Savoring Seoul: Kimchi, Stamps, Tea, and Taekwondo

Time had been slipping through our fingers. Somewhere between the early mornings at HUFS, the street food, the night markets, the temples, the bookstores, and the endless winding streets of Insadong, we had arrived at our last full day in Seoul. But that didn’t mean we were slowing down.

We started the day with our typical breakfast, but today it was the kind of meal where no one rushed—savoring the last few bites, knowing we wouldn’t be sitting in this city again for a while. Then, we walked into the lanes of Insadong, a place we had wandered dozens of times already, but today was different. This time, we weren’t just here to shop. We were here to create.

Throughout the week, we had passed countless shops selling stamps—intricately carved, lined up in neat rows in display cases. I had a vague understanding of what they were—formal seals, used in place of a signature on official documents. But today, we were doing more than just looking. We were making our own. It felt significant in a way I couldn’t quite put into words.

Learning to write our names in Hangul at HUFS had been one thing, but seeing them carved into stone, into something tangible, something permanent, was another. It was one of the most personal souvenirs I’d ever taken home. Most tourists wouldn’t think to do something like this. But here we were, engraving a small piece of ourselves into a tradition that stretched back centuries.

After stamping ourselves into history, we made our way down the street to lunch, where we were each greeted with an ENTIRE chicken in broth to eat, and once we had finished our meal we fought through the food coma to stumble toward a place I hadn’t even realized was right next to our hotel the entire time—the Kimchi Museum.

At this point, kimchi had become a staple in our diets. Before coming to Korea, some of us had never even tried it. Now? It was served with every single meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—it didn’t matter. It was everywhere. Kimchi isn’t just food. It’s a ritual. It’s history. It’s survival.

The museum took us through its origins, regional variations, preparation methods, and—most importantly—the tasting station.

We sampled several different types of kimchi, some with more sweetness, some with a stronger fermented funk, some mild, and some with a heat that sneaked up on you. Each one was so distinct, and tied to a specific region or tradition. By now, we were so used to kimchi as a side dish that we barely thought about its significance. But standing here, learning about the process, the generations of families who passed down their recipes, the sheer cultural weight behind a simple plate of pickled vegetables, I saw it in a new light. Kimchi isn’t just food. It is heritage.

We had a short break before the night’s final event, so Madison (one of my fellow travellers) and I slipped away to a traditional tea house just across from our hotel. The space was serene and warm, steeped in the scent of dried herbs and roasted grains. For a little while, the noise of the city faded. It was just us, the clink of glass cups, and the smooth, earthy flavor of traditional Korean tea. Sometimes, in a trip this packed, you don’t realize how much you need a quiet moment until you’re sitting in one.

Our final event in Seoul was…hard to define.

K-Kick.

How do you explain a show that was part modern theater, part martial arts, part traditional music, and part unfiltered energy?

It was loud. It was intense. It was **visceral.

The entire show was in Korean, and while that meant we didn’t catch every word, the story didn’t need subtitles. It was in the movement, the music, and the rhythm of the performance. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Of course, photos and videos were strictly forbidden, which only made the experience feel more fleeting, more ephemeral—a moment you had to be fully present for. And maybe that was the point.

After the performance, we parted ways, wandering back to our hotel under Seoul’s neon-lit sky. Tomorrow, we were leaving for Cheonan, where we would visit schools and get an up-close look at South Korea’s education system. Seoul wasn’t gone for good—we’d be back at the end of the month—but this chapter was closing. Some of us still had packing to do. Others took a last-minute walk through Insadong, unwilling to let go just yet.

For me, it was a moment to soak it all in. The narrow streets, the smell of sizzling food from tiny restaurants tucked into alleyways, the distant hum of a city that never truly slept.

Tomorrow, we’d move on.

But tonight?

Tonight was ours.