Afternoon in Insadong

After class I meditated, the insistence of Seoul's traffic slowing to a susurrus while my stomach rose and fell, rose and fell.

Pacing my apartment, the glowing stillness lingered. Another afternoon falling into the abyss of work, work, sleep and food.

I had to get out.


Exiting Jongno 3, I asked an old man where Insadong was, but my Korean was like a new language that no one spoke.

'Ins-sa- dong,' I repeated, his frown deepening with every syllable.

But I didn't mind if I found Insadong or not. The afternoon stretched ahead, and no one dictated the direction of my footsteps.

Soon I was in a park. A pagoda marked the centre, its' roof a curving smile. Underneath, characters acted out their lives, gesturing, sitting, sleeping.

I walked into market roads and realised I was in Insadong; ginger and cinnamon floating amongst curio stalls, steam bustling from food stands, jostling amongst crowds.

Down side-streets, spinning barbers' poles signalled brothels, and stooping doors held hidden worlds.

At one junction, there were men who made people slow by hurrying them along. Stubborn pedestrians watched actors gesture on a set.

A gallery pulled me in, and I was alone in a surreal room, black lines following the walls, cones and teapots suspended in the air.

I glanced to my left and a man appeared.

'Annyong Haseyo,' he smiled, as if pleased he'd perfected teleportation.

'This art,' he said, 'are about relationship, relationship people to person, relationship person to world.'

I nodded wisely. The teapot continued to float, and music tinkled somewhere.


Seoul's streets were reality, west with an eastern flavour. Lemongrass in the air, lanterns outside restaurants, polished taxis , gliding down the streets.

Next to a 7-11, a green lushness waved through windows, making shadows on the pavements. Outside the shop , birds tweeted in cages.

Pushing leaves aside, I entered. Reaching fronds made curtains, and women gossiped in whisper friendly spaces.

A woman ushered me to a space by a waterfall, a drinks menu under her arm.

I leant back , pulled a book from my bag, let the afternoon forget itself.