Back in the early 2000s, I signed up with the Air National Guard out of Philly. Not out of some grand patriotic fever, but because I needed out—out of central Pennsylvania, out of the small-town gravity pulling me under. I wanted an education. And maybe, just maybe, a shot at something bigger.
I won’t name names here—that part of the story isn’t mine to expose. But I ended up living with a Korean family. Kind people. Generous. They opened their home to me, no questions asked. Maybe they pitied me. Maybe they saw something worth saving. Or maybe I was just another lost American kid showing up hungry and half-formed. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is they treated me like one of their own. And then something wild happened: we traveled together. A family trip. Abroad.
Now for a guy who grew up watching overdue bills pile up on the kitchen counter, a trip overseas wasn’t something that happened. It was something you saw in movies, something that happened to other people—people with frequent flyer miles and dinner reservations.
But there I was, passport in hand, with people who barely knew me, flying thousands of miles away from the only life I had known.
It wasn’t just a trip. It was a kind of salvation.
Second time out of the country. Second time in South Korea. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew one thing—I felt safe. Traveling with the Korean family gave me a kind of grounding I hadn’t known before. They trusted me. And in return, I trusted them.
Korea in the early 2000s felt like the U.S.—just… a decade behind. A country still stretching its legs after being broken by war, trying to catch up without forgetting what it’s been through. And make no mistake, the war never ended. Just a ceasefire. A breath being held for fifty years. The line between North and South still watched, still dangerous. Seoul, vibrant and sprawling, lives with the hum of that tension. A city with a sword hanging over it by a thread.
We started there—like many families do. My Korean family had left years ago, but this was a return. A kind of pilgrimage. The old man—he needed the air of home. He’d done his time. Literally.
He told stories. Not the sanitized kind. He’d been brash. Angry. Probably scared, too. Like every conscripted kid from a poor neighborhood who gets handed a rifle and a death sentence. In Korea, service isn’t optional. But class? Class decides whether you die in the dirt or shine your boots behind a desk. Rich kids got sent to the rear. Poor kids got swapped out, reassigned, and thrown forward. Games played with serial numbers and signatures.
The old man got the front line. Gunner on a chopper. Black ops over the border. He talked about the gun—how it tore through people like paper. He said it with a kind of weight I’d seen in the eyes of old vets back home. A knowing. Not pride. Not shame. Just the kind of truth you carry when you’ve seen the worst in men—and in yourself.
I respected him. More than that—I needed him.
He was the kind of father I didn’t know I was missing until he showed up. Tough, but warm. Scarred, but whole. He gave a damn about me. Gave me structure. And for the first time in a long time, I felt what that was like.
I loved him. I loved them. And in that moment, halfway across the world, I wasn’t lost. I was home.
The adults did what adults do—sat around tables, poured drinks, swapped stories in low tones. Left to ourselves, the kids—us—we were cut loose.
My cousin, or something like a cousin, took charge. He was the type who knew the city and how to bend the night in his favor. He brought along his buddy from construction—rough hands, easy grin. The kind of guy who works all day, drinks all night, and knows when to laugh.
We hit the streets. Neon washed over us like rain. We talked. We drank. I listened more than I spoke. There was something about hearing your life mirrored in another tongue, in another place, that made it hit harder. These weren’t just drinking buddies. This was a window into another life.
My cousin had plans. Big ones. He was headed to the States for school. The pressure of Korean parents is no joke—he wore it like a second skin. An American degree meant respect, escape, maybe even happiness. He didn’t say it out loud, but I knew the weight he carried. We all carry it differently.
We promised to write. I didn’t. Life moves. Distance grows.
But that night, we laughed like the world outside didn’t matter. Like the border up north wasn’t humming with tension. Like responsibility could wait.
Just for one night, we were kids in a foreign land, drinking like locals, dreaming like fools.
And it was beautiful.
Like every family, we did the most universal thing you can do when you’re packed into a van with people you love—hit the road.
We drove south, deeper into the spine of Korea. Destination: Daejeon. A city that doesn’t make it onto postcards or tourism campaigns, but that wasn’t the point. I think it was where Korean mom’s family came from. We were visiting a sister? A brother? Memory’s a little foggy on that one.
What I do remember, clear as a soju bottle at midnight, is being the first white guy they’d ever seen in real life. Not in movies. Not on game shows. A flesh-and-blood American, standing awkwardly in the doorway like a walking culture shock.
They stared. I smiled. And honestly? I didn’t blame them. This wasn’t Seoul. This wasn’t near a base. This was the real Korea—unfiltered, unscripted, and unconcerned with who I was.
I was honored, but didn’t make a big deal of it. I was a guest. You show up, you eat what’s offered, you smile, you shut up.
Then came Busan. That’s when things got… interesting.
The old man, ever the practical warrior, booked us a cheap hotel. Frugal to a fault. Except this place wasn’t just cheap—it had a very specific clientele.
A love hotel.
I should’ve known when I walked past racks of VHS porno tapes on the way up the stairs. That kind of neon-lit sadness you can’t unsee. This wasn’t a place for families. This was a place for… transactions.
Korean mom? I think she was horrified. Or maybe not. Maybe she knew and just didn’t say anything. Sweetest woman I’d ever met—wouldn’t put it past her to just endure it for the sake of the trip. Either way, I didn’t ask.
My room? It had a bed. Circular. Vinyl. Hard as a rock. A bed made for thrusting, not resting.
I got a call shortly after settling in—just to check if I was okay. I was. More than okay, honestly. I was alone. In a foreign city. In a room designed for one-night stands. And somehow, I slept like a baby.
The best part? The old man and I couldn’t stop laughing. Days later, we’d still bring it up—crack jokes in the car, mid-meal, out of nowhere. That hotel became legend. Our little shared absurdity on a trip full of memories.
Sometimes, it’s the weird stuff that stays with you the longest.
And God, do I miss that laugh.
We woke up and did what you do when you’re trying to make the most of a morning in a strange city—you go see the dead.
Royal tombs. Not tourist traps or carnival rides. Just these massive grassy mounds, quiet and solemn, set apart like sacred punctuation marks on the Korean landscape. Buried royalty, untouched and revered. You could feel the respect in the air. No trash, no shouting kids, no selfie sticks. Just reverence.
It was my first time standing in front of anything that old, that regal. I didn’t know the names. I didn’t know the dynasties. I wish I did. Korean history—at least where I grew up—wasn’t something we were taught. It was glossed over in favor of more familiar faces. More comfortable stories.
But standing there, even with a blank slate, I felt it. The weight of a civilization that’s been through war, invasion, occupation—still standing. Still remembering its kings.
You don’t have to know the full story to feel the page you’re standing on is important. I just wish I’d read more before I got there. Maybe I would’ve bowed a little deeper.
When we were heading north when it happened—an unexpected detour into reality.
Checkpoint.
At first, I didn’t get it. I thought maybe it was some traffic thing, or a toll, or a random inspection. Then it hit me. This isn’t just a country with a tense history. This is a country still technically at war. The Korean War didn’t end. It just hit pause. And those checkpoints? They’re not decoration. They’re designed to catch the bad guys. The ones who don’t belong. The ones sneaking in from the north.
What they caught instead… was us.
Turns out, the old man and my Korean family members weren’t exactly “cleared” to be behind the wheel in Korea. No licenses. No paperwork. Just vibes.
But me? I had this flimsy little AAA-issued international driver’s license. A joke in most parts of the world. But right then, it made me the most legal person in the vehicle. A white American kid with the power of laminated plastic and dumb luck.
The old man, never one to miss an opportunity, spun a quick tale. Told the officer I was tired, overworked, too worn out to drive. We smiled. We nodded. We lied beautifully.
Next thing I knew, I was in the front seat. Behind the wheel. Me—driving a Korean minivan full of people, heading north toward the DMZ, technically saving the day with my questionable credentials and a straight face.
We laughed about it the whole way. The old man kept shaking his head, grinning like a fox.
For once, I wasn’t just tagging along. I added something to this trip. I mattered. And damn, did that feel good.
Northbound, baby. Me driving. Hah. What could possibly go wrong?
I grew up with martial arts. American-style. Chopsocky movies, dojo mats that smelled like old socks, and this vague, romantic idea that anything Asian was somehow… sacred. Mysterious. Holy.
So when I stood at the base of that towering Buddha at Sinheungsa, nestled in the Korean mountains, I felt it—that same childhood awe. Monks in robes. Prayer wheels spinning in silence. The kind of setting that made you believe you were just one whispered mantra away from becoming a kung fu master or unlocking some kind of inner peace.
Of course, I found neither.
No secret scroll. No enlightenment. Just me—an American kid standing in front of an ancient statue, trying to feel something profound.
And yet, I appreciated it. Deeply. Not because it changed me, but because it didn’t have to.
Sinheungsa didn’t owe me a transformation. It just was. A place older than my country. A place where people actually lived out the beliefs I’d only seen on VHS tapes and half-read books.
Then the old man—because he always had a story—leaned in and ruined the moment in the best way possible.
Told me about his time up in the mountains as a chopper gunner. Said when they needed firewood, he’d just point the machine gun at a tree and rip it down.
Firewood by way of automatic weapon.
Of course that’s what he did. Why wouldn’t he?
And just like that, the sacred and the absurd coexisted. That’s Korea. That was my trip. That was life.
A giant Buddha in the mist… and a guy cutting down trees with a belt-fed M60.
We made our way back to Seoul, winding down the mainland miles behind us. But the trip wasn’t over—not yet.
Next stop: Jejudo. South Korea’s southern gem. Locals call it the Hawaii of Korea, and I get why. Volcanic landscapes, black sand beaches, waterfalls that look like they were carved out by a painter’s brush.
It was off-season, though. No tour buses clogging the roads. No honeymooners snapping photos every two steps. Just quiet.
That’s how the old man got us a deal. He always got the deal.
We checked into a resort hotel—one of those places built for crowds that never came this time of year. The halls echoed. The pool sat still. A few other families scattered around, but for the most part, it was ours.
For the parents, this was paradise. Peace. No schedules. No noise. For us younger ones? It meant no wild nights, no real partying. But I didn’t mind. I wasn’t much of a drinker yet anyway. Still figuring out who I was, what I wanted.
So we did what travelers rarely allow themselves to do.
We rested.
We took in the wind. The sea. The strange feeling of being far from everything familiar, yet somehow right where we were supposed to be.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t crazy. But it was needed.
And sometimes, that’s the best part of the journey—the quiet between the chaos.
Jejudo wasn’t just beaches and rest. It was a window—cracked open just enough to glimpse something older. Something deeper.
We visited a folk village, one of those places that smells like history and woodsmoke. Worn tools. Stone walls. People in hanbok showing how life used to be lived before glass towers and bullet trains.
Then there was the bonsai garden—a quiet, sacred kind of place. Twisted little trees shaped with obsessive care. Centuries of patience in every branch. I remember staring at them, wondering if I’d ever master anything in my life with that kind of focus.
And of course, the mushroom tea factory. Earthy. Bitter. Packed with promise—healing, energy, whatever the label said. I drank it like medicine, even if I didn’t know what it was supposed to fix. All the right things to do on vacation. The checklist stuff. But somehow, it didn’t feel forced. It felt earned.
We only had a few nights on that island. But I remember it all.
I remember hearing about the Jeju women divers—haenyeo, they’re called. Elderly women who free-dive without tanks, plunging into cold waters to harvest shellfish and seaweed. No fear. No drama. Just tradition and grit passed from mother to daughter, for generations. These women were warriors in wetsuits. Icons of resilience.
Then, like all good things, it ended.
We flew back to Seoul. But Jejudo stayed with me.
Still does.
We flew back to Seoul. The parents went somewhere. We forget. But our cousin will take us to an amusement park. We went to Never Never Land. It’s the Disneyland rip off that had all the same quirks, songs, and rides, but without the disney price. I really enjoyed this experience. I miss it sometimes. It was a special moment where we made memories. This is somewhere I’ll never probably take my family, but still. It’s a nice place. Wrapping up the trip with a few more drinking places back in Seoul, I’ve enjoyed this trip.
We flew back over Japan.
I looked down through the scratched airplane window and quietly promised myself I’d get there one day. Japan was where I really wanted to go. The dream. But life—well, life handed me a detour. A strange, beautiful, unforgettable detour.
And it gave me something I didn’t know I needed.
I was becoming a little more Korean. Not in blood, but in spirit. In rhythm. In ritual. In understanding. I was laying down roots that would help me grow into the man I eventually became. Stronger. Wiser. A little more patient. A little more grateful.
And then, like a lot of things in life, it ended in a way I didn’t want.
Then it happened. An event that was a major decision. A private one. They know. She knows. I’m never going to tear a family apart. I laid on that sword and we parted ways. Not the way I wanted it.
I miss them. Every one of them.
I’ve sent letters. No replies. I’ve thought about showing up—but I haven’t. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe I’m respecting their space. Maybe I just don’t want to know the answer.
People tell me not to try. Let it be, they say.
So I do.
But I still think about them. From time to time. When the world quiets down and the memories sneak back in. I still love them. Still wish they could see what I’ve become. What their kindness helped build. I only told less than a quarter of the story. For their privacy, so much was left out, but stays in my heart and memories.
That was the last time I set foot in Korea. And yeah—thinking about it still cuts deep. I never know if I’m going to cry or just sit there, numb. Sometimes I’ll hear a song from that time—Jo Sung Mo’s “To Heaven.” That was the anthem. Every Korean guy knew it. A heartbreak ballad disguised as a flex.
And me?
I didn’t just watch a Korean drama.
I lived one.