The Last Drop of Jeju
Our last day on Jeju. No pomp, no ceremony—just a quiet, inevitable goodbye. We had one final stop before packing our bags: Cheonjiyeon Waterfall (천지연폭포), a place that felt more like a secret whispered through the trees than a tourist attraction.
One of our team members had been injured back in Seoul, so we worried the hike would be too much. But calling it a “hike” was a stretch. The path was wide, shaded, and mercifully forgiving, a gentle walk that followed a river so clear it looked like someone had turned the saturation up too high. Mist rose off the surface, catching in the thick, humid air, and turtles bobbed lazily in the shallows. Even with the summer heat, the cool water and canopy of trees kept the place feeling calm, almost sacred.
Anna, our guide, took the opportunity to share more of Jeju’s myths with us—legends of the 돌하르방, or "stone grandpas," those round-faced guardians of the island whose bulbous noses, when rubbed, supposedly bring a son to expectant parents. Less well-known but far more powerful in spirit were the stone grandmothers, statues bent with the weight of centuries, representing the women of Jeju who had sustained the island, working themselves raw to provide for their families.
Then, finally, the falls. Cheonjiyeon revealed itself in a rush of white water crashing into a pool of impossible jade-green. The sound alone was enough to drown out the noise of the world, leaving only the weight of the moment and the sheer presence of nature. We stood there, damp from the mist, eyes locked on the endless motion of the falls, knowing that no photo could ever do justice to what we felt.
After soaking in our last bit of Jeju’s natural beauty, we headed to a local market for lunch—our first real look at rural Korea’s daily life. If Seoul’s markets felt curated, this one was pure, unpolished reality. No frills, no gimmicks, just an overwhelming sensory feast: stalls of glistening fish, slabs of meat hanging from hooks, stacks of fresh produce, dried herbs, handmade goods. The smell of sizzling street food filled the air. We grabbed steaming mandu and—out of habit—our usual iced Americanos, by now a necessary part of our existence.
And then, just like that, Jeju was behind us. Back at the hotel, we crammed souvenirs into suitcases that were already straining at the seams and made one final pilgrimage to our newfound safe haven—the little Italian restaurant that had unexpectedly become a favorite. Wine was poured, pasta devoured, conversation stretched late into the evening.
Tomorrow, we’d be on a plane to Busan. (*Insert obligatory Train to Busan joke here.*)
Jeju had worked its way into us. Not in some dramatic, soul-searching way—more like an undercurrent, a shift in our posture. We had navigated, adapted, and found rhythms in a place that once felt so foreign. And as we fell into bed for our last night on the island, the thought settled in: we weren’t just passing through anymore.
We belonged here, at least for a little while longer.
