Hot-Pot & Culture Shock
Some days, travel feels cinematic—full of grand revelations, surreal moments, and scenery that looks straight out of a dream. Other days, it feels surprisingly normal. Today was one of those days.
We woke up early, grabbed breakfast, got our caffeine fix, and ran to the subway, just like students rushing to class anywhere in the world. The only difference? Our classroom was at Hankuk University of Foreign Studies (H.U.F.S.), and today, we were diving headfirst into Hangul—the Korean alphabet.
Hangul isn’t just a writing system; it’s a testament to King Sejong the Great’s genius. Unlike many writing systems that evolved over centuries, Hangul was designed with purpose and accessibility in mind. It was crafted to give literacy to the common people—simple, logical, and elegant. We spent the morning breaking it down: learning the shapes and the sounds, putting characters together into words, and even writing our own names in Hangul. That first moment when you recognize a word, when the writing on a sign actually means something to you—it’s like cracking a code. Language isn’t just about speaking; it’s about seeing the world differently.
From there, we transitioned into Korean cultural studies—a crash course in how history shapes the present. Dynasties rose and fell, food evolved, fashion cycled through centuries of reinvention, and somehow, we ended up here: in a modern-day K-wave explosion where K-pop, K-dramas, and Korean beauty trends have taken over the globe. But the fascinating thing was seeing how these trends weren’t just modern—they were deeply rooted in Korean history. Traditional clothing, historical dishes, and centuries-old aesthetics weren’t relics of the past; they are woven into the present, alive and thriving. Walk through Seoul, and you see it—hanbok-inspired streetwear, ancient palace motifs in trendy cafés, royal court dishes served with a modern twist. This city isn’t just a mix of old and new; it’s proof that the past never really left.
Our final seminar of the day? The South Korean education system. This was the heart of the Fulbright-Hays program—the reason most of my classmates, who were teachers, were here. South Korea takes education seriously. Standardized testing is a national event. On exam day, the entire country slows down. Flights are grounded. Businesses adjust their hours. Noise levels are controlled. The entire country commits to one singular goal: giving students the best possible testing environment. It was intense, but it made sense in a society where education isn’t just important—it’s survival.
By the time we wrapped up for the day and returned to Insadong, the structured part of our schedule was done, which meant freedom. Evenings were when we could explore, when we could eat what we wanted, go where we wanted, and just exist in the city. Tonight, a small group of us decided on shabu shabu—a choice that, much like everything else in Korea, came with its own surprises.
I’ve had shabu shabu before—both in the mainland U.S. and in Hawaii (which, with its Japanese influence, tends to lean closer to the original). But Korean shabu shabu? It was a different beast entirely. Here’s the thing about food in South Korea: they take global dishes and put their own spin on them. McDonald’s? You’ll find Korea-exclusive menu items. Pizza? The toppings lean sweet rather than savory. Every bite of something familiar comes with an unexpected twist.
At dinner, I was introduced to one particular twist I didn’t see coming: raw egg mixed with soy sauce as a marinade for beef. No fear of salmonella here—everything is fresh, unprocessed, and handled with completely different food standards than what we’re used to in the U.S. The meal was fantastic—rich, flavorful, a slow-burn kind of comfort food that warms you from the inside out.
I was also relieved. Eating in Korea required vigilance—I have a shellfish allergy, and shellfish is in almost everything here. So far, I had managed to dodge any disasters and still eat incredibly well. Korean food is a love language—layered, complex, and deeply tied to memory and tradition. Every meal felt like another level of cultural immersion.
After dinner, we did what anyone in Seoul does when the night is young: we wandered.
Insadong comes alive after dark. Bars spill out into the streets, the smell of sizzling barbecue lingers in the air, neon signs flicker between modern and traditional fonts. You hear K-pop in one alley, a live jazz band in another, and a half-drunken karaoke session floating out from a noraebang down the road. Seoul doesn’t sleep early. Businesses open late and close late—a natural balance to the slow mornings we had started to accept.
That’s Seoul in a nutshell: a city of contrasts. Old and new, calm and chaos, timeless and constantly changing. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I was just trying to take it all in, one bite, one word, and one late-night walk at a time.
