Ancient Echoes in Gyeongju
Morning didn’t come with the usual anticipation of hot coffee and a decent breakfast. Instead, it arrived heavy with the weight of unease, a lingering residue from the night before. The group trickled down to the lobby slower than usual, bleary-eyed, dragging their feet. Over convenience store pastries and expensive mediocre coffee, I casually mentioned the strange sensation I’d felt in my room to one of my fellow travelers, expecting nothing more than a chuckle or a brush-off. Instead, I was met with a knowing nod and a whispered, “Me too.”
That sent me down a rabbit hole. A frantic Google search yielded no ghost stories, no famous hauntings—just the tale of the last tiger of South Korea, once said to have roamed these very mountains before colonial forces drove them to extinction. And while our group leader admitted she wasn’t exactly thrilled with our accommodations, that did little to explain the sensation of being watched. But there was no time to dwell on unseen visitors or restless sleep. Today was my day—an entire itinerary dedicated to archaeology. My element.
The Gyeongju National Museum was our first stop, a place where thousands of years of history were meticulously curated and displayed. I practiced my clunky Korean on the bus ride over—‘저는 고고학자입니다 (joneun gogohakjjaimnida),’ which means ‘I am an archaeologist’—and wondered if I’d have the guts to say it to someone.
The museum sprawled across the flat valley floor, flanked by mountains that had watched empires rise and fall. Traditional gardens bloomed alongside towering stupas, relics of the past relocated to preserve their stories. One of the largest bells in Korea sat outside, a behemoth so ancient and fragile that they played recordings instead of ringing it, for fear that one more chime might shatter it forever. Inside, history unfolded. From the Paleolithic era to the colonial period, the exhibits wove together a narrative of resilience and cultural endurance. There was a crown and jewelry set found in a royal tomb (one we’d be visiting later that day - but I hadn’t been clued in yet), displayed in a way that allowed visitors to see themselves wearing it—an eerie but effective way to humanize the past. Another case held a roof tile featuring the only known human face ever discovered on such an artifact. It had become an icon of the museum, a small, mischievous smirk from history reminding us that these were people, not just legends.
We moved on to an exhibit dedicated to Buddhism’s evolution in Korea, gazing at statues and relics that had guided generations of seekers. A massive diorama of the Silla Dynasty’s capital city reminded us that the very ground beneath our feet had once been the epicenter of a kingdom. Some of the structures still stood just miles away, waiting for us to visit them later. After some time to wander on our own, I made my way outside, standing near the enormous bell just as its recording played. The vibrations rumbled through my bones, a sound so powerful that, for a brief moment, the present faded, and I was just sound and memory. But the moment didn’t last—the heat was rising, the air thick with humidity. We needed shade, and we were about to find it underground.
Gyeongju is famous for its massive burial mounds, rolling hills that hide the remains of Silla kings and queens. Some have been excavated and restored, transformed into walk-through exhibits that allow visitors a glimpse into the past without disturbing what remains. Stepping inside the first tomb was like stepping into another world. The cool air wrapped around us as we followed a winding path through the chamber, past an exhibit explaining how these burials were discovered, excavated, and preserved. The second tomb was even more immersive—before entering, we watched a video detailing the excavation process and the impact of colonial archaeology on Korean history. Once inside, a walkway allowed us to hover above the burial site, seeing the layers of earth, wood, and stone that had kept these secrets hidden for centuries. A final exhibit used projection mapping to recreate the journey of the dead from life to burial, an elegant, haunting display of ritual and reverence. As we left, I lingered, chatting with the museum representatives about the exhibit’s design. They were delighted by my enthusiasm, handing me a set of interactive postcards used in their digital exhibits. “Come back soon,” they said. I hope I will.
By now, we were all starving. We piled into a small traditional restaurant, the kind where side dishes filled every inch of the table, and bowls of steaming noodles sat next to sizzling meats and fresh vegetables. It was one of the best meals we’d had, and thankfully, free from the dreaded shellfish that had been haunting my diet since day one. With a little free time, I wandered off, my ankle now twisted from an unfortunate misstep earlier in the day. I made my way to a hanok-style Starbucks to snap a few photos before tracking down an ice pack. Then, just as I was about to rejoin the group, I saw it—an active dig site, just a few blocks from where we had eaten.
I hobbled over and stood by the fence, watching the archaeologists at work, hands moving deftly through the soil, revealing fragments of the past. Eventually, someone noticed me. In halting Korean, I tried to explain myself: ‘고고학자’—archaeologist. A few of them glanced up, mildly interested, before returning to their work. It was a brief, fleeting moment, but for me, it was magic. Another piece of the world’s puzzle, slowly being uncovered.
That evening, we had a rare nighttime excursion. Dr. Woo had arranged for us to see the Donggung Palace & Wolji Pond (동궁과 월지), an ancient palace site famous for its evening light ceremony. The palace sat on a man-made lake, its hanok-style buildings reflected in the still water. I broke away from the group, weaving through the quiet gardens, breathing in the scent of earth and history. Before the lights came on, a German traveler approached me, asking if I’d take her photo. We exchanged cameras, snapping pictures of one another against the backdrop of the darkening sky. As the lights flickered on, the palace transformed. A cotton candy sunset melted into deep purples and blues, and the illuminated buildings glowed against the still water. Around us, people laughed, took selfies, shared snacks. Kites and glowing balloons floated into the sky, tiny stars against the dark.
Back at the hotel, I grabbed a quick meal from the convenience store before heading to my room. The sensation of being watched hadn’t faded. As I climbed into bed, the weight returned—the same unseen presence curling up behind my knees. But this time, my dreams weren’t chaotic. They were strange, yes, but oddly comforting. Whatever had found me in this place had decided it liked me. And maybe, just maybe, I liked it too.
