How Taste Led My Travel Again and Again in Seoul
A reflection on how instinct and kindness shaped the rhythm I found in a city alive with contradiction
It’s not that Seoul was hard to wrap my arms around because it was inaccessible, inhospitable or indifferent. Quite the opposite. I immediately found Seoul to be an incredibly warm, embracing city. It was tricky to get my head around because it was brilliantly unwieldy and massive.
An early Sunday morning drive in from Incheon Airport teased Seoul’s sheer size as the rising sun cast a pink glow over this beautiful sleeping giant. As I passed one sprawling neighborhood after the other, Seoul made a most magnificent and lasting first impression. To say I couldn’t wait to get out of the taxi and see it on foot would be an oversized understatement.
Before I ever crossed the threshold of the hotel, I’d be stunned by the first of many truly conscientious gestures that set the stage for mammoth Seoul’s tender charm. After 50 countries and 20+ years traveling mostly alone, it had happened maybe once or twice and never in a city of this size.
When I got to my hotel, a high-rise on a busy downtown street just starting to come to life on a Sunday morning, my taxi pulled up to the front of the building. After I paid, I hustled to collect everything from the backseat only to look up and see the driver, an older gentleman, dragging my suitcase from the trunk of his cab all the way into the building, through the lobby to the front desk! Incredulous, I might have even muttered something terribly kitschy and uncouth like, shut the front door.
I still smile and shake my head thinking about this small act of kindness, his unflinching chivalrous instinct to carry it out, and my own embarrassment and cynicism for believing I would just get dumped out on the street as I had been so many other times before. Travel has the power to surprise and connect us in the most unassuming, lovely little ways. If we stay present and mindful these unexpected moments will make our hearts beat hurried and happy.
Before I ever arrived in Seoul, I had done a moderate but rushed amount of research. I look back now and think how naïve I was that just because I had a sense for the different neighborhoods I should explore, the local tastes I should seek out and the must-see sites I should plan around that I could land and hit the ground running.
On top of that, I have found we can encounter places unpredictably in our travels where we never fully get our bearings, collect our composure or orient with our typical poise and confidence. Some places just mysteriously knock us off balance. I sensed in my early moments with the city, Seoul was going to be an exercise in patience and resolve for me and my rhythm of travel.
I must confess I’m never up for the challenge when these provocateur destinations confront without warning or invitation. Despite my best efforts to go Zen, I always resist and gnash against the uneasy feelings and stress they stir up. But always later, sometimes years later, these hard-to-put-my-finger-on jokers and wild cards become the places that issue the strongest signals to grow and even come back for a second round. These are the places I know I must listen to. These are the places that have something to tell me.
I was firmly in the middle of this state of mind when I found myself more hopelessly lost than deftly navigating the back alleyways and tiny streets of Euljiro, one of Seoul’s trendy hipster neighborhoods. I was cold, defeated and hangry. Just the day before I had struck out at a late lunch in Gangnam’s underwhelming underground mall.
Believing I was only minutes away from righting the wrong and sitting down to an outstanding lunch, I was completely caught off guard when I walked up to and inside Sancheong Charcoal Garden. My only frame of reference up until that point was swanky Perilla’s Riverwalk in Chicago which does Korean BBQ Gangnam style. And yet this is where I was. So, what the hell I thought. This is where I decided to give it a go.
And I’m so glad I did. Lunch at Sancheong was hands down my best meal in Seoul. Was it cozy, posh or waxing gourmet like I had been imagining it would be? No. But it was still all kinds of perfect. The waiters were charming, approachable and more than willing to help me get it all just right. I felt so lucky that this was the way I had come to enjoy Korean BBQ in Seoul. It felt authentic and real. It was especially delicious, each bite of salted tender pork bursting with melt-in-your-mouth flavor. It was so far out of my comfort zone I knew it would be a memory seared in my mind forever.
Taste had sent out a signal and nudged me in just the right direction that day so I could find my way to a place that would both satisfy my taste buds and open my mind to its many manifestations. I no doubt had been struggling up until this point to find my groove. This lunch served as both a critical proof and turning point in the trip’s mood and tempo.
I had only learned upon arriving in Seoul that Google Maps didn’t fully function in Korea. While this humbly calls into question my research methods, this on-the-ground bombshell ultimately forced me to lean on and follow Taste, my compass in a more pronounced way than I had ever been called to do in my travels before. In looking back, I think I loved Seoul as much as I did because I was flatfooted. Unfamiliar problems forced me to experiment with new tactics and listen more closely to my instincts. They demanded I swap out my tight grip on predictability and control for freeform and flow and dare I say a more fancy-free style of discovery and adventure.
My last night in Seoul was the perfect culmination and reflection of this philosophy in practice. I spent the evening at Gwangjang Market, one of the oldest and biggest traditional street markets in the city. It is bustling with locals and tourists alike in the most magical and surprisingly tolerable way. It is a microcosm of Seoul itself. There are rows of stalls serving up local delicacies, stocked with souvenirs and local goods some handmade, some not so much and textile and food shops. One corridor leads to another. Simply put, it is a wonderful maze to get swallowed up whole and lost in.
First, I followed my gut to a stall at the corner of a busy intersection in the market’s center. Locals held court at the community tables out front. As directed, I dropped down at a metal picnic table next to two older men sipping on Soju. I was immediately impressed by the heated bench – a nice, unexpected touch.
It’s fair to say, I devoured their Steak Tartare. It was among the best I’ve ever had, served inauspiciously on a paper plate, definitely a first in serveware for me! Next, I tried the mung bean pancakes. Stealing cues from my dining companions I paired each bite of fresh out of the fryer cakes with the customary accoutrements laid out on the table in mini plastic cups before me. Adding first a couple diced white onions, crisp and crazy strong and then a dash of soy vinegar sauce. The combination was just perfect.
While this easily could have been meal enough and if I’m honest with myself it was, I had come to eat. I next chose a stall that served noodles and dumplings. I ordered cold Soba noodles and finally got my hands on the Korean dumplings I had heard so much about. Before I dug in, a little starter bowl of Kimchi showed up on the table.
I’d like to say I was oohing and awing my way through every bite but getting the noodles wrapped around my chopsticks was no easy feat. A woman sitting next to me, noticing my struggle, motioned the waiter over, shouted something at him and within seconds my bowl was in his hands. He pulled out a pair of scissors and cut up my noodles, added some extra ingredients and mixed everything up as it evidently should be right before my eyes. Oh. Like that.
Once more, these interventions weren’t the biggest of gestures. But they didn’t need to be. They were simple, sweet and caring reminders that something bigger out there connects us to each other. It’s beyond language, labels or even how we cut our noodles.
Throughout my stay, I’d take in more of Korea’s fabulous flavors about town. I had a rice cake from historic Biwon Tteokjip after wandering the ancient streets of Bukchon Village, a hilly neighborhood lined with the most picture-perfect Hanok houses. I met my match at Sulbing in the uber-cool Hongdae neighborhood hunkering over a huge bowl of bingsu, shaved ice creamy goodness with evaporated milk and toppings of one’s choice piled sky high. And I fed my inner foodie all kinds of treats from one of my favorite bougie finds – the Lotte Department Store’s basement gourmet food hall – serendipitously located just a couple blocks from my hotel. I thought it could be as good a place as any to try Korean Salt Bread. I wasn’t wrong.
I bought three different variations and sampled them on the way back to my hotel. I stopped on the sidewalk to try a particularly sticky, gooey variation across from a greasy food stall. Struggling with packages, the sun in my eyes and the toppings getting stuck to my fingers, I looked up to see the street food vendor standing in front of me with a wet wipe in his hands. He’d left his post to hand it to me. I stared blankly back at him in amazement before I nodded thank you.
Korean Salt Bread is an amazing collision of texture and taste. Where soft meets crisp and sweet meets salty. Its ability to hold so much goodness in one single bite was as appealing then as it is inspiring now. Taste didn’t just encourage me to try new food and flavor in Seoul, it invited me to experience and process at dizzying speed the beautiful contradictions that make up this ancient modern city.
As I measured K-Pop culture versus tradition and custom; hipster versus hanok; slick and polished versus real and unrefined, I realized I hadn’t been mysteriously knocked off balance. Instead my own movement – maddening but fulfilling, serendipitous but intentional, hurried but still – had fallen in perfect sync with something much more meaningful, Seoul’s joyful and generous rhythm of juxtaposition.
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