That time in Korea

All persons names have been changed to protect the offenders

I laid there frozen on the floor of Aqua Palace in Busan, a fancy Korean jimjilbang (public bathhouse) counting down from ten. “You’re safe,” I told myself.

The Gwangan Diamond Bridge sparkled behind me, in full view from where I was on the 19th floor of the bathhouse. But I stayed on the floor facing away from the beach and the bridge—clean but comatose, trying to remind myself how to think, feel, and breathe.

Have you ever flown to Korea for what ended up being a one night stand?

Yeah, me neither. Except that I have.

Except that it was more like a two-week stand. Maybe three. I forget now. But I do remember sticking myself to the floor of that jimjilbang—the same bathhouse I used to frequent when I lived in Busan as an English teacher and telling myself that I had to pick myself up from that floor, or no one would.

Whenever I had a problem when I lived here, I only had to tap the shoulder of one of my many co-workers and invite them out for some Korean bbq after work. In Korea, all it takes is one late-night in front of the mart with some soju and a friend or two and your problems are forgotten. There’s no judgement in the Land of the Morning Calm when it’s past midnight.

Most of my friends from that time had moved out of the country and were scattered everywhere, both geographically and personally: married, self-partnered, in between things, in between jobs, at new jobs, making families. I’d made my own life along the way, working as a writer and editor on the run (I just can’t say ‘digital nomad’, guys. Ugh).

That life though had passed me by; it was all a distant, beautiful memory. I had to get real or things were gonna get worse. And the only real thing for me in that moment was the warm jimjilbang floor, the twinkling bridge in the close distance, and my self. All of those late nights in a soju-spiraled haze weren’t gonna save me now.

I do remember thinking that this guy wasn’t gonna take that away from me—my relationship with this city that I considered a second home.

I do remember feeling pretty hurt on that particular day; shocked into silence, even. Because I don’t know I’d JUST FLOWN TO FREAKING KOREA for the dude.

I’d also just turned 39 the day before.

So this state of paralysis wasn’t about him (it never really is). It was that I’d wandered myself into oblivion with no back up plan. All my fault essentially, I know.

After what was about a good hour, I pulled myself up off of that jimjilbang floor, which was pretty hard to do with the combo of my emo paralysis and the warm ondol floor—one of the best things about living in Korea. Sadness and a warm floor in the winter can make for a pretty cozy combo. I couldn’t let myself get addicted.

I looked around at where I was. This place had been my home. I was standing there, at home.

And for all the money I was spending on therapy at that point, I had the right to call this body I was freaking out in also my home. All the work I was doing on myself had to be worth it, dammit.

So I was doubly home, triple even if you count my backpacks that were seemingly safe back at his apartment. I had no reason to be freaking out.

But there I was, back in one of the cities I’d first wandered to when I started this life of travel, and had to face the fact that things weren’t working out the way I’d hoped.

Okay, back story. This guy, let’s call him Chad, and I had been messaging each other on and off for a year and a half. Maybe two years. We both taught English, both loved traveling, we were both vegetarian. In my hippie world that’s a hat trick. So when he invited me to visit him in Busan, my answer was pretty much inevitable.

We’d met a few times before when we were both living in Busan. We had lots of mutual friends (I’m not THAT crazy, geez). I wasn’t going into the situation totally blind.

It was early one fall when he’d just returned for another teaching stint in Busan and texted me some pictures of his new apartment. “You can stay with me!” “There’s plenty of space!” Chad said. They say a lot, those Chads.

I also pretty much live out of a backpack, spending 3-6 months in a different country or city before moving on, making visits to Canada somewhere in between. I was spending the fall in Portugal (Lisbon, Porto, Douro Valley, Lagos, and back to Lisbon, if you must know!). On an EU tourist visa you can only stay 90 days at a time (with a break of at least 90 days in between each visit), so I had to go SOMEWHERE after that. Winter was coming, so I bought a one-way ticket to Korea and texted Chad. I mean, what’s a gal to do?

I still remember standing in the basement-level reception area of my hostel in Lisbon, the morning of my flight to Korea. I’d just had an amazing weekend exploring the city with a great group of people. We went to the Belem Tower and stood in line for nata at a famous bakery. We walked along the Tagus River until we hit the contemporary art museum. We stayed up late and drank 3 Euro glasses of Vinho Verde in a couple of bars in Bairo Alto.

One of my new friends was standing next to me at the reception desk, I think to extend his stay. “I’m going to Korea,” I replied when he asked what my plans were for the day. This guy looked at me like the idea of Korea was so utterly foreign. It is on the other side of the world, in his defense.

I didn’t know what to think about the idea of Korea either in that moment, if we’re gonna be honest here. At that point, Korea seemed further away than ever to me. I’d let it get too forgotten after such a long time away.

My Korean era was followed by year of vagabonding (from Montreal to LA to Mexico to Cuba to Colombia to LA again and NYC and back, I call it my ‘America’ year), publishing a travel memoir at the end of that same year, moving to Southeast Asia on New Year’s Eve and landing a dream contract gig a few months later, navigating the pandemic (remember that old chestnut?), and then moving to Mexico and back. I couldn’t even keep track of myself, and there I was standing in a hostel in Lisbon and realizing that my time in South Korea had become a distant memory. A past life, even. That’s what happens when you make too many mini lives in places around the world. You sometimes forget the past, for the good and the bad.

And clearly I’d forgotten that it never works out when an anxious attached answers the call of an anxious avoidant. Dammit Jenny, every time.

Chad wasn’t looking for love. He was barely looking for lust. We did watch some good movies on his couch, though. Best in Show comes to mind. We’d cook dinner when he’d get back late from work and be eating by 10 pm. A typical Korean dinnertime is usually well past 8 in a society that’s very much overworked. Some nights it was Japanese curry and others it was sundubu jigae. I found an organic grocer in his neighborhood and splurged on button mushrooms even though Chad told me not to. These little bits of normalcy for a vagabond gal like myself can be addictive. It’s easy to get too cozy too quickly. You forget the simple magnificence of the mundane.

I moved out of Chad’s place a few days after he told me that he wanted to be single forever (he’s probably married by now). Before my trip to the jimjilbang, I posted on a local Facebook group that I needed a monthly rental, stat. And by some mini miracle someone texted me that his Korean friend might have a lead, and then I texted the Korean friend and she told me that her friend had just left for a month for the holidays to visit family. She had an apartment and I could sublet it until she returned. I could move in anytime, she said.

While Chad was at work I packed up my things and carried them to a bright little studio apartment overlooking Haeundae Beach. I barely needed to turn on the ondol because the sun warmed up the 22nd floor unit pretty well. In that small space, I gave myself some room to center myself and write down my goals for the year ahead. I dove head first in work. I had my first few articles published in Thrillist a month later—even one about Busan that the editor barely changed. I got to catch up on some of the therapy sessions I’d missed while traveling in Portugal (you can’t really have a one-hour personal meeting when sharing a room with 5 other people in a hostel).

I went on long walks every day with an Americano by the beach. There’s a long walking path that stretches from Haeundae all the way to Gwangan-li Beach, which is about 4 kilometers away. Most days I’d walk all the way to Gwangan, listening to my favorite poetry and podcasts and gazing that the bridge and the beautiful Busan skyline. I’d forgotten how blue the city sky gets in Busan. The mountains that hug the city are evergreen and the sky is so blue, with the help of the reflection from the Sea of Korea. The city has a winding coastline that’s dotted with beaches, some that bustle and others that are near-forgotten, calm and mysterious. I got to be home again and see my second city in a new light. A better light.

And I look back now, over two years later and I’m still on the road, still navigating all of this solo, and happy to be. I’m off the floor of that jimjilbang. No regrets.