chloverdosed

Lost in Seoul

As Christmas approaches, I always feel this strange anticipation—like I'm supposed to shed all the unpleasant things, all the negative feelings. But is that fair? Is it too much to ask of a single day?

Maybe it's the stories we tell ourselves about this season that make everything feel more significant—the emotions sharper, the moments more memorable. But why?

I was in Seoul during the Christmas season. Everything felt so fresh and new, though the city wasn't as festive as I'd imagined. Unlike Shanghai—where you can't escape the window-climbing Santas and influencers posing at every decorated corner—Seoul's Christmas was quieter. Just simple lights strung on trees, lighting up the cold streets. But somehow, that simplicity felt warmer.

By the time we checked into the hotel, it was already 10 p.m. The streets were surprisingly empty. Wasn't Seoul supposed to be the city that never sleeps? Where was everyone? Then I noticed: the restaurants and cafes were full. People were eating, talking, laughing together.

We wandered into a random restaurant with no idea how to order. We looked over at the table next to us, hoping to point and say "that." The server taking our order looked confused. Then, unexpectedly, the guy at the next table leaned over. "Chinese?" he asked with a smile. We nodded, embarrassed. He explained our order for us, then went back to his table of friends—brothers, maybe—who were laughing and talking, full of life and that easy closeness between old friends.

I wished I could understand Korean. What were they talking about that kept them so engaged? And then, suddenly, they broke into song—something that sounded almost like an anthem, singing like no one was watching. What were they celebrating?

Meanwhile, we kept our heads down and ate quietly, feeling shy, absorbing it all.

I'd never experienced anything like this—just watching them, these good-looking people so full of warmth and passion, being so genuinely, openly human.