Solo in Seoul

Four months later...

It’s my fourth day in Seoul and my third very lazy one. I’m homesick and tired of planning things. Or thinking about planning things. Or thinking about thinking about planning things. I want someone to set an itinerary for me then lead me by the hand. Or not. I mean, do I have to see everything? What’s wrong with soaking up a culture by walking aimlessly around the city? Or just sitting on a bench and eating gelato? 

Dave always says that I am Newton’s first law of motion in action (or inaction). He’s so right. (Congrats buddy, it happened.)

My second day here I got up at 7am, ate breakfast, then spent 12 hours walking from one neighborhood to the next. I explored Changdeokgung Palace and its secret garden, Bukchon Hanok Village, Gyeongbokgung Palace and the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art . But today I awoke without a concrete plan (or unbalanced force to set me in motion) and soon I had wasted my entire morning reading Snowflower and the Secret Fan, thinking about foot binding and hugging my dogs (unrelated thoughts), scrolling through my favorite Insta pet accounts (@harlowandsage, @pumpkintheraccoon and @goatsofanarchy) and watching House of Cards. Only occasionally thumbing through my Korea Guide, pretending to plan things. I finally left my dorm only to end up at a book café around the corner. It’s where I always end up when I’m missing home or overcome by travel agoraphobia (is that a thing?).

I miss having a travel partner. My convos have evaporated to nods, gestures and a few staccato words. My hostel also lacks the communal vibe of my dorms in Taiwan, so I haven’t met any solo travelers. And most Koreans, if they do speak English, appear hesitant to use it. I assume because they haven’t had much practice. Guys, I am no one to judge. It took me four days to figure out how to properly pronounce “hello” (annyeong haseyo) and “thank you” (gomaseubnida) in Korean. 

In this sprawling city and homogenous culture, I feel like a bit of an alien. Eyes appear to avert when I walk by, except when I tripped over that bench. Few smile back, which I attribute to cultural differences and Koreans’ tendency to avoid displays of emotion. (Is this true?) Or maybe it’s because of these freckles. God, I bet it’s the freckles. Or “those things” as my Chinese friend Shirley called them as she pointed at my arm in disgust.

I started really missing Dave again in Taiwan. At first it was because I knew he had been to Taipei, so I pictured him everywhere. Riding on the train, ambling through tiny alleys, eating stinky tofu. It was also a place I knew we’d love exploring together. Luckily, I soon met great friends and my days—and my mind—were occupied. In Seoul I’m alone again. And sure, sometimes I like that. But I want someone else to accidentally eat a pig’s ear (the shape should’ve given that one away). Or see me get chased (two nights in a row) by a woman with pineapple cake. Or remind me how to say, shit, how do you say “hello” again? This is the part of the world I’ve been most excited about, but it’s also the part I’d most like to share with someone, specifically one David A. Harper.

In the beginning of my trip I met so many travelers who quit their jobs, gave up their apartments and packed up (or sold) their belongings before hopping on a plane to wherever. Many told me they had nothing to go back to. Most were young, early twenties, with their future in question. It’s different for me. My future is right where I left it, tucked inside my little corner of St. Paul, where two dogs sit on the back of the couch staring out the window eagerly waiting my return (I hope) and Dave stands in the kitchen doing dishes and folding laundry. Kidding. Where Dave sits in the basement sorting fishing gear. I have so much to go home to. I mean, all that gear.

Once you realize what a good thing you have at home, leaving it behind becomes so much harder. Ironically, leaving home is what always makes us realize just what we left behind. I'm so lucky to be here now. And once I return I’m certain I’ll experience that ol' tinge of wanderlust and ennui. I’m already thinking about my next adventure. But right now, sitting here in this café listening to Regina Spektor and watching the girl next to me study a comic book while the Korean girls on either side of her take selfies, I’d love nothing more than to snuggle up in my bed with my puppies, my Dave and a huge box of chocolate chip cookies. I mean HUGE. Milk too, obviously. Yes, IN BED.

Still here

I fully intended to blog every day. And freewrite and read and meditate, maybe do some yoga. Yet here I am, almost four months in, and this is just my third entry.  And a bogus entry, really, meant to assure you that I intend to blog soon. Yes, before I’m on the plane home. I’ve been writing, making notes, it’s just the putting them all into one cohesive entry that has taken me some effort. Especially when doing said posting takes me away from swimming, exploring, eating or my all-time favorite, lollygagging. I will tell you this (spoiler alert): my luggage made it back to me.

Ten things that will make you thankful you only lost your luggage

Countless travelers have shared their tales of woe these last few months. It made me realize, losing your luggage for a few days? Not so bad.  In fact, it’s about the best of the myriad of crappy things that can happen to you.

1. Monkey bites.

 Lola was bit by a monkey while just lying on the beach. She had to get a rabies shot in her stomach. HER STOMACH.

2. Dog Bites.

A dude was bit by a stray dog. I do not know said dude, but I imagine there are a lot of them. (Dudes and definitely dogs.)

3. Getting shot at.

Natalie was shot at while sitting in the back of her taxi in Nigeria. She later found out the driver owed a debt and the shooter was just trying to blow the tire, but still.

4. Losing your phone, clothes, passport, will to live.

Maybe not that last one, but Lizzie’s phone was lost and/or stolen three times. Her backpack (which held her clothes AND her passport) was also “misplaced” in Indonesia when a bus driver neglected to load it on the bus. She had to fly back home to the UK to avoid paying $30/day (for approx. 6 weeks) to stay in Indonesia while she waited for her new visa and passport.

5. Luggage misses the boat. Literally.

John and Cathy, a couple from Sierra Nevada, took the slow boat to Luang Prabang. Their luggage stayed behind. It’s one thing for your luggage not to make the plane, but to not make a small boat where it literally sits ten feet away from you? (Once located, the guide company initially wouldn’t send it on the bus because the luggage didn’t have locks and the company didn’t want to be held responsible for potential stolen items. Note to self: always lock your luggage.)

6. Falling coconuts/shattered noggins/broken dreams.

Someone knew a guy who was hit on the head by a falling coconut. This one seemed like a stretch until I noticed falling coconut signs all around a park in Taiwan.

7. Motorbike accidents.

Thailand, especially, was filled with limping and bandaged westerners who had crashed their motorbikes. It always seemed to be their right sides covered in scabs and gauze. I saw one poor guy schlep his right side all over town like a large sack of potatoes or more appropriately, mangoes.

8. Motorbike muggings.

I didn’t see it for myself (thank god), but in Phnom Penh, two men on motorbikes would surround a tuk-tuk and rip bags from unsuspecting passengers. They were also said to cut bags off of people on sidewalks, or nab them off of other motorbike passengers and drivers, pulling their victims from their bikes and onto the street. I practiced throwing steely glares and mean elbows during every tuk-tuk ride.

9. Food poisoning/comas.

Elske, a Dutch girl, was on a trip in Africa when 37 people in her group got food poisoning. She was in the hospital for days, and since she didn’t trust that the hospital's tools were properly sterilized, she refused IVs, prolonging her dehydration. Another guy went into a coma. Suddenly a few bouts of diarrhea doesn’t look so bad. Scratch that. Sound so bad. Nope. I’ll stop there.

10.  Cockroaches and other creepy crawlies.

A girl was on the night bus when she spotted a cockroach. (Full disclosure: the girl was Elske again.) Then another. She lifted up her mattress and the entire underside was covered. She looked up to see two other people balled up on the edge of their mattresses looking at her. While the rest of the bus slept soundly, the three all-knowing curled their toes and counted the seconds till they arrived at their destination.

Onward

Yesterday marked my first full week spent traveling alone. It was more emotionally taxing than I could have ever imagined. But I did it. I’m still here. I didn’t hop back on that plane no matter how much I wanted to. (Mostly because I didn’t yet have my luggage.)

They say do what scares you and I did a lot of it. Dealing with missed flights and lost luggage, taking cabs alone, haggling with tuk-tuk drivers, booking stays, walking around with my pack in tow (I was desperately afraid it’d be too heavy), staying in hostels (my first), even just crossing a Bangkok street. Some of these already sound so insignificant, but each one marked a positive step forward and the beginning of this big adventure.

A lot of bad shit happened, but a lot of good, too. And when my mind was too buried in the bad to glimpse the good, friends reached in and pulled me out, sending me love, encouragement, resources, and in my friend Nina’s case, a five-star hotel and a Thai massage. (What!?) Thanks, friends. Thanks for saving me from myself.

Best of all, they reminded me that whether I leave in five months, tomorrow or in the next five minutes, it doesn’t matter. I still went for it. And no one is going to love me any less.

But for now, I’m movin’ on, luggage in tow. I spent my remaining Bangkok days in the Sukhumvit area, which was a welcome relief from the cluttered chaos of Banglamphu. I brought Lizzie, a sassy young Brit with me for my five-star adventure at the Grand Sheraton Sukhumvit—because pay it forward and Buddha knows I need to keep growing that karmic bank account.

Before I left Banglamphu, Lizzie and I ventured to Wat Pho to see the Reclining Buddha, an image that represents the final goal of Buddhism: Nirvana. And I was feeling its effects. There were 108 bronze bowls that lined the inside wall of the wat (temple). For 20 Baht (about 60 cents) you received 108 coins to drop in the bowls for good luck. Just to be sure, I sent each one off with a little blessing and many thanks. 

The Reclining Buddha chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool.

Twinkle toes. People are snapping the bottoms of his feet which are inlaid with mother-of-pearl to display the 108 auspicious signs which distinguish a true Buddha. I don't want to spoil the surprise.

 I should have gone to the temple days earlier. For the first time since arriving in Bangkok, I felt at peace and a sense of relief. Maybe it was the sea of orange we floated in as hundreds of young monks ate their lunch. Or the temple cats that dodged in and out of entryways. Maybe the smell of incense or just the feel of my bare feet on cool tile. 

As my finals days in Bangkok passed, I slowly made my way back to myself. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the city started to grow on me. I spent my final nights at Pause One Day Hostel where I did rooftop yoga and met the first Americans of the trip: Jenny (from Vail, CO) and her sister, Katie (from Connecticut).

Jenny left the next morning, but Katie kindly let me bum around with her, her cousin and his Irish friend, who are both living in Hong Kong. We ate Chinese food at a place that had a wall filled with pictures of supposed celebrities. None of whom we knew. We then trekked to a couple of rooftop bars where (through conversation not experience) Katie learned that Ping Pong shows do not involve keeping score.

On my last day, I made my way to the Vietnam Embassy at 4pm sharp, collected my visa and nabbed a taxi to the airport. Chiang Mai here I come! I sat in the back of my taxi smiling and thinking about the relaxing days ahead, right up until the taxi pulled to the side of the highway. I looked up to see the engine steaming as my driver poured a water over it. Bangkok’s last attempt to keep me in its grasp. Curse you, Bangkok!

I fumbled with Google Translate (“Help, going to miss flight, please call taxi”) while my driver grabbed another water bottle. He attempted to hail me a new taxi, but all he got was a farmer in a pickup truck. Not sure what that was about. Next a cop arrived.

After ten minutes, my imagination began running wild. I’m alone with all my stuff, sitting beneath an underpass with a cop, a farmer and a taxi driver. Surely this was some sort of scam Lonely Planet missed (and also the start of a bad joke). Twenty minutes later, to my surprise and relief, a new taxi showed up. He raced me to the airport, all the way insisting that he was going to pull over if I didn’t pay for all the tolls he paid to get to me. Tolls I had already paid my previous driver. “The Government called me so you have to pay them.” He wore me down. And honestly, I was ready to pay anything just to get the hell out of Bangkok.

That giant sweatbox of a city officially tested my every muscle, but I’m stronger for it. I’m slowly adapting to this new place and this new routine, developing a rhythm, just as my Aussie roommate assured me I would.

Tonight I’m sleeping in a treehouse, which sounds all Swiss Family Robinson, but is skewing Blair Witch. It’s also quite possible I’ll be eaten by some sort of large frog type duck out my window. I’m still homesick, a little shaken up from the taxi debacle and was berated by airport security for basically not speaking Thai, but I went for it. And that’s everything. 

Obligatory photo of temple buddhas.

Temple architects are no joke.

A lush, rooftop jungle oasis hidden in the middle of the city. And a glimpse into how the other half lives. Thank you, Nina.

Bangkok or bust

“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”

— Neale Donald Walsch

Don't I know it, Neale. 

Yesterday I got kicked off a bench by a security guard who I’m certain thought I was a vagabond. I can’t blame him. It was day four in my same, stretched out jumpsuit, wreaking of sweat and fish sauce. My disheveled, greasy hair piled onto my head into what, at the time, seemed like a classy top knot, but upon finding a mirror looked more like a possum nest.

My luggage is still on walkabout. An occurrence that punctuated a stressful travel day (27 hours) that began just as I sent Harper a pic of me on the plane with two empty seats on either side and the caption, “So lucky.” To which the universe replied, “Jinx, sucker!”

As my text message reached its destination, the pilot garbled through the crackle of the loudspeaker that our plane’s parking brake was stuck. And since he was apparently without WD-40, we were instructed to get off the plane and find new flights.

 I was rerouted to O’Hare and Narita instead of LAX and Seoul. My plane out of Chicago was delayed, which caused me to miss my Narita connection. Then my new Narita plane was delayed, at which point I began to question my sanity and also the whereabouts of my luggage. I wasn’t the only one. The flight attendants told me with sad, friendly eyes that there was no record of me checking any luggage, and maybe there would be someone a United agent I could talk to at Suvarnabhumi, but also, maybe not.

Once I arrived in Bangkok, I filed a report with the airport, but the number they gave me to check on it wouldn’t work. And when I called the airport direct they said I was delusional. Or that’s what I heard. After much back and forth, a few days, and the Columbo-like efforts of Harper, my elusive pack was discovered in San Francisco, hanging out at Delores Park, no doubt. It is set to arrive at my hostel today, but I’ve been told a lot of things, so I’m hopeful, but skeptical.

Needless to say, it’s been a rough start. Sure, not having a comb or toothbrush (or change of underwear) is not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world. However, when you’re on the other side of said world, it can feel like it. It made me realize how vulnerable I am. I have no one to lean on, no one to tell loan me their deodorant, no one to sleep on the street with if I can’t find a room. (My biggest concern.) Safety is in numbers, and I’m just, well, A number.

 Don't get me wrong, I knew solo traveling would be a little hard, but I thought, I enjoy being alone. Yes, I enjoy being alone at coffee shops and city parks and running trails. Places I drove to in my car, carrying my cell phone and surrounded by people who speak English. Not the same. 

I think my feelings of vulnerability have been compounded by the culture shock of the wild metropolis of Bangkok. I felt the same way my first night in Accra, but then day two I was whisked away to a small village with new travelmates also thrown off by the hissing in the streets and the kids chasing us yelling, “Yevu, yevu!” But slowly, we began to understand the culture and the people, and we loved it and them. 

So I’m hoping things will be easier once I leave Bangkok. Unfortunately I’m stuck here until Monday. The Vietnam Embassy stole my passport (and my hopes and dreams) when they told me that despite what I read online, an express visa is no longer an option.

All this is not to say that Bangkok doesn’t have its charms. I’m just seeing it at the wrong time to appreciate them. I walked ten miles my first day, in and around Chinatown (Yaowarat), sneaking down tiny back alleys crammed with street vendors, bright textiles, young monks, and golden buddhas. Slipping past mango slices and suckling pigs, occasionally getting slapped in the face by the stink of Durian. It's an endless cacophony of sounds, mixed with exotic sights and smells. It's sensory overload at its finest.

I visited Wat Thepthidaram and saw the Erawan Shrine. I rode my first tuk-tuk, then haggled with my driver who wanted me to pay 400 Baht! (For context, that’s how much I pay to stay in my hostel’s bunk room.) Today I may walk to Khoasan Road and wherever else these stinky feet lead me.

In the meantime, a friend suggested that I move to a different neighborhood, noting that she feels Banglamphu isn’t the best representation of Bangkok. And so tomorrow (assuming my luggage gets here), I’ll book it to Sukhumvit to see a different side of Bangkok, one I only glimpsed yesterday, just before I was sent away to buy deodorant.

p.s. To the countless friends and family who have been checking in every day, I’m indebted. You’ve made me feel so loved and supported. Thank you.

And I'm off

I once explained to a friend why I never moved to NYC or San Francisco, even though I dreamt of both for years. Or why I never backpacked around the world, though my heart forever ached with the regret of not doing it. His response: “You never jumped.” That stuck with me. Never jumped. He made it seem so simple.

After some serious pondering (overanalyzing), I realized he was right. Sure, I had bunny-hopped a few times. I moved to Minneapolis, stayed a short stint in Boulder, volunteered in Africa. The big reasons I hadn’t legs-wide-arms-out jumped made sense: money and career. That is, not having either. But still, so far my jumps have lacked oomph. They were calculated movements focused on the landing, scrutinizing every “what then?” and “what if?”

And I’m a serious what if’er. What if I can’t find a job? What if no one likes me? What if I get diarrhea on a ten-hour train ride? But at a certain point, you realize, shit, a person can spend a lifetime what if’ing their way out of really living. You think, I’ll do it when this happens or when that happens. You always have more time, right? But what if you don’t? And, you know, what if, just maybe, it all works out?

And so, passport packed, evacuation insurance purchased, fingers crossed, I’m off. I’m leaving my job, my supportive partner (thanks so much, Harps), my puppies (cue wailing), my comfort zone and my “What Ifs” to do what I should have done long ago: JUMP.

Right now, I'm sitting at Gate E7 waiting to hop on a plane to Bangkok. From there, I'll spend four or five-ish months backpacking around SE Asia. That is, barring any monkey-biting or sewer-falling incidents (hey, both happened to my roommate in Ghana). And let’s be honest, assuming I don’t have a total meltdown. After all, I was that kid who had trouble sleeping at her best friend’s place--one house away. 

This is a trip I’ve dreamt about for years, but didn’t seem possible till I watched other incredible women, like my friends Elizabeth Bandy and Lacey Fox, do it. (Thanks, girls.) I’ll be alone most of the time, apart from two weeks wandering around Vietnam with my Harper, and a possible Bali birthday celebration with my friend Nina in April. I’m hoping other friends will join me as well. Friends, consider this your formal invitation. Anyone? Anyone?

Some have said I’m going on a soul-searching trip. Sure, it’s a little of that. A chance to right regrets? That, too. But mostly, it’s just me trying to learn more about the world, meet new people, experience new things (and new cultures), challenge myself and nosh on Tom Yum Goong while delicate feet tiptoe along my spine. All of which I hope somehow, in some way, help make me a better person. So, here we go. Mom, you might be the only one reading this blog. So consider all these words for you (ok, plus Dad and Dave). I already miss you and don’t worry, because What If Nothing. I got this.