May 2023 — I Met You

I didn’t plan any of it. I only flew to Korea because family pulled me back in, first for Wontaek’s wedding, and then, like an unexpected bonus track, for Jeff, my “baby” cousin I hadn’t seen in a decade. He’d grown up in the meantime, England had rounded his vowels and sharpened his humor-and he was buzzing to “see the real Seoul.” That’s how I ended up in Hongdae on a neon-washed night, playing big cousin and wingman while Jeff, with cheerful shamelessness, admitted he was “kinda looking for a hookup.” I laughed, rolled my eyes out of embarrassment, and let the city do what it always does: pull strangers into the same current.

We bumped into her group near the busking circle-music bleeding into laughter, the pavement sticky with beer and summer and possibility. I hid out of embarrassment, but she waved her hand to invite me. I noticed her even before she spoke: the way she watched everything with that quick, bright attention, as if sorting the night into things you’d remember and things you’d let go.

We went out together only to be parted away because Jeff didn’t find any fascinations. But a couple hours later, we met again in a middle of a street filled with people and neon light. And then she did the first of many decisive things that would change my life. “Hey you!” she yelled and feed me hotteoks into my mouth.

We went to La Bamba, which I didn’t know was going to be the place where the storyline of my life swerved. The bass hit like a second heartbeat. She was suddenly all color and rhythm, and the dance floor unfurled under our feet like a dare. She dragged me into the club by the wrist, the kind of playful, effortless claim that makes a man feel weightless, and the night took on the logic of dreams. We danced too close and then not close enough. I couldn’t decide whether to watch her or move with her, so I did both, badly, grinning. And then, we kissed; our eyes met and I knew what she wanted and she knew what I wanted. There at La Bamba, first night, first collision, first answer to a question I hadn’t admitted I was asking. She tasted like something bright and new, like a promise I wanted to keep.

We were caught by surprise by her friend, Klaudia, with shock. Perhaps because of guiltiness? We walked to a friend of Jeff’s place for more beers and soju shots. We talked as we strolled the early morning of Seoul as the sun about to come up. I finally get to remember her name: Raquel from Spain. Raquel, Raquel the name I’d remember and hold in my heart forever.

After that the days filled up with Seoul stitched to her laughter. We did the Yeouido Hangang River Park date like teenagers, convenience store picnic, shoulders touching, hands held together, taking stupid photos, the river smudged with light. Cyclists blurred past, a couple argued by a bench, the city pretended to be calm. She told me stories I didn’t know I needed to hear. I don’t remember most of what we ate or talked, but I remember how easy it was to sit beside her and feel as if I’d been doing it for years.

Later that night we found a karaoke place that looked suspicious in exactly the way cheap adventures look suspicious, stairs too narrow, sign too bright, rates too expensive. We took it anyway. The room smelled faintly of lime cleaner and old songs. She picked the first track, then shoved the mic at me. I massacred a ballad, redeemed myself with something fast, and we laughed like conspirators. I tried a Spanish song, Dos Oruguitas, for the joke of it, and she clapped in mock seriousness like I was headlining. Would I have known? That this song that I sang for her would be the song that’d be played again for our wedding 2 years later? That room, with its bad acoustics and terrible decor, became one of my favorite places in the world because you were there.

A few nights later we drifted through Gangnam and stumbled into the Kelly Beer popup, all chrome edges and pop-art swagger, like someone had turned a music video into a bar. We goofed around like kids, judged the foam with ridiculous conviction, collected little moments like campaign stickers. She looked good in that light, really good, like a secret I wasn’t going to share with anyone.

We did the tourist thing too, because why not? Lotte World Tower rose up like a toothpick piercing the sky. We went up, up, up until the city’s noise became a soft rumor. People take photos there to prove they’re braver than their fear of heights; I discovered I didn’t have any that day. I wasn’t scared. Maybe because she was next to me; maybe because everything in me, usually so practical, had started trusting the outrageous idea that this could last. I pointed out places I used to go, traced old routes with my finger on the window. It felt like letting her leaf through my past until she landed on a blank page we could write together.

Buddha’s Birthday arrived with rain, the kind that half-apologizes and half-insists. We went to Bongeunsa, umbrellas bobbing like lanterns on a dark river. The temple grounds glowed, wet stone, bright bunting, those paper lanterns strung like patient constellations. People moved gently, and the world felt organized around breath and bells. She nudged me toward the incense and we stood there, not talking, just breathing the same slow air. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how your face looked in that light, serene, curious, lit from within.

We left with rain on our shoulders and fell into a jazz bar afterward, her first time hearing live jazz. The room was small and honest, the piano a bright ribbon unspooling through the dark. She closed her eyes and smiled like you were tasting something sweet. “I love this,” she whispered, as if we were talking about us. I ordered another drink just to make the moment last.

Then came Jeju, our first trip that felt like a sentence beginning with “we.” We flew out to meet Eris, my best friend from high school in Canada, the kind of person who measures affection in complaining everything about her life. Perhaps, the trip didn’t turn out to be what she expected and we got into a silent fight. But regardless, the Korean BBQ I tried with Raquel on our first night was the best in our life.

We wandered through temples on Jeju, where everything seems carved from wind and patience. The stone walls wore the weather like a badge; the pines leaned into the ocean. We walked without hurry, reading little signs out loud, inventing stories for the carved guardians.

There was a beach, Hyeopjae, that I’d remembered as postcard-perfect, but the day we went it was muted, a little tired, beach sands eroding away, the water a softer blue than my memory allowed. I felt the brief ache of nostalgia being corrected by reality, and then I looked at her. The sea wasn’t brilliant, the sky wasn’t miraculous, but you slipped her hand into mine, and the whole scene brightened anyway. “It’s still beautiful,” she said, and I realized I’d been measuring the day with the wrong instrument.

At night in Jeju we shared secrets that weren’t dramatic, just ordinary truths we hadn’t had time to unfold yet, what scares us, what we hope stands the test of years, the petty quirks that make us both impossible and lovable. She teased me for checking my phone to count photos; I confessed that I’d already saved too many of hers, little frames of her laughter, her “are you serious?” face, the way she studies a menu like it might change the future. She said, “Keep them,” like I’d asked permission, and maybe I had.