Cheonan and the Weight of the Past
We left Seoul behind, trading the city’s skyline for the rolling highways of Cheonan. The coach bus ride was short—an hour and a half, maybe two—but it felt like stepping into another version of Korea. Less frantic. More spread out. The kind of place where people aren’t in a rush to get anywhere, at least not in the way they are in Seoul.
Dr. Woo, our professor, knew this place well. This was her hometown, her stomping grounds, the city where she grew up and went to school. Tomorrow, we’d be walking the halls of her old high school, but for now, we had more pressing matters to attend to—lunch.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Korean food doesn’t mess around. Every meal is an experience, a ritual, an invitation. This particular spot was as traditional as it gets—hearty, flavorful, and unpretentious. The kind of place where you sit down, rub your hands together in anticipation, and let the parade of banchan (반찬)—side dishes—start filling the table like a feast laid out for kings.
By now, I had learned that Korean hospitality is something else entirely. In Seoul, I’d had a few close calls with my shellfish allergy—dried shrimp hidden in sauces, kimchi laced with tiny seafood surprises. Here, though? They took care of me. Not in the eye-roll-inducing, “ugh, another picky foreigner” kind of way. No. With genuine concern, with an earnest desire to make sure I could eat and enjoy my meal like everyone else. Because in Korea, food isn’t just fuel—it’s connection, it’s generosity, it’s how they bring you into the fold. And the food? Absolutely perfect.
After lunch, we made our way to the Korean Independence Hall, a sprawling memorial that doesn’t just tell history—it demands you sit with it. The place is massive. You don’t just stroll in (well, you could, but it would be a very long and very hot walk); you take a train to get to the actual building. The long, flag-lined walkway leading to the main structure sets the tone before you even step inside. It’s weighty, imposing, and built to be remembered. The architecture had an almost Cold War brutalist feel to it—stark, geometric, monumental. But there was something else to it, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Inside, the exhibits hit hard. The stories of Korean independence, the struggle, the war, the occupation, the fight to reclaim a national identity—it wasn’t just history on display. It was visceral. The contrast between the Korea of then and the Korea of now was almost jarring. It was easy to forget, while wandering through glittering department stores or sipping an Americano in a minimalist café, that this was a country that had fought for everything it has just one or two generations ago, and many still remember the horrors of what it takes to become truly free. At the top of a nearby hill sat the Unity Bell, a symbol of hope for a reunited Korea. You could ring it—a small act, but one filled with weight and meaning. We didn’t talk much on the way to the hotel. Some places leave you like that.
Our hotel was a shock.
Not in the bad, questionable-hygiene, “should I be worried about bedbugs?” kind of way. No, this place was stunning. From my window, I had a perfect view of the city—sprawling but compact, quieter than Seoul but still alive with movement. And just two blocks away? Lotte World.
Now, if you haven’t been to Lotte, it’s hard to explain. It’s not just a department store—it’s a self-contained universe where you can buy literally anything: Groceries, makeup, clothes, electronics, and even pets. If you needed it, Lotte had it.
But food was the priority, and tonight’s mission was simple: Korean fried chicken (it had obviously become a crowd favorite within our team). By this point in the trip, we had fully accepted that South Korea takes fried chicken to a level that the rest of the world just isn’t prepared for. Double-fried, crispy perfection, paired with ice-cold beer and an array of dipping sauces that could convert even the most skeptical eater. We dug in, talking, laughing, and talking about our plans for the school visit the next day. While others spent the evening putting the final touches on our groups activity for tomorrow’s visit to Dr. Woo’s old high school.
We called it an early night, one of the first we had taken since arriving in South Korea. Tomorrow would be long, and we needed all the energy we could get. But as I looked out over Cheonan’s quiet cityscape, neon flickering in the street down below me, I had the feeling that this place—small, unassuming, tucked away from the bustle of Seoul—had a few surprises left for us yet.
