Cooking, Culture, and the Unexpected Kindness of Strangers

If you want to understand a place, eat its food. Not just in a restaurant, not just something catered to tourists—really learn how it’s made, what’s in it, and why it matters. Food is more than just sustenance; it’s storytelling, history, and identity, all wrapped up in flavor.

Korean cuisine had already rewired my taste buds. I’d spent five days eating my way through savory stews, sweet-and-spicy barbecue, rice cakes in thick, sticky sauces, and an endless supply of banchan (반찬, side dishes) that seemed to multiply at every meal. The flavor profile was different from what I’d expected— sweeter, less salty than other East Asian cuisines, with seafood carrying most of the natural brininess. I had been introduced to ingredients I had never even considered edible before—boiled ferns, chewy rice cakes, mushrooms in every imaginable form.

But today was different. Today, we weren’t just eating Korean food. We were making it.

The dish of the day? Bibimbap (비빔밥), the iconic Korean rice dish topped with an artfully arranged rainbow of vegetables, strips of meat, and a perfectly fried egg, all mixed together with gochujang (고추장), the fermented red chili paste that brings heat, depth, and a little bit of funk to Korean cooking.

We also made Gungjung Tteokbokki (궁중떡볶이), or Royal Tteokbokki—a milder, more refined version of the spicy street food favorite. Instead of the usual fiery red pepper paste, this version was coated in sesame oil and stir-fried with a medley of vegetables, a nod to its origins as a dish for Korean royals.

There’s something deeply satisfying about cooking a dish you’ve already fallen in love with. Following the tutorial, slicing vegetables, tossing them into a sizzling pan—it was like peeling back another layer of understanding. These weren’t just recipes; they were history lessons, cultural roadmaps. And the best part? Getting to eat our own creations.

Spoiler: they were fantastic.

Abalone Shell Art & a Cultural Village with No Security

After lunch, our next stop was an Art and Culture Village where we got to try something I had never even heard of before: abalone shell lacquer art. But first we had time to explore the cultural village itself. Imagine an old hillside neighborhood converted into an open-air museum except instead of security guards, ticket booths, and carefully roped-off areas, everything was just… open.

One building was set up for vintage-style photoshoots, complete with director’s chairs and an old-school ticket booth. No attendants. No supervision. Just… there.

Another was a comic book library, sitting above an arcade. Again, no staff. Just kids playing games, flipping through comics, neatly putting things back when they were done.

Coming from the U.S., this felt almost surreal. Back home, a place like this wouldn’t last a week without getting trashed or looted. But here? People just used the space as it was intended—respectfully, without oversight, without rules posted on every wall.

It was another moment of culture shock, but the good kind—the kind that makes you question why things are the way they are back home.

Korea has a way of turning the mundane into something stunning. What starts as a rough, discarded seashell becomes intricate, iridescent art through a process that takes patience, precision, and craftsmanship. We were each given the option to decorate either a pop socket or a keychain. I went with the pop socket, carefully arranging the delicate pieces of shell into a design before it was sealed with a clear enamel coating.

It was a tiny piece of Korea I could take home—functional, beautiful, and uniquely tied to a cultural tradition I had never been exposed to before.

Our official tour for the day was over, and we found ourselves standing at a bus stop, waiting.

That’s when it happened.

An older Korean man approached one of my classmates, Hailey. In accented but enthusiastic English, he asked, “Where are you from?”

A little caught off guard, she answered, “The United States.”

This alone made him light up with excitement.

“Where in the U.S.?”

“We’re part of a school group based in New Mexico.”

That was it. That was the moment his entire face lit up like we had just told him the best news in the world.

“파이팅!” (Fighting!) he cheered, pumping his fists in the air before giving us a warm goodbye and walking off.

It was such a small interaction, but it stuck with me.

In Insadong, where we had been staying, no one really paid much attention to us—it’s a more touristy area, used to foreigners wandering around. But here, in a more local part of Seoul, we stood out. People noticed. People were curious.

It was the first time we really felt that Korea is still an incredibly homogenous country. Over 90% of the population is ethnically Korean, and seeing foreigners outside of designated tourist hubs is still somewhat uncommon.

And yet, instead of being met with suspicion or indifference, we were met with excitement.

It made me think about home.

I’ve lived in California, Tennessee, Hawaii, and New York. I’ve spent years in places where tourists are as common as pigeons in a city park. I’ve never once thought to stop a stranger and ask where they’re from. Not out of rudeness, but because… why would I?

It had never occurred to me to welcome someone for simply being there.

But here, in a country where we were different, where we were noticeable, where we were the outsiders, this stranger didn’t hesitate to cheer for us, to make us feel like we belonged, even just for a moment.

Was it because Korea is homogenous, and seeing foreigners is still novel in certain areas? Maybe.

Was it just genuine human curiosity and warmth? Also maybe.

Either way, it made me rethink the way I approach meeting people from other countries in my own home.

That night, as we sat down for dinner, the conversation kept circling back to that moment.

There are different kinds of culture shock. Some are fleeting—the small surprises, the little things you notice but quickly adapt to. Others stay with you, making you question things you never thought to question before.

This was the latter.

In the U.S., we don’t cheer for people just for being there. We don’t welcome strangers for the sake of welcoming them. But maybe we should.

Maybe the smallest gestures—a simple question, a fist pump, a “파이팅!”—are the things that make all the difference.