Concluding stories of my Christmas travels in 2022…
I was determined to visit Korea before I left Japan. The chance was too good to pass up — a space traversed in a breath from the eastern side of the globe, versus leagues and hours of travel from the west.
It’s difficult to overstate the importance of this place to my family. Our time there spanned my formative years between nine and eleven years old, when I first understood myself as a world traveler, with all the stories on this blog to attest to the consequences of that … but still more importantly, Korea is where my father first laid eyes on my mother. As he hails from Virginia and she from New Mexico, they might never have met if their paths hadn’t intersected there.
Years later, I’m still uncovering little influences from Korea in our family life. “Bali bali,” “oopso” — I long thought these phrases nonsense invented by my parents, until they sunnily admitted to adopting them from Korean. Multilingualism touched my life long before I ever knew.
Arriving in Seoul on the tail end of my Christmas in Western Cape (via Singapore), I reunited with the capital city in a sprinkling of snow. I treated myself to a warming bowl of mouthwatering bulgolgi (unforgettable Korean beef).
Donning a kimono had delighted me so much the previous year, that I plunged with a will into the world of han boks (the traditional dress for women). Not one but two shops did I patronize, outfitting myself in lilacs and greys. As in Kyoto, the real pleasure derived from spying out the gorgeous ensembles of the Korean women likewise attired, in every color and combination imaginable.
The second shop wrapped me in white fur, very welcome for my stroll through the historic district of Bukchon Hanok. The sweeping courtyards of Changdeok Palace and Gyeongbok Palace beckoned, just a few blocks away. I peeked in the National Folk Museum and admired a display dedicated to the Year of the Rabbit.
Artistry of a more modern bend drew me to Lotte World, the Disney-esque destination of all our summer camps, where I paid tribute to nostalgia by buying a bucket of Dippin’ dots: freeze-dried magic that melts on the tongue in bursts of flavor. I wandered among the rides and the magnificent ice skating rink, soaking in the atmosphere.
Sunday morning brought me to an Anglican church, startlingly reminiscent of my Oxford days: an elegant and uplifting service. Gracious congregants there directed me to the cable car carrying passengers to the needle-nosed Seoul tower. A meandering forest path brought me back down to the main object of my remembrances: Yongsan.
The U.S. military has long since decommissioned our old neighborhood, turning it back over to the Koreans’ control, but I found it vacant and caged in barbed wire: perhaps the prime real estate offered too much potential for anyone to reach agreement on how to allocate it. “Yongsan” translates to “dragon hill” and so I found the streets: steep inclines, on my way to visit another name that looms large in my childhood memory: Itaewon.
The underground shopping center presented another ghost town, however: someone kindly explained that a tragic accident had dispersed its usual crowds. I consoled myself with a sampling of yakimandu (Korean dumplings) and souvenirs from the enterprising street vendors for my family back home.
I celebrated my birthday dinner by sampling all the delicacies of the Myeongdong night market: fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice, flambeeded steak bites, crazily spiralling potato crisps, and an Oreo churro with thick cream filling for a sweet finish.
Not yet ready to say good night, I pressed on to Myeongdong Cathedral. This historic Roman Catholic church rewarded me with a lifesize nativity scene, including a train of camels not yet arrived but advancing along the walls of the church.
I closed my deja vu tour with wandering along the Han River — lately rehabilitated to grace the city center. Stone paths invited me back and forth across the banks, with the city lights beaming against the night. I would depart Korea early on the morrow.
After a shockingly short international flight, I zipped along the well-worn connections to my island — with a little help from a chirpy porter robot along the way! A denizen of the Incheon airport, it trundled along with me through the terminal, offering to stop at the shops, navigate to my gate, or simply follow where I led. After two solid weeks of travel, over three countries and four cities, I shed my luggage gratefully into its waiting arms.
Back in Japan, the island greeted me with its patchwork sugarcane fields, crystalline dawns, and lavish hibiscus. I anticipated six more months there of seaside mornings in the Land of the Rising Sun.
