Our Day 1
There’s a particular kind of magic to a first morning in a foreign country—especially when jetlag decides to show mercy. Seoul greeted me gently; I woke around 7 AM, surprisingly clear-headed and ready to go. Many of my fellow travellers had been up since before dawn, pacing like restless ghosts, thanks to the time difference. I counted myself lucky as I grabbed a quick breakfast and met two soon-to-be friends in the lobby for an early stroll through Insadong.
Insadong in the early morning was almost eerily quiet. We wandered the narrow streets only to find storefronts dark and shuttered. Turns out most places in Seoul don’t even think of opening until after 10 AM. For an American used to 6 AM coffee runs, this was a mild shock. Back home, cafés flick on the lights at the crack of dawn to catch the early birds; here, the early bird has to wait. Honestly, I kind of respected that unhurried start—Seoul was taking its time to wake up, and we were there to witness the city’s first yawns.
Eventually, caffeine necessity met serendipity: we found a tiny coffee stand just around the corner from our hotel. Everything in this area seemed to be around the corner from our hotel — one reason I’m tempted to stay in the same neighborhood next time I visit. Armed with one of the few Korean phrases I’d practiced, I confidently ordered: “아메리카노 주세요, 감사합니다” (Americano juseyo, gamsahamnida — “an Americano, please, thank you”). To my delight, it worked. I strolled away with an iced Americano in hand and a small victory under my belt. That whole transaction took place in Korean, a step up from the previous night’s pantomime attempts at dinner.
Our day was only beginning. We hurried back to the hotel—coffee cups sweating in hand against what we could tell would be a sweltering day—to regroup with the others. It was time for the more formal part of the adventure: our first class at Hankuk University of Foreign Studies (mercifully shortened to H.U.F.S.). Yes, class—this wasn’t all vacation. Mornings would be spent at H.U.F.S. taking Korean language lessons, learning about the culture, and studying the local education system.
Instead of jumping straight into lessons, day one at H.U.F.S. kicked off with a campus tour. H.U.F.S. isn’t your average university; it’s basically South Korea’s window to the world. As we wandered the grounds, our guide gave us the rundown: in the decades after the war, this school helped the country reconnect globally. President Obama even dropped by once to give a speech — not your everyday claim to fame. Everywhere we looked, we saw signs of the university’s international focus: flags of dozens of nations in the main hall and students from all over hustling to class. In a country that rebuilt itself from ashes just a generation ago, here was a place grooming young people to be global citizens — I found it inspiring. I even caught myself daydreaming about being a student here in another life, strolling these halls with a backpack, learning new languages by day, and feasting on street food by night.
By late afternoon, our official duties were done, and we were free to explore. While others in the group scattered to find their own Seoul adventures, I had a different plan. A close friend of mine lived in the city, someone I hadn’t seen since 2016, and a reunion was long overdue. She and her husband were eager to show me a side of Seoul I’d never find on my own.
First, they led me through a maze of back alleys to a tiny café I’d never have found by myself. This wasn’t just any café — it also showcased 나전칠기 (najeonchilgi), the traditional Korean art of mother-of-pearl lacquerware. The place was a true hidden gem, tucked down an alley so narrow you’d miss it unless you knew exactly where to look. Inside, it was part coffee shop, part art gallery: dark wooden tables inlaid with iridescent fragments of abalone shell, each one a quiet masterpiece catching the light. We sipped our drinks surrounded by that subtle glow of mother-of-pearl, the bustle of Seoul feeling a world away.
After that serene interlude, it was time for something more substantial: dinner. My friends took me to a no-frills chicken joint next, intent on introducing me to a Korean obsession I hadn’t known about. South Korea, it turns out, is crazy about fried chicken. Sure, Americans love fried chicken too, but here it’s practically a way of life—a late-night staple and a social glue. We ordered a spread that could have fed a small army. A platter of golden, crispy fried chicken arrived, of course, along with all the trimmings. There was kimchi (the spicy, garlicky fermented cabbage I was already addicted to), a plate of kimchi-dubu (fiery kimchi over cool tofu — far tastier than it sounds), and fried mandu dumplings for good measure. If that sounds like too much food, well, we devoured every bite. The chicken was double-fried to perfection, each bite shatteringly crisp and juicy, and I was in heaven — greasy fingers and all.
I know I tend to wax poetic about meals, but there’s a method to my madness. Food has always been my favorite window into a culture, and this feast was a prime example. Since arriving in Korea, I’d mostly encountered tourist-friendly restaurants with bilingual menus; I could get by pointing and mumbling “이거 주세요” (igeo juseyo — “this one, please”). But this chicken joint was the real deal—no English in sight, no helpful pictures to fall back on, just a wall of hangul script. I was out of my depth. Thankfully, my friend’s husband stepped up and ordered for all of us. Sometimes, you just have to trust your friends and let go. I sat back, happily relinquishing control, knowing I was in good hands. And, as usual in Korea, the reward was an absolutely fantastic meal.
Sufficiently stuffed and content, we meandered back toward my hotel. On the way, my friends guided me to Cheonggyecheon, a restored stream that runs quietly through downtown Seoul. We descended from the busy street into a calm walkway along the water, and the city noise fell away, replaced by the soft rush of the stream. Neon reflections from above danced on the surface as we walked. Couples sat along the banks, and kids hopped across stepping stones in the shallows. In a city of ten million, here was a pocket of peace. I made a quiet promise to myself to return here later in the trip, perhaps alone, to soak in the serenity. It was a perfect end to my first full day in Seoul—calm, reflective, and just a little bit magical.
