I leave South Korea in 5 days. I
can’t believe how much I’ll miss the amazing people, food, and culture. While
my job here was difficult at times, I still learned a great deal about myself
and the kind of work I want to do. Who would have guessed six months ago that I’d
fall in love with Seoul and its wacky lifestyle? I certainly regret leaving so
soon, but I know new adventures await me around the corner.
That’s
what I wish I could say (maybe without the conceit). I wish these past months
had been unequivocally adventurous, undoubtedly enlightening, but, frankly, my
relationship with Seoul has been less straight forward than that. Without question, I’ve
forged great friendships and experienced things most will never have the
opportunity to. The good memories – watching the sun set while trapped on an
island at high-tide, barbecuing burgers on the rooftop, learning a North Korean card game from a defector – are ones I’ll cherish. The bad memories – sickly
shivering under three layers of jackets with no heating, wasting countless
hours in a defunct non-profit organization, getting endlessly pushed around by
old Koreans that just don’t give a shit – are also vivid. Life is rarely as binary. I don’t want to dwell too much on the negative, but I also want to give an
accurate reflection of my past six months, triumphs and regrets included.
January
and February were two of the most difficult months of my life. I arrived in
South Korea with unrealistic expectations about my job and the country as a whole. Those
expectations were quickly shattered, giving way to a feeling of escalating dread
and the notion that the future was going to slowly chip away at my mental health. I
had come to Seoul to improve the lives of North Korean defectors in any capacity I could. That
was not the case when I arrived at my job. Within the first week, I was already
without much work in a dark, windowless basement. By the end of my second week,
I understood that the organization was bringing about almost no good, if any at
all. After the first month, the friends I had made started leaving, initiating the
never-ending cycle of interns coming and going. February ended on an especially low note, as one of the ex-interns,
a colleague of mine who I respected, published an 8000-word diatribe against the organization.
The blog was vengeful, scurrilous, and largely true. Regardless of my opinion
of the writer or his work, any environment that would produce such intense criticism
from one of its own is obviously toxic. From that day forward, I considered my
work an outright obligation rather than a positive opportunity.
Outside
the professional world, I was cold. Cold in the office, at home, and on the
subway. It was inescapable. My landlord didn’t want us to run the floor heating
(in Korea, most heating radiates from under the floorboards) because it was too
expensive. Under that unrelenting chill and the “exotic” germs of Korea, I
became sick as a dog, and not for the last time. At the grocery store, I was
lost. Everything I would normally cook was either grossly costly (I still
shutter at the price of ground beef) or simply unavailable. Although I love
Korean food, I could barely speak a word of Korean or determine what I was even buying. Socially, the friends I had made at work were on their way out the door and my
supposed share-house apartment was empty, save for my ever-present landlord who
had set up his 24/7 work station right outside my bedroom door. I felt I had
been duped, lied to by my boss, my landlord, South Korea, and myself. It's a feeling I never was able to shake. Thankfully, March eventually rolled around, and with it came friends, a bit of cultural
acceptance, a better attitude, and warmth, blessed warmth.
No matter
how brave, charismatic, or well-traveled you may be, navigating life in a
different country is infinitely easier with people around you. As the
university semester neared, Seoul, and my apartment, started to gain some
life. The house began to fill at the end of February, and by mid-March we were
a solid eight in the apartment. South Korea, as part of its communal culture,
is meant to be experienced as a group, and I was grateful to have some company.
My roommates would ultimately become my best friends in Korea. We’ve spent
nearly every day with each other without biting each other’s heads off (quite a
feat, if you ask me). Together, we’ve done everything Seoul has to offer and
bonded in the metaphorical foxhole of being foreigners in a strange place. Although
my life at work never turned around, I found a comfortable place with the
people and city around me.
With
better weather came the opportunity to explore Seoul. Picnics sprouted up in the
park, hikers covered the mountains, and Hongdae was ablaze 4 nights a week; the
city was livelier in the Spring, or at least more live-able. After the initial
hump, I settled into Korean life, learning how to order food without making a
fool of myself and adopting mannerism like the respectful gesture for handing
over money. Looking back now, it’s humorous how daunting the bright, Hangul riddled street of Seoul seemed when I first arrived. I’d walk around thinking
the city to be an alien planet. Now, the buildings and smells and fashions feel
natural. It was also around this time that I was presented an opportunity to leave Seoul. Tensions with North Korea were coming to a head as headlines teased the possibility of conflict. Naturally, my parents were, to say the least, interested in relocating me at the earliest convenience, and Northeastern was allowing students in Korea to end their internships early. Despite the unsatisfactory work and the looming threat of nuclear Armageddon, I didn't want to leave. I'd just settled in. I'd found a life in Seoul. Leaving would have meant all that hardship at the beginning was for nothing, and I simply couldn't accept that. In retrospect, I'm proud and appreciative of the decision I made; there was so much left to do.
