Whenever I missed home, I longed for the comfort of sitting at a street food stall with a shot of soju—everything felt better after that. Then suddenly, a reason came up to go to Seoul. Even if there hadn’t been one, I might have invented one just to visit Korea.
When I checked for hotels, there were no rooms available in mid-July. It was peak season, and trying to book just two days in advance didn’t help. Still, it was the country I once lived in—so I just got on a plane without a real plan.
With no hotel booked, I took the airport bus toward Jongno. First stop: the haejangguk (hangover soup) restaurant in Cheongjin-dong. I ordered the special soup and a bottle of soju. Drinking soju early in the quiet morning, I could feel the cheap airline food being pushed out of my system as the warmth spread through my body. Yesterday I was scrambling in New York, and now I was stretched out in a completely different world. And I liked it.
A little tipsy, I wandered the streets of Jongno. As I walked, I passed the YMCA building I used to visit during my university days. Most of the streets had changed so much that I couldn’t ecognize anything—but that dusty glass facade of the YMCA building looked just the same, like it had been waiting for me all this time. On a whim, I walked in and found out there was a hotel on the 8th floor. They had rooms—and even gave me a 20% discount. After years of cooking every day, this felt like a perfect excuse to enjoy meals made by someone else. Luckily, the alleys around Insadong were full of restaurants. It was a great first morning.
The next day, I ran an errand in Dongbu Ichon-dong and sat at a shaded bus stop waiting for a ride to Yongsan Station. The cicadas were deafening, pouring down their song from the trees.
It reminded me of lying on a wooden floor in the countryside as a kid, staring up at the bright orange persimmons hanging in the backyard tree. I tilted my head way back, lost in thought, gazing up through the leaves—so much so, I didn’t even notice three or four buses pass by.
From Yongsan, I took the high-speed train and arrived in Mokpo in just three hours. Sitting at a pavilion in Dalseong Park, I looked down at the city and felt like I was taking in all of Korea at once. The breeze from every direction felt like the land itself was welcoming me home.
As I walked down past the rocky mountain of Nojeokbong, I passed a restaurant corner where a drunken man and a taxi driver were arguing. It started because the drunk wanted a U-turn, and the driver refused. The shouting turned physical and the two tumbled onto the road, arms flailing.
The confident taxi driver, thinking he could overpower a drunk, soon found himself struggling—and without anyone stepping in, the two simply made up. After brushing themselves off and yelling once more, they both got into the taxi and drove off—U-turn and all.
It was so anticlimactic. It felt like I’d sat down expecting to watch a thrilling episode of “Hell in Korea,” only for it to end in a quick truce. There was something sweet and raw in the way Koreans argue loudly but forgive easily.
I ended up taking a speedboat to Hongdo. Back in college, I once made it to Mokpo intending to go there, but a storm kept the boats grounded. I had always promised myself I’d return someday. The boat glided past islands floating like brushstrokes on water before arriving at the dock. Even before I got off, I caught a glimpse of the harbor—dark, messy, and oddly eerie, like something pulling me into a deep, shadowy lake.
The accommodations were poor. I understood that building hotels wasn’t allowed for environmental reasons. But still—couldn’t the residents at least clean up a bit? That thought once again made my throat ache with quiet frustration.
Down by the pier, I dipped a piece of sea squirt deep into red pepper sauce and looked out at the open sea. Chewing slowly, I took a shot of soju. And little by little, the untidiness of the island faded from view.
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