turn green.    For me, on my first day in this foreign land, these guidelines provide comfort.  They’re an opaque boundary to dance within, printed ink that guides the crayon strokes I make in my coloring book.  I find joy in learning, through mimicked experience, how this citizenry moves. 

The only fence I find myself stumbling over is this nation’s language.  In Indonesia and Malaysia, the privilege of my English fluency enabled me to seamlessly communicate with at least a percentage of locals.  Here, however, I have yet to meet a native equipped to deeply converse in my tongue.  I’m sure they’re around, though.  Truthfully, in soft-launching my immersion into the soul of Seoul, I’ve been too shy to spark dialogue with strangers.  Still, I’ve done my best to remain open to their approaches.  

As I write this, I sit cross-legged atop a bench on a tranquil, neon-lit street in the middle of Seoul’s alleged nightlife district, Hongdae.  Just a moment ago, a kind, middle-aged Korean woman walked past me, sweeping littered cigarette butts and bottle caps into her dustpan.  She asked me, barely looking up from her broomstick’s bristles, “Are you having fun?”  

The simple question struck me as a thoughtfully empathetic alternative to the standard American ‘How are you?”, which has been worn down past any functional substance. 

“Yes, I am!  Thank you for asking,” I eagerly replied.  

She looked up and smiled at me, then returned to her work. 

As she shuffled down the street, I called out to her, “I have a question, if you don’t mind!  How do you say ‘thank you’ in Korean?”

I wish I could transcribe the succinct and polite translation she gave me.  I’ve already forgotten the foreign jumble of arbitrary syllables.  I’ll google it later.  

Nonetheless, South Korea is the first place in which I feel a tremendous drive to chip away at the national language.  As far as my gracious body language of bows and smiles can get me, it’s no replacement for speech.  My hope is that learning Korean can bring me deeper into my understanding of this new and exciting culture. 

Korea’s way of life flips my upbringing on its head.  Seoul is a metropolis, but miraculously, it seems to be devoid of crime and nastiness, just like Bali.  Its unspoken contract of conduct breeds respect, honor, and compassion.  The subconscious seeds of yogic philosophy are evident in such mindful politeness. But, I do wonder if these invisible rules stifle the population’s fringe characters.  How much room does Korean culture leave for the inevitability of embarrassing mistakes?  Are the smiles I’m receiving coming from honest open-heartedness or programmed conformity?  Would the latter even take away from their impact?  It’s hard to say.  

I’ve arrived in this country as a liquifier of societal norms.  I dress differently than most men, donning big sparkly earrings and brightly colored garments.  My hair falls down past my shoulders; today, I wear it in two pigtail braids.  Back home, my journey towards this confident freedom of expression involved confusion, self-doubt, depersonalization, and loneliness.  I’ve received no palpable judgment from the pedestrians of Seoul, who largely cling to binary gender, but I’m secretly dying to know what thoughts tickle their head when they walk by me.  I hope I get the chance to candidly ask a Korean about this soon.  I’m sure I will.  

After all, it’s only my first day here, and, after a long day of flights, it’s gonna be an early night for me.  Tomorrow, my first South Korean sunrise, is a new day. 

August 11th, 2024

Hongdae, Seoul, South Korea

It was, in fact, not an early night.  God beckoned my inner social butterfly to emerge from its cocoon, and, of course, I answered the call.  The divine message arrived through my hostel mates: around ten last night, Gracie from Halifax, Jamal from Cambridge, and Sabrina from DC implored me to go clubbing with them as we sat in a circle in our host’s basement.  This sober yogi seldom pops out nocturnally, but Hongdae, the location of our accommodation, is a neighborhood known for its abundant wealth of raves, bars, and venues.  I simply couldn’t refuse.  

So, after a quick stop at the corner store – my friends got soju bottles and beer cans while I opted for mineral water and onigiri – we were off, prowling towards the booming festivities.  I was still rocking two pigtail braids in my hair, which I accessorized with my new Yankee fitted cap, my oversized prescription spectacles, flashy-yet-frugal department store earrings, a navy blue tank top, Miami Heat basketball shorts, a black fanny pack around my waist, and wool house slippers.  The slippers, devoid of any sole support, gave me the sensation of walking barefoot on Seoul’s streets, earlier pristinely polished but now sprinkled with empty cans and cigarette butts.  

As we widened our strides, Jamal asked me, “What’s your ideal clubbing music?”

“Honestly,” I pondered, “I’m just tryna hear something I can sing along to.  I’m happiest when the DJ is playing some early 2000s pop radio throwbacks.  Like, if I hear some Katy Perry tonight, I might cry tears of joy.”

As we stepped onto Hongdae’s bombastic nightclub strip, I was shocked and delighted to see an explosion of Gen-Z Koreans proudly expressing their counter-cultural quirks.  “I BROKE UP WITH HER BECAUSE SHE IS NOT HIP HOP” read the first graphic tee that caught my eye, worn by a boy who smoked a cigarette as he waited in line for The Boxx.  Piercings, hair dye, tattoos, platform boots, sagged jeans, and kinky outfits colored the bodies of the alternative sect that my friends and I waded through.  Every so often, I locked eyes with another awestruck foreigner, but, largely, we were outnumbered by the plethora of Koreans seeking an ecosystem in which to release their pent up energy.  I fawned over a moonlit Seoul that, in all its extroverted messiness, stood in stark opposition to the orderly quietude I’d experienced under sunlight.  The dichotomy was a poetic manifestation of yin and yang energies interacting.  

The spot we settled on, a blacklit dive stuffed with twenty-somethings, blasted an eclectic mix of reggaeton, rap, and Top 40 as its barman poured drinks at Olympic speed.  Alongside my hostel mates, I quickly gravitated towards the elevated dancing platform in the middle of the room.  The instant I ascended, I heard the opening notes of Firework by Katy Perry.  It was a cosmic smirk, addressed from God to me.  I couldn’t muster a tear, instead conveying euphoria through the thrash of my limbs.  I sang at the top of my lungs, too.  From that moment on, the DJ ran a masterful mix of Nicki Minaj, Pitbull, Rihanna, and their party-music peers.  I was shocked to see Koreans flawlessly rapping Ice Spice lyrics, bar for bar.  These songs, however corny and mainstream they may feel to some, united everybody in that club.  I hopped up and down manically to the beat, singing along when I could and, otherwise, letting my dancing speak.  

When the DJ transitioned back into reggaeton beats, I was treated to a rare privilege: I got twerked on by a true master of the craft.  The last time I was met with such a blessing was at the NYC Pride parade several years ago, but, when the booty backed up towards me, I froze up, bashful and inexperienced in such dance traditions, and regretted my paralysis for days, wishing I had the confidence to participate.  Last night, however, I did not hesitate to engage.  Our pelvic gyration became symbiotic, eventually fusing into one fluid pulse that persisted for an entire song.  All the while, in the sweaty claustrophobia of the elevated platform, I was being fiercely felt up, groped, and grabbed by men and women alike.  The cluster of fumbling hands teetered between nightmare and fantasy, but fixating on my dance partner’s bouncing hips grounded me in bliss.  

As our song ended, and the gravity of my lap loosened its pull on my partner’s backside, I was forcibly grabbed on the shoulders and spun around to face a stunning woman with red hair and green eyes; she later introduced herself as Phoebe from New Zealand.  She pulled me close, yelling in my ear over the booming subwoofers, “You’re beautiful!  I need you to know that!”  The faint aroma of liquor wafted out of her mouth.  Before I could respond, she grabbed my skull and rammed her lips into mine, bearing no regard for the impact that her teeth made against my face.  I did not resist her charged affection.  During our extended kiss, peripheral hands continued to grab us both.  I couldn’t decide whether I found the unbridled contact endearing or terrifying.  My body dissolved, the haze of my spirit blended in with the manifold beings around me.  I hadn’t ingested any substances, but I was certainly intoxicated by the aggressively electric atmosphere.  

Growing up, I noticed that the kids in my school with the strictest parents always grew up to rebel irresponsibly and recklessly.  Does Seoul’s facade of polite peace breed the unprecedentedly rowdy underbelly I witnessed tonight?  

Now that I’ve experienced both sides, I’m forming a more complete mental picture of this city.  One thing’s for sure: given my idiosyncratic appearance, I feel much more comfortable here after experiencing the madness of Hongdae after hours.  Everybody here has a little freak in them, whether they show it or not.

August 12th, 2024

Jegi, Seoul, South Korea

I just got caught in a downpour while watercoloring on a park bench.  God couldn’t help but collaborate on my composition.  The smears of runny pigment he left on my page fell with divine perfection.  Our painting depicts two swollen oceanic waves, personified through mischievously bloodthirsty smirk-faces, in predatory pursuit of a tiny surfer.  The image was inspired by a quote from Thich Nhat Hanh, my favorite author: “Some days, the wave knows it’s part of the large ocean.  Other days, it’s just a wave.”  

I am an alien swimming through an ocean of Koreans.  It’s difficult to focus on one face in this endless crowd; my attention is washed towards another captivating stranger every second.  My identity as an American tourist is chiefly responsible for this fluid mental haze.  Back home, riding the J train, I perceive every stranger uniquely, momentarily profiling them, deciding whether they’re trustworthy or dangerous, and wondering about their backstory.  That’s the ocean from which I hail, so I’m much more finely attuned to its subtle variations in texture and temperature.  Here, no matter who falls into the aperture of my peoplewatching, the first thought that enters my head is usually, ‘Wow, they look so Korean!’  The mannerisms, garments, haircuts, and smiles of this culture feel so distinct to my outsider senses.  They shield my awareness from unspoken subtext and microscopic quirks that reveal all beings’ implicit differences.   

Similarly, when we wade in the shoulder-deep surf of beachy wave breaks, our survivalism forces us to be finely attuned to the rhythmic cycle of every single wave as it bulldozes past and threatens to submerge us.  Yet, when we stand on the stability of land, watching the sun set over a flat oceanic horizon, our vision seldom fixates on individual waves.  In fact, if we attempt this specificity, each swell deceives us, dissipating, reforming anew, and blending into interbeing with all its peers.  

Maybe that’s why cities can make newcomers feel so lonely.  Pulsing along to a tide’s uncompromising rhythm is impossible unless we dip our toes into its aqua.  I’m having a hard time finding an entry point from which to dunk my feet into this city’s web of characters.  

Ten minutes have elapsed since the last sentence I wrote.  Just as he completed my painting through the addition of his raindrops, God has led me to its recipient, answering the prayers I’ve dictated in these paragraphs.  An elderly Korean woman with a bright orange buzz cut, a pair of red rubber rain boots, and an oversized floral raincoat approached my rain cover: pavement sidewalk tiles underneath the cover of a footbridge.  Needless to say, her wardrobe stuck out like a vibrant dandelion sprouting amidst a field of grass.  She caught my attention immediately.  Seeing as she was waddling towards me gregariously, the feeling must have been mutual.  Flowers recognize flowers.  Outcasts recognize outcasts.  

She did not know a single word of English, nor do I have any functional command of Korean, but I still managed to understand the wordless question she aimed at me: why was I sitting on the grimy floor instead of on the marble bench right beside me?  I responded by busting a few quick yoga poses on my hands and knees, the body language translation of, “I feel most comfortable on the floor because I’m a yogi.”  She heaved a laugh of understanding.  

This woman, this colorfully quirky apparition that arose from a sea of gray, serendipitously wore many of the same hues that I’d chosen for my marine watercolor piece.  I responded to the cosmic coincidence by gifting her the painting.  Her face expressed delight and warmth at my offering.  I offered her a banana, too, which she accepted in gratitude.  Then, I moved to the bench to sit beside her as we silently chomped on our respective bananas.  I saw myself in her.  

What a refreshing wave to be submerged by. 

Love,

Etai