Seoul – South Korea

Trying to navigate Seoul the old way without constant access to the internet is absolutely doable but I can’t lie, it’s not easy. As was becoming habit, I started my day sat in Starbucks making sure I had notes and screenshots of all the information I needed to get to my chosen destination for the day, and hopefully back again. I strolled out of the beastly café and threw myself into central Seoul on a Monday morning fully kitted out in hiking boots and all the paraphernalia required to hike up some rock. I felt slightly out of place riding the first bus, and a little jealous of the other two tourists yapping away about where to go while searching on their phones, but no matter, I made it to the final bus that would deliver me to the start point of my trek and boarded it confidently on the basis it was overflowing with people dressed like me.

Sometimes when I’m trying to figure out how to get somewhere I’m forced during my Google search to read someone’s God forsaken travel blog, which, although much more informative than mine, are usually complete bollocks. In the case of Seoul’s highest mountain there were bloggers that couldn’t make the summit because it was too scary, they ran out of water in the first hour, it’s just so damn difficult, or there’s a 45-minute queue for a picture at the summit (believable during a busy period I’m sure to be honest). So, I’ve figured I need to up my game and jazz up my stories. Here we go. I hiked up the supposedly scary, albeit challenging final 300 metres of Seoul’s highest peak with a fractured ankle and, I’m 38 years old next month, so get on with it and quit whining. There was an emotional incident where some jumped up w**ker came charging through the queue at the summit demanding everyone to take a quick snap at the top and bugger off because people in the queue had been waiting too long. As he had just arrived, I’m not sure how he came to that conclusion, and I having queued patiently for no more than three minutes was overrun with desire to throw him off the edge of the cliff as he stood at the top longer than anyone else with a smug Hitler-like grin. I was angry with myself for not saying something but at the same time, what’s the point? I just need to rewind a little and provide a small disclaimer regarding the ankle as I believe in reporting the facts and it begins with a bit of back story. Hopefully you read that I buggered my ankle in Mongolia, I literally couldn’t walk without tears in my eyes the morning after I rolled it six days ago, although by that evening it was almost as though nothing had happened aside from the swelling and the haunting memory of hearing something crack whirling around my cerebral mush. Nonetheless, I have continued to walk almost normal, the swelling remains, and despite rolling the same ankle as soon as I began the Seoul hike which delivered a bolt of pain possibly warning me it was a bad idea, I continued. Besides, whenever I visit a doctor thinking I’m severely damaged they usually tell me to bugger off. I briefly knocked myself out dropping a 15-kilo chunk of metal on my head years ago, all I got was my scalp glued back together and a letter telling me to return to A&E if I died.

Having summited a mighty 836 metre peak, I felt deserving of a good feed, and after having failed miserably on my first two nights I finally hit the big time on the final one. Outside of my hotel the streets were full of little restaurants and bars that were always busy with what appeared to be mostly locals. Almost all the restaurants were advertising the same steak-kind dish, and when I peered through their windows (admittedly while strolling past at pace) I could see funny looking vacuum cleaner pipes coming down from the ceiling that hovered above a dining table. People would be sat around such tables chatting away and cooking their own slabs of meat which to me looked far too complicated, especially for someone who eats out for the purpose of not having to do the prep, cooking, and cleaning myself. My first night I ended up with a sandwich and a packet of crisps from the corner shop. The second night I at least ended up in a small restaurant, sat outside over a smelly drain, but did serve up a decent plate of fried chicken and a good beer, although this was far from the multitude of delicious looking dishes I assumed were served up everywhere in South Korea. On my third and final night I tried slightly harder and found somewhere to sit that didn’t look like it required an instruction manual to operate the table and produce my meal but would produce a nice big feed. As it happens, I still screwed up, by ordering a meal for two, I think. I chose a tray of fried chicken, chips, salad, and some noodle things along with a large beer, and so actually I hadn’t improved that much after all other than quantity and comfort. It was during my second beer, as I struggled to complete the tray of food that was far bigger than the menu picture had implied, I looked up at a poster on the wall advertising the same dish with two beers. I looked around and everyone was sharing their meals. I felt silly for a moment until I realised I had no one to share with, drank to that, and finished off my meal for two. My final observation regarding South Korean dining is the button on the dining table that when pressed produces a sound very similar to my decrepit front doorbell at home and summons a waiter or waitress. It takes a bit of getting used to and feels impolite, but it’s a system that appears to work remarkably well.

My final day in Seoul saw me check out of the hotel and jump on a train to the Lotte Tower, the world’s fifth highest building at 555 metres. I’m no enthusiast but as it was around 90% cheaper than going up the Burj Khalifa in Dubai I figured it was damn good value for money and ticked off another thing to do. It was worth the effort, not that it required much. There were few crowds and the lift soon whisked me to around the 120^th floor; it’s hard to say exactly as the ticket allows you to range several floors offering 360-degree views, the chance to walk on a glass floor, the opportunity to play a grand piano, a café, and the compulsory gift shop. I tried to take my time, but there is only so much time you can spend looking at views of the same city, and I had spent the last three days doing so. I headed back down to the ground floors and their heaving luxury shopping malls, and having spent some time looking up and marvelling at how beautiful Lotte Tower actually is, I caught the train back to my hotel to collect my bags and transfer to the airport. Incredibly, during this process, I found a lovely little café where I picked up a delicious chicken and rice salad and sat down with chopsticks for the first time this trip. I couldn’t have been more content until the lovely café owner walked over and placed a fork on my table suggesting that I was probably less skilled with chopsticks then I like to imagine. I politely ignored the fork and battled on, returning my tray clear of every grain of rice. It was time to leave with my head held high.

And so, as I write this, sat on my hotel bed with a bag of ice seducing my swollen, possibly fractured but likely sprained ankle (yes, I wrote the final paragraph long before writing the rest), the nerves begin to rise as I turn my attention to the end of the world. Yes, that strange and delightful little country, New Zealand. That one country that over the past four years has advertised itself as being too good for anyone else, that makes mere mortals like myself not feel welcome anymore, and now charges tourists for their environmental impact despite always being one of the most expensive countries in the world to travel. In spite of all this, I know a lot of good buggers living there and can’t wait to return in order to tease myself with prospects of never leaving. Afterall, climbing a mountain (hill!) with a fractured (sprained!) ankle makes me no mere mortal!