On Getting Lost & 한복(Hanbok)

This was the day I had been waiting for since the moment I got my acceptance letter into the program. Ever since I first encountered Korean culture, I had dreamed of wearing a hanbok—not just seeing it in a museum or admiring it from a distance, but actually putting it on, feeling the weight of history in its fabric, walking through the streets as generations before had done.

Hanbok isn’t just clothing; it’s centuries of tradition wrapped in silk and embroidery. The graceful lines, the vibrant colors, the way it moves—it’s as much about how it feels as how it looks. The pieces are simple but elegant: for women, the jeogori (저고리), a short jacket with delicate fastenings, paired with the chima (치마), a sweeping high-waisted skirt that creates that signature silhouette. For men, baji (바지), baggy trousers that tie at the ankles, combined with a baeja (배자), a vest, and sometimes a durumagi (두루마기), a long overcoat for formal occasions. Accessories complete the look—norigae (노리개), delicate ornamental tassels for women, and the iconic gat (갓), a wide-brimmed hat woven from horsehair and bamboo, for men.

This was not an everyday outfit. This was ceremony. This was status. This was art.

We started our morning at a hanbok rental shop just outside Gyeongbokgung Palace—a sprawling Joseon Dynasty complex where history isn’t just remembered; it’s reenacted. If you wear hanbok, you get in for free. A small but meaningful incentive to keep traditions alive.

Walking into the shop, I was hit with a wave of color—rows and rows of shimmering fabric, soft pastels, deep jewel tones, intricate gold embroidery catching the light. I’ll admit, I was nervous. Korean sizing is not exactly forgiving, and I wasn’t sure if I’d find something that fit. But to my relief, the shop was size-inclusive, and the attendants were incredibly helpful, guiding each of us to styles and colors that suited our skin tones and body shapes. Once we had our outfits, they even styled our hair, adding delicate accessories to complete the look.

And then, just like that, we were transformed.

Draped in silk, walking through the palace gates, I felt like I had stepped into another time period.

Gyeongbokgung in Hanbok: A Living Museum

The sun was merciless, beating down on the open courtyards as we watched the changing of the guard ceremony. We clung to whatever shade we could find, wiping sweat from our brows as performers in full military regalia marched past in synchronized formation, their movements stiff with tradition.

Inside the palace grounds, we wandered through halls where kings once ruled, posed for photos against backdrops that looked too surreal to be real, and tried to imagine what life had been like here centuries ago. I can’t speak for everyone, but I felt stunning. There’s something about wearing historical clothing in a historical place that just makes everything feel more immersive.

Eventually, we reluctantly returned our hanbok, slipping back into the modern world. But the day was far from over.

From a Hidden French Café to K-Pop Merch Overload

Free for the afternoon, a few of us set out to explore. Tucked into an Insadong alleyway, we found a tiny French café—the kind of place you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. That’s something I was quickly learning: the best food in Seoul is always hidden down an alley.

After coffee and pastries, we headed to Lotte Mall and the legendary Myeongdong Underground Shopping Center. If you want K-pop merch, beauty products, fun socks, skincare, or a suitcase to fit all your impulse buys, this is where you go. Every corner was packed with idol posters, stacks of drama DVDs, and souvenir shops selling everything from keychains to face masks promising eternal youth.

At some point, the reality of having too many shopping bags and not enough hands set in, and we decided to head back to Insadong. This is where things got… interesting.

The plan was simple: call a taxi. The execution? Not so simple.

The wait time for a cab was insanely long, so we figured, why not take the subway? Great idea—except for the fact that we walked over a mile in the wrong direction to get to the station.

Then, we got off at the wrong stop.

Then, somewhere between all of this, I got pickpocketed.

Thankfully, they only got my transit card—not my wallet or passport. But now, I was hot, tired, lost, and without a way to get home.

With no other options, we tried the bus.

Cue another round of confusion— Bus signs? All in Korean. Directions? Vague at best. Google Maps? Useless. We stood at the bus stop, debating whether we were about to make things worse when I finally decided: Screw it.

I walked up to a couple of locals, took a deep breath, and in very, very broken Korean, asked for help. Between my butchered grammar, their limited English, and the ever-reliable Papago translation app, we figured it out. We found the right bus, boarded like victors returning from war, and rode back to Insadong—hot, starving, and triumphant.

That night, we celebrated survival the only way we knew how: pizza.

Sitting in an air-conditioned restaurant, devouring slices of Korean-style pizza (which, yes, has an entirely different flavor profile—think sweeter, with toppings you’d never find in the States), we recounted the chaos of the afternoon, laughing now that the frustration had passed.

That’s the thing about travel.

One moment, you’re walking through a palace in flowing silk, imagining yourself in another time. The next, you’re sweaty, lost, and struggling to explain in a foreign language that you need to find your way home.

Both moments matter.

Both shape how you see the world—and yourself in it.