Alleyways in my S(e)oul

Seoul, South Korea - April 2025

The Sunday morning tryst with the alleys began walking along the Cheonggyecheon river walk in Jong-ro district, Insadong, not far from my hotel. The walls climbed high from the river walk to the street level and created a sort of shelter that turned this into its own haven. Groups of workers were bent over sections of the river marked with orange nets as they restored and cleaned the habitat. Friends strolled, families slowly corralled their children along the path, tourists stopped at inconvenient spots to take photos.

I walked for an hour on am empty stomach and then decided to hunt for a coffee and some food. I did not know where I was and only briefly consulted Google Maps as I climbed up the stairs that led to the street-level overpass. I walked in the direction of a JM Marriott hotel, its courtyard adorned with red and purple bougainvillea blossoms,  and then skirted around to what ended up being block upon block of winding alleyways in the Dongdaemun area.

Seoul’s magic in my few days there wove through its winding alleys, filled with shops, eateries, jerry-rigged wiring and signage. Each alleyway held its own gallery of personalities and cast of characters. Each turn served as an invitation to let go of my tight grip of Google maps, to put away my phone and choose a path without knowing where it was going.

During the day, the alleyways are full of food stalls with vendors getting ready for the rush of the evening market. One vendor stacks red stools and tables. A little truck with a bed just big enough for boxes of produce and supplies follows me through the narrow alley, stopping at shops to drop off deliveries. 

Without much foot traffic, I could take my time and so I tapped into my gut feeling, a practice in following intuition. Each time I met a fork in the alley, I stopped to consider what I was “feeling”. Did my eyes thirst for the chaos and aesthetic interest of crossed wires and graffitied walls? Or for a street with wooden windows and tiled teahouses strung with lanterns?

Each turn revealed a new flavor of charm and beauty; I was less interested in qualifying what was in front of me and instead tuned into what my eyes searched for, and what direction weighed lightly in my body.

Once, many years ago, my mother told me that when it comes to making a choice, the right one feels lighter in your body.

I wanted to practice that freedom of choice without fear of consequence. Whatever turn I took, I’d get somewhere. I wanted to trust that I'd end up wherever I was meant to end up. No need to constantly consult a map.

That freedom of movement came with another feeling: discomfort. As I followed some intuitive impulsive direction, tightness took over my limbs. This familiar sensation is often indicative of cognitive dissonance for me. I was veering away from my original destination, "The Coffee".

The gut feeling tugged at my sleeves.

I turned on my location and checked the GPS again.

I had overshot my destination. Without the signage, the storefront hadn’t appealed to what I was looking for, which was a place to sit and lounge. My own internal filter had struck it out! I struggled to abandon the idea, wondering if I should back track. I also felt the self-consciousness creeping in from looking aimless in public.

No one though, seemed to notice.

Again another familiar sensation - the numbness of being invisible and unseen. Sometimes self consciousness is a response to thinking your presence has weight. My presence and actions didn’t mean much to those around me.

With no one watching, there should’ve been no pressure to go in any special direction. But I felt the tightness within myself. Did people notice my waywardness? Was I coming across as a clueless tourist?

Walking the alleyways was a challenge to be okay moving on and letting go. I slowly ended up letting go of my coffee mission in the pursuit of enjoying the path I decided to take.

My search for caffeine paled in comparison to the quiet delight of the unfolding pathways in front of me. I battled with my own brain “should I keep going, or is time for G-maps?” I kept the phone in my pocket, resisting the itch in my fingers to unlock the phone.

My feet carried me through wide streets flanked by tangled wired and debris on the ground. Trepidation grabbed my stomach. What if I didn't know where I was going? Or was headed somewhere I shouldn't be?

Then I saw a sign and the outline of an awning ahead. It was a quaint gelato shop, set deep in a building with a second floor. The shop’s storefront was done up with wood, a sign lettered with curling font. The entrance was narrow, but inside was an elegant but sparse interior inspired by Instagrammable vintage décor, plenty of light and a very steep, precariously spaced out staircase that led to an upper sitting room looking out onto the street below.

The affogato I ordered was served in a tall glass and covered in whipped cream. It was more ice cream than coffee and was delicious mostly in part due to the journey that had preceded it. All that uncertainty and anxiety had been worth it for this unexpected find.

I sat at the window, April sunshine streaming onto my face in this magical solo moment of romance. For a short while, my own presence was comforting enough that I didn’t miss others around me. It was a rare moment of quiet, where restlessness didn't demand a destination or a purpose.

Through my time in Seoul (and later on the same trip, in Jakarta and Jogjakarta) I would wrestle with a feeling of melancholy and restlessness which was different from the vibrant excitement I’d felt on previous trips to Southeast Asia.

Moments of delight – like the gelato shop – appeared when I allowed each decision to unfold rather than forcing a premeditated plan. They happened quietly, in tea houses, alleyways and in watching the rhythms of a street come to life during the peak of sound and traffic and then hum back to equilibrium.

There is an art to choosing without expectation. Doing so does lead to rewards even if my stomach has a pit when making each tiny choice.

"Focus on the journey, not the outcome."

This is the kind of advice your friends and elders give you when you don’t know what to do in life. The number of times I’ve been told to let the journey unfold, to be open to taking a direction regardless of outcome because one cannot know the future sometimes drives me nuts!

It’s a concept riddled with discomfort. I am too fearful of losing my investment of time and energy to a failed outcome.

A ”failed outcome” though is irrelevant when you are walking. The act of meandering through a city has no purpose but to wander, not necessarily to get somewhere.

The alleyways of Seoul exercised my mind’s capacity to let each moment unfold without anticipating what needed to happen next. To face fully one moment at a time with all its doubts and possibility - a sort of journey through the alleys of my own patterned thoughts. This practice (which feels unmoored in a time when our devices are always clocking our moves and positioning) leads to surprises, like the gelato shop and the golden light that poured in with the fervor of a fairytale while I sat at the second story window.

Now if only I could treat the corridors of my life’s relationships and personal choices like these wandering alleys! Maybe there is a way to follow each twist and turn of the day without betting on a premeditated endpoint. And maybe your gut is a legitamate compass for each fork in the road. Even without a GPS you'll still end up in front of whatever you were looking to find.

This was Issue 4 of Micromoments. If you made it this far, I hope you had some tea with you and found some kernel of a thought, or reflection that came to mind.

This newsletter is one big experiment. I welcome your thoughts, suggestions, reflections and questions/concerns any time. Please feel free to reply to this newsletter. I'll be listening on the other side! - Kamna