Wander, Wonder, Write: Part Eight
Holding Joy and Uncertainty in a Rain-Soaked City
About This Series
Wander, Wonder, Write is a reflective travel memoir about a father and daughter exploring east Asia together—with no set itinerary, just open eyes and curious hearts. Blending street food and subway rides with moments of quiet introspection, the series captures both the external adventure and the internal shifts of a man in transition: from Navy Scientist to full-time father, from certainty to the unknown. Each entry is a meditation on presence, parenting, cultural immersion, and the beautiful disorientation of not knowing where the road leads—but walking it anyway.
“If you don’t know where you’re going, any road can take you there.” – Lewis Carroll
Our First Day in Seoul
We woke to rain.
Not the dramatic, thunderclap kind. Just a steady, gentle gray that drapes over everything and softens the edges of the world. The kind of rain that seeps into your bones and makes everything feel cold and sad—like driving across the midwest in February. Undeterred, we suited up and headed out for our first day in Seoul.
Almost as soon as we made our way off the military installation and into Korea proper, my daughter began what can only be described as ‘educated eavesdropping.’ She listened intently to conversations happening all around us. Once in a while, often when I was lost in my own thoughts or trying to plan our next move, she’d announce something with great enthusiasm.
She said foot!
We rode the bullet train into the city, traveling 300 km/hour with smooth precision. It was a marvel to move so quickly—just 23 minutes to cover what would have taken over an hour and a half by bus or subway.
Walking through the train and subway stations was at once familiar and foreign. The rhythm was the same—turnstiles, platform announcements, the shuffle of hurried feet—but the details were unmistakably Korean. Students in pressed uniforms traveled in packs, whispering and laughing. Businessmen in dark suits nodded off with practiced grace, their heads bobbing in unison. Elders perched in quiet corners, plastic shopping bags nestled at their feet like loyal companions.
None! my daughter exclaimed suddenly.
None what? I asked, giving her a sideways glance.
I don’t know. But they didn’t have any of it, she said with a shrug, already onto the next observation.
We found our seats and settled in again, the train pulling out with a low hum and a whisper of acceleration. The world outside blurred into long, horizontal streaks of green and gray. Inside, all was still. My daughter read quietly beside me, her feet swinging slightly above the floor, absorbed in the words on her screen.
The gentle sway of the train, the muted chatter in the cabin, the soothing repetition of the rails beneath us—it all worked together to draw me inward. My mind drifted.
I’ve often thought that a measure of maturity is the ability to hold two opposing truths at once. To feel both joy and sorrow and not run from either. To smile while grieving. To laugh with a lump in your throat. The ability to dwell and function amidst deep unrest—that’s something I strive for. But some days, it feels impossible.
There are times when it feels like I’m carrying a weight no one else can see. A quiet heaviness, tucked beneath the surface. I don’t want to let go of what’s been meaningful to me. Change is hard, no matter how often it happens or how it comes. Very soon, I will retire from the Navy. My last flight is behind me. The next chapter, unwritten. There are other changes as well. I don’t want to lose what has steadied me. But I feel it. I feel the shift coming. The inevitability of change. And I know—deep down—I won’t be able to stop it. What kind of life will the next one be?
Can I want that kind of life?
Still, I want to believe that something better is ahead. I want to trust that what feels like loss now may one day look like growth. That I’ll look back on this season—these aching days—and wonder, why was I so afraid?
I tell myself these things as we ride the train into Seoul. I try to quiet my mind, to stay present. To feel the rhythm of the wheels, the closeness of my daughter beside me, the warmth of this moment before it slips away.
I try to hold it all—the hot and the cold, the joy and the grief, the knowing and the not-knowing.
I try.
The Familiar in the Foreign
At one point, as we transferred from the train to the subway, my daughter returned from a restroom stop with a bewildered smile and a confession.
“The toilet was… different. I hope I did it right.”
Uh… how could you not do it right? I asked, my curiosity piqued.
Well, there was no seat! It was, like, a whole in the ground?!?
Oh… I said, then casually inspected her pant legs and shoes just in case.
Ah yes. Nothing says “welcome to a new culture” quite like the moment you find yourself squatting over a porcelain oval in the ground, questioning every decision that brought you to this point.
Standing on the platform, waiting for the next subway, my daughter continued her clandestine language learning.
Here toast!
Here toast? As in, here there be dragons?
Yes! Definitely!
Language has been a big part of our education since the kids were born. At one point in my career, I had responsibilities that required me to speak French. Having spent a great amount of time learning that language, we decided we would teach the children from birth in hopes that they would continue bilingually into adulthood. It has mostly worked. Trips to France and Switzerland have been easy for us, and have given the kids some idea of how language shapes our worlds and perceptions. When my daughter began teaching herself Korean, however, I was concerned.
Learning another language is one thing—learning an entirely new alphabet and linguistic structure is something else entirely. I felt both intimidated and uncertain, knowing I wouldn’t be able to guide her the way I had with other subjects. And even though we live in the shadow of Washington, D.C., opportunities for language learning within a reasonable distance are surprisingly limited.
What’s surprised me most on this journey is how much she has taught me. She’s patiently explained how the Hangul alphabet was created, and how much more intuitive and logical it is compared to the Roman alphabet. I’ve genuinely enjoyed listening to her share what she’s learned—soaking in the rare and beautiful experience of being taught by my own daughter.
One thing I have noticed, for example, is how many modern Korean words are merely retreads of English words, often with an extra syllable added. For example, the word for chocolate protein shake is pronounced “Protein-uh Choco shake-uh.” Turns out, however, my understanding of the language is still quite incomplete. When I asked her to find directions to the “train-uh station-uh” or whether she wanted to “go to sleep-uh,” she was not amused.
Language isn’t a barrier—it’s a playground. :)
The City, Up Close
The rain had softened to a mist by the time we reached the market district. Narrow alleyways pulsed with movement—umbrellas bumping against shoulders, tires splashing through puddles, scooters weaving between bundled pedestrians. Vendors shouted prices in rhythmic cadence, their voices rising above the patter of water dripping from frayed awnings and plastic tarps. Every stall seemed to glow beneath the cloudy sky—LED bulbs and hanging lamps casting golden halos on glistening displays of goods.
Bright red gochujang tubs stacked like pyramids. Neon pink fish cakes skewered and steaming. Piles of glistening tangerines, their pebbled skins almost glowing against the gray. Knockoff sneakers, stacks of socks, costume jewelry, and bootleg K-pop merchandise—all jumbled together in organized chaos, every price negotiable.
He said Saturday! my daughter blurted mid-bite, as if solving a riddle she’d been turning over in her head for hours.
The air was dense with scent. Sweet roasted chestnuts. Charcoal-grilled meat. The pungent funk of kimchi. Fried oil and wet concrete and something floral drifting faintly from a nearby shop. We weaved through it all slowly, cautiously, as if the place itself might slip away if we moved too fast.
Vendors stood behind makeshift counters of plywood and tarps, their hands busy, their eyes alert. One woman fanned steam away from her metal tray of tteokbokki, the red sauce bubbling and sticky. Another man fried hotteok—brown sugar pancakes hissing in oil—flipping them with the ease of ritual.
We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. The city was speaking, and we were learning to listen.
That woman just said “no baby” to the man she was with!
What was the context of THAT conversation, we both wondered!?! We spent the rest of the afternoon making up stories about that exchange.
We did what tourists do. We pointed at things. We bought souvenirs for friends and family. We took selfies. We got lost and turned around.
As the day wore on, we found ourselves drifting through the street markets, now glowing with a patchwork of lights—fluorescent shop signs, bare bulbs strung overhead, and the warm flicker of food stalls. The rain had stopped, but the streets still shimmered, everything damp and reflective.
In most big cities, I’d steer clear of dark, narrow alleys. But my experiences in Korea—and previously in Japan—had taught me that those hidden corners often hold the best surprises. We had been exploring Seoul for nearly twelve hours, and not once had we felt even a hint of danger or discomfort. Buoyed by a quiet confidence, we decided to search for the smallest, most unassuming hole-in-the-wall we could find—somewhere to sit down, breathe in the moment, and eat whatever was sizzling behind a makeshift counter.
We came across an outdoor food vendor tucked into the narrow bend of a busy alley—steam rising into the night air, the sizzle of oil competing with the laughter of customers pressed shoulder to shoulder. His stall was overflowing with options: golden, crispy hotteok; spicy tteokbokki swimming in red pepper sauce; skewered odeng steaming in broth; and piles of mandu, their delicate skins seared brown and glistening.
The man running the stall was everything you’d expect from a Seoul street food legend—gruff, no-nonsense, and utterly unconcerned with customer service. He moved with sharp efficiency, eyes darting between bubbling pots and outstretched hands, barking short replies in Korean without pausing for breath. There were no lines. No system. Just chaos. A chorus of voices all vying for attention, like a crowded bar where the loudest voice wins.
Timidity had no place here.
I could feel my daughter hesitate, just for a moment. The crowd loomed tall around her—shoulders and elbows and backpacks jostling for space. But then she squared her stance and leaned forward into the fray. I stepped back. This was her moment.
She waited patiently, eyes locked on the vendor, watching his rhythm, anticipating her chance. And when he glanced in her direction—just for a second, while handing off a bowl of noodles and pocketing a crumpled bill—she spoke.
Clear. Confident. In Korean.
He paused, asked a clipped follow-up question. Without missing a beat, she answered.
He didn’t nod. He didn’t smile. He just turned, scooped five dumplings into a container, slid it into a plastic bag, tossed in a pair of chopsticks, and handed it to her in one fluid motion. She passed him the exact change.
Transaction complete.
The crowd surged again. Customers were already shouting their orders again.
She stepped back, bag in hand, triumphant.
We ducked out of the crowd, just far enough to breathe. I turned to her, eyes wide. “YEAH!” I shouted, beaming. I threw up my hand and she smacked it with hers—hard.
That person talked to me in Korean… she said, breathless, glowing. And I talked back.
Then came the sigh—a long, deep exhale. Not exhaustion. Satisfaction. The kind of breath that only comes after doing something brave and unrepeatable. A sigh that carried the weight of effort rewarded, of courage summoned, of growth witnessed.
That was it. The moment.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been prouder.
These are the scenes you don’t plan for. You just hope they happen, and when they do, you press them into memory like a photograph you never want to fade.
This is what we came here for.
We ended the night tucked in an alley, sitting on plastic stools, eating our delicious dumplings under the dripping awning of a closed coffee shop. Further up the alleyway sat seven Korean men, all mid 60’s, gathered around sizzling plates and a gas burner on the table. They were animated and loud, taking turns grilling meat, pouring drinks, and erupting in laughter. R leaned in their direction, trying to catch pieces of the conversation. Every word she understood she’d call out to me.
I’m sorry, but… one more time… no… older brother… friend… this…
She squinted, whispering the pieces she understood. It was a puzzle she wanted to solve—not to impress anyone, but to be part of it. To belong.
As we walked through Seoul under moonlight, I kept thinking how clean it all felt. The streets, yes. But also the energy. The smiles from strangers. The soft nods of acknowledgment. The absence of tension.
The bullet train ride home was quiet. Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of white and green. She leaned her head against the glass, her body slack with contentment, dumplings in her belly and a dozen new memories tucked into her heart. I watched her quietly, not as the little girl I’ve always known, but as someone new. Someone becoming.
Earlier that day, I watched her walk confidently ahead of me through a crowded subway station, not looking back. I heard her speak Korean to a stranger on the train and answer questions with a natural cadence that I couldn’t have imagined even a few months ago. I followed her through wet alleys and bustling markets, watched her taste new foods with curiosity, and read her face as it lit up in recognition of words she once only studied in books. She is not just visiting this place—she is slowly becoming part of it.
The pace of the day had been fast—bullet train fast. But somewhere along the ride home, the motion slowed. Not the train. My awareness. Time bent around me, and I found myself caught between what was and what might be.
Watching my daughter now, I feel both confident and unsure. About the future. About my role. About my willingness to accept the things I cannot change.
I don’t know what I’m doing on this trip, not really. I told myself I was here to explore Korea with my daughter. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? I came here to listen. To the world. To her. To myself. To something greater than me. To ask questions that may never have answers. To listen to the answers, even if means opening my hands and letting go of what I thought life might look like.
As if to remind me of how the future will be different from what I anticipate, my daughter asked as we were nearly home:
“So… what’s the chance I could do a year here as an exchange student?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Because I knew the truth: she could do it. She’s brave enough, curious enough, committed enough.
But I also knew that saying yes would mean letting her go.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
But maybe that’s the point of all this. Of every train ride, every missed stop, every strange toilet and protein shake-uh and late-night laughter in an alley. Maybe it’s all preparation—for both of us.
Maybe this whole journey has been about learning how to let her find her own road.
Even if it takes her far away.