Tea, Thrills, and Unexpected Delights
Waking up was a battle I wasn’t prepared for. My legs—scorched to a crisp from the previous day's sun—throbbed in protest as I peeled myself out of bed. No amount of aloe could soothe the relentless burn, and for once, I was grateful to pull back the curtains and find the sky draped in thick, merciful clouds. Breakfast, once again, was Starbucks and a silent prayer as I hobbled down to the hotel lobby to meet the group.
Anna, our ever-brilliant guide, had another packed itinerary for us—first up, a botanical garden, followed by a stop at a local beach, lunch at what had quickly become our safe haven (a pizza joint), and then a visit to the famed Osulloc Green Tea Farm. It was a mix of nature, indulgence, and a little bit of consumerism—essentially, the perfect Jeju experience.
Despite the misty weather, the botanical garden was breathtaking. A lush sprawl of local flora, complete with a small zoo (which I had complicated feelings about) and, to my absolute delight, wild peacocks strutting through the grounds like they owned the place. The crown jewel, though, was the lava tubes—ancient tunnels formed by volcanic eruptions, now open for exploration. The damp air and thick jungle canopy pressing in from above made it feel like something out of Indiana Jones. It was eerie, beautiful, and humbling—reminders of the raw power that had shaped this island.
From there, we made our way to the beach, and if there was ever a moment that felt like salvation, it was stepping into that warm, shallow water. My poor sunburnt legs, swollen and furious, sighed in relief as I waded in. The sand here was impossibly soft and bright, stretching out beneath the knee-deep water for what felt like half a mile. I could’ve stayed there all day, floating, healing. But pizza called.
The restaurant was another perfect example of Korea’s effortless mastery of aesthetics. Tucked away and unassuming from the outside, the interior was warm and inviting, with mismatched chairs, vintage posters, and a low hum of conversation. And, as expected, the pizza was *chef’s kiss*. I don’t know what magic Korea has worked into their dough and toppings, but I have yet to be disappointed.
Next was Osulloc Green Tea Farm, which, aside from its stunning fields of tea stretching over rolling hills, is also famous for its skincare brand, Innisfree. This was my kind of place—beautiful, peaceful, and offering snacks. We wandered the fields, took in the scent of fresh tea leaves, and treated ourselves to matcha ice cream (even I, a known matcha skeptic, had to admit it was incredible). It was a good way to wind down the day—or so we thought.
With unexpected free time on our hands, we split into two groups—half headed for the water park, while the rest of us opted for the amusement park. I thought I knew what to expect. I was very very wrong.
The entrance was a fever dream—wide, open walkways lined with shops, character meet-and-greets, and cafés leading into a park that seemed to have no single cohesive theme. The kid’s area was dedicated to giant, anthropomorphic insects, which were somehow both endearing and unsettling. Then there were the animal-themed sections, which leaned heavily on creatures you’d associate more with Central America—snakes, iguanas, foxes, and, bafflingly, poop. Yes. There was a whole character based around poop. I still don’t know what to make of that.
The rides were no joke. Even my thrill-seeking friends, veterans of theme parks back home, were caught off guard by just how intense they were. Korean roller coasters don’t mess around—loops, drops, and speeds that left even the most seasoned among us gripping their restraints a little tighter. As someone who draws the line at upside-down rides, I played the role of bag-holder and designated photographer, watching the chaos unfold from a safe distance.
Eventually, we wandered into the gift shop, where I finally gave in to my desire for a capybara plushie (these little guys are everywhere in Korea, and I had been eyeing one since Seoul). More importantly, I found a film camera—my previous one had died somewhere along the trip, and I wasn’t about to let the rest of my time in Korea go undocumented.
Dinner was a well-earned indulgence. An Italian restaurant we’d spotted the night before had been calling our names, and we answered with a meal of creamy carbonara, crisp white wine, and the kind of slow, winding conversation that only comes after weeks of shared adventure. The restaurant’s bathroom, however, provided an unexpected cultural curveball—bidets, which we’d noticed sporadically in Seoul, were apparently standard in almost all public restrooms here. Culture shock, round two.
As we made our way back to the hotel, we stumbled upon a craft fair tucked near a small bar—local artisans selling handmade soaps, crocheted trinkets, jewelry, and, of course, K-pop merch. It was the perfect, quiet cap to the night.
Back in my room, I started the inevitable struggle of packing. With only one day left on Jeju, the reality of the trip winding down was settling in. New purchases, souvenirs, and memories—all of it had to fit somehow. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, I let myself sink into the plush bedding, stomach full, heart fuller, and let the soft lull of the island carry me to sleep.
