The bright lights and the fading June sun looming over row upon row of structures made of glass, concrete, and steel greeted my heavy eyelids from the tinted bus window. The twelve-hour flight from San Francisco seemed microscopic in my memory. In my jet lag-induced stupor, the bus carrying me lumbered across a bridge that spanned the Han River. For a second, I thought I was back in New York, traveling across the Henry Hudson Bridge going towards Manhattan. It was at this point that I found it hard to fathom that I was actually in Seoul. Twenty minutes later, the bus came to a stop. As I stood near the bus’s flank, everything came into focus. The letters on signs looked unfamiliar—they were either a combination of lines and squares, or a combination of lines and circles bathed in colorful neon or incandescent light. The language penetrating my ears also felt unfamiliar. Burning gasoline of car exhausts, smoldering tobacco, fresh azaleas, and frying soybean oil entered my olfactory organs. In my sleep-deprived state, I seemed immune to the chaos. It was a strange feeling. I had never felt so comfortable in such a bustling place so far away from the quiet suburbia of Westchester County.
The first day in Seoul was my crash course in my education of the city. The Korean monsoon season kicked off that day, with the skies dumping gallons of water onto the streets below. Monsoons don’t last for a minute like thunderstorms do. They last for hours. Droplets plummet down by the thousands, bombarding tarmac, glass, concrete, cotton, hair, and skin. By the time I got to the office where our cultural immersion/cultural exchange program was to meet for our orientation, my rain jacket was useless. After the orientation, I was placed with two others, and we were to conduct a scavenger hunt around the city. Sounds easy right? Sure a scavenger hunt sounds easy in theory. And it is. Except when the instructions are given in Hangul. The education began.
The streets provide a way to see the city, particularly the people. The people of Seoul make the city. They reflect the culture, food, the essence of Korea. Without them, Seoul would be another city made up of steel, concrete and glass. The people are particularly helpful, using hand gestures or whatever English they know to guide you. If you ask for directions in Manhattan, the people who are willing to help you often respond but talk too fast, meaning you have to ask them again, irritating them.
Despite all the help we received from the staff at an international bank, a waitress, and a stranger outside of a subway station, we finished dead last in the scavenger hunt. It didn't matter to me. The journey took us from the district of Hongdae (where we stayed) to the cobbled streets and colorful stalls selling pottery, phone charms, and other knick-knacks of Insadong. Seriously, if you have time to go to that part of Seoul—go there. Seoul is known for its shopping—especially the malls, where they have brands like Gucci, Versace, Forever21, and the like. Insadong has none of those brands, but it’s certainly more vibrant than the sterile air-conditioned malls, especially when it’s sunny outside.
Seoul isn’t impervious to the West. There are plenty of 7 Eleven's, Dunkin’ Donuts, Burger Kings, McDonald’s and Starbucks in the city. But even here, the western food has an Eastern flair of sorts. On our first night, we went to a popular Korean chain that was dedicated to cooking an American staple: fried chicken. Initially, I was disappointed. I wanted to eat a Korean meal on my first night (I came to Korea to experience it). I was pleasantly surprised. The chicken was crispy and it had a sweet gingery sauce coating the breaded chunks of chicken. And, Kimchee, (the famous fermented cabbage dish) came with the meal. By the time I stumbled into the youth hostel around eight at night, I felt like I could grow feathers from eating so much chicken. My socks, shirt, shorts, and my rain jacket (of all things) were bloated sponges. Dry clothes, a hot shower, and a bed never felt so good.
During my stay, I was escorted by my unofficial tour-guide. Her Korean name was Dong Eun, but I remember her as Dana—her English name. The first time I encountered her was on the second day of the trip, when the Korean students first met us for our program. While we were going around in a circle doing introductions, I noticed in the corner of my eye a girl who was looking at me constantly. She was about 5’4”, had dark brown shoulder-length hair, with cute brown eyes to match, and wore a sharp pair of black-rimmed rectangular glasses. Every time she would look at me, her eyes got bigger, and her mouth opened slightly. From her appearance I figured that she was probably eighteen.
Like most Koreans girls, she always knew how to dress. Her usual attire consisted of a button down or a nice top. When she wasn't wearing heels, she would wear her silver tennis shoes, with her head barely creeping above my biceps. When you put the two of us together, it was quite comical. King Kong and the Korean fairy. Unsurprisingly, I got her age wrong. She was actually twenty-four. Her age didn't reflect her personality, especially when I was around. She would always tease me for something. When it came to age, she called me a “baby” for being seventeen. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.
Dana once asked me if I had any pets, and I showed her a photo of a furry little critter; she had no idea what it was. After explaining what type of animal it was, the words ‘guinea pig or ‘little sister’ often came up in our conversations when we were together. One day the two of us went in Myeongdong (the central shopping district in Seoul), and one stall in the middle of an alleyway filled with people was selling infant clothing. Dana exclaimed, “Look Alex! I found you clothing for your little sister!” She held the infant onesie in her hand, and began laughing. I could only shake my head.
As I became acquainted with the streets, I couldn't help but notice something strange. Everywhere I went with Dana, a coffee shop was always in reach. These weren’t the Starbucks chains you see in Manhattan though (for the most part). Each place was unique—having its own décor, drinks, and food. For whatever reason, every single coffee shop in Seoul sold waffles—whether they were the small, sugary Belgian waffles, or the ones that you make yourself with a waffle iron. In fact, there was a coffee shop near the hostel I stayed at, and they sold waffles. And, while I couldn't understand Korea’s obsession with the breakfast item, they certainly knew how to make it into edible art.
My first encounter with Korean waffles occurred late at night. I was in the nightlife section of Hongdae, with a buddy of mine. This section of town had a split personality: by day, it was uptight, austere, and prudent, with businessmen and women hustling to catch the next train, bus or cab. It was when the sun left the sky that the Seoul became a free spirit hungry to soak up booze and loud music, inviting all to join the festivities. It was at night that the neon lights bathed the city in a rainbow against the darkness.
That night, Hongdae was the equivalent of a hornets’ nest. In order to get from point a to point b, we had to dodge, weave, and push through the throngs of sweaty, alcohol-laced people. Once we got away from the main streets, which ceded to alleyways, it was much easier to get around, but there were plenty of people surrounding us.
Despite the chaos, inevitably, we were drawn back out to the main streets. That’s where all the action was. Pink, blue, and green neon glow splashed onto faces. Somehow in the multicolored masses, we encountered Su-ah and Hye-Ryun, two girls we had met in our program combining Korean university students and American high school students. The pair decided to take us to a famous coffee shop called Beans Bins. The shop was tucked away in a building. The wooden steps on the street led up to the glass doors of the shop. I was greeted by the smell of espresso, melted chocolate, cinnamon, and waffle batter. The two of them offered to get us an ice-cream waffle for the table. Usually when I think of waffles, I think of IHOP or the typical greasy American diner—not an upscale, European-style café. 10,000 won (the equivalent of ten dollars) and ten minutes later, the waffle arrived at the table. It was the perfect shade of golden brown, topped with four scoops of ice cream—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and green tea, all covered with a mountain of frothed, thick cream. The skin of the waffle was soaked with just enough ice cream to balance out the caramel-sugary inner core. It was delicious. I made sure to bring Dana there. We went there often after that.
This wasn't the first time I had been to Hongdae. My first experience with it was with my American group, and we were dead set on going to a noraebang. I only joined because it’s also no fun being the odd man out. The noraebang was below street level. Even in the largest room they had, the ten of us barely had any breathing room. My right shoulder was crammed against the wall, and my left shoulder was touching someone else. The muggy hot air irritated my skin, making it sweat in protest. Of course, I was a spectator during the entire event. My friends encouraged me to do one song, but I didn't feel like impersonating Kanye West and making an idiot out of myself. The metal and leather-cushioned chair was surprisingly comfortable. Amongst the noise reverberating in the room, the lights flickered and then went out. An hour later, I felt someone punching me in my arm and yelling. I opened my eyes to find that Emily, the girl sitting next to me was the one yelling. Laughter ensued. Everyone in the group thought I died from a heart attack or something. I will admit that falling asleep in a karaoke bar is one of my greatest achievements. While we went to other noraebangs in Seoul, I could never repeat the feat.
A week later, I found myself wearing an orange cotton vest, walking along dirt paths that carved through the lush hills of a Buddhist monastery near Seosan. A far cry from Seoul. Gone were the honking horns, the groan of engines, and the chatter of people. At night, there were no streetlights or neon sides to guide me—just black ink and the candles lit in the main temple. The food was a bland mix of vegetables and rice. Dana was nowhere to be found. We were now separated by a two-hour bus ride.
One night, the song “The Show Goes On” by Lupe Fiasco interrupted the required nightly meditation. I was transported back to Seoul, to a club somewhere and Hongdae. Dana was with me. Body and spirit were still in Seoul--in Hongdae. Dana and I were in a club, dancing. We danced to the thumping bass blasted from the amplifiers. We then looked at each other. Our faces splashed in the neon glow.