It was 10 p.m. by the time I got to my hotel in Seoul. In the three months since I was last here, winter had given way to spring, but I had missed it entirely and walked right into the beginnings of what was already a moody summer.
I had chosen to stay in Sinchon, at a boutique hotel opened just last year called Mayven. The hotel was on a steep slope of road: uphill when you’re coming, downhill when you’re going. It was close to midnight, but when I left my room after checking in and getting settled, the neighborhood still bustled with laughter and neon lights, the crowds young and resolute. I thought I could get used to it.
Back at the hotel I had a burger for dinner. (Lunch on the plane was lemon garlic butter fish with fried rice.) And over the next few days I would come to swear by the Mayven. They had a collaboration with photographer Koo Sung-soo, which I had thought would be a little gallery like at the Orosie Hotel, but his work adorned the elevators, the hallways, even the rooms. There was also a welcome gift on my bed consisting of a set of prints and postcards.
The room I’d gotten was more of a suite, and the TV was in front of not the bed but a lounge area with traditional floor seating, including soft mats all over, floor cushions, and a little table. As someone who has refined my packing style from what I’ve learned as I travel, I found it so thoughtful that the bathroom had rubber slippers and a disposable shower towel for the body wash.
I unpacked, hung up my clothes, and read a little in bed before falling asleep.
Of course I was my usual tailspinny self, obsessively checking and updating my planner to make sure this sojourn would be the best, least disastrous it could be. I still wasn’t doing it from the mindset of a tourist and deliberately avoided creating an itinerary; now that I had a multiple-entry visa, there would be time for me to focus on travel eventually. This was a trip, one with a specific purpose and I only had enough energy to deal with that.
But about a week before my flight, I learned that both Lee Haesun and LEEGOC, two Korean visual artists I adore, would be holding exhibitions that coincided with my dates in the city. There was even a RIIZE exhibition at a cafe. I only had enough time to visit one of them, though, so I chose LEEGOC’s solo show “Sweet Home” at Chung M Art Company in Jongno.
Seeing where the Sinchon Station entrance was the night before—just two minutes from my hotel—left me with less jitters about figuring out the subway system. I was confused about why there were seemingly two end-of-the-line destinations trains were bound for on Naver Maps, but I quickly figured out that the other one was the next station from your origin.
I’ve always been good with directions, something I got from my dad. I’m hardly ever lost. Not in a physical sense, anyway. So I walked, and I kept going, trusting my instincts (and, okay, the signs) to guide me. I got to the turnstiles and found the correct platform, quickly hopping on the next train. I used the Hope on the Stage Seoul commemorative Namane card I’d bought as a souvenir, never imagining it would actually serve its function for me. I pre-loaded it using the app on my cousin’s phone since mine doesn’t have an NFC reader, and I found the process so convenient and cool.
I can’t describe it, how good it feels to find my way and get to know a new place independently. To take up space on public transportation and be just another person in the city with somewhere to go and something to do.
It was also great practice for my commute to Goyang the next day, since this was the same line transfer I would need to make.
When I emerged onto the street in Jongno, the air was cool and crisp, carrying leftover traces of spring. It was a nine-minute walk to the gallery, everything a lot to take in in the best way: plenty of chic white storefronts with the occasional oddity lining sloping roads, the solid, clean lines of modern architecture coexisting with modular wood finishes and stone details. Galleries wherever I turned my head. Pure and elegant, but it also had that Cubao Expo hidden-gem charm about it. Like Karrivin on steroids. All flanked by greenery and mountains. All that contrast was dizzying, but instead of birds flying around my head, there would be hearts.
I fell in love instantly.
I steeled myself before coming into the gallery, admiring its all-black brick exterior that really made the colors and starkly soft shapes of LEEGOC’s work stand out. The exhibit reminded me of this game my parents would play with me (and my sister and cousin, if they were with us) when I would come with them to inspect clients’ houses. They often lived in upscale villages we knew we could never afford or belong in, so we did the next best thing and played pretend, pointing out these beautiful homes as we passed and daydreaming about what it would be like if they were ours, what they would look like inside. Swimming in that pool, taking that Benz out for a road trip, ruminating on that terrace.
My favorite piece is the one in the window, which is also the one on the poster: a yellow house with a mauve roof and a mint green garage door, clear blue skies giving way to the night with fading pinks and oranges from the final moments of sunset, and a young woman who has just arrived home with her dog.
Upstairs there was a sketchbook left on the coffee table that detailed her process for this body of work. While flipping through it, I ran my fingers along the edges of the pages and the physical indents her markings had left, suddenly emotional with the humanity of it washing over me. Something made by her hands, touched by the hands that have visited here previously, that I was now holding in my own hands.
Next to it was a guestbook. I turned the pages until I could find a fresh one and wrote: I traveled here from Manila and I feel so lucky to have experienced your work.
“This is a series about homes,” she wrote in the sketchbook in both Korean and English, right at the beginning, over much simpler childlike drawings of the paintings downstairs. “Not just as buildings, but as places where memories and emotions gather.”
The day after the concert I took a two-minute, one-stop train ride to visit the j-hope “And What?” exhibit in Hongdae. I was very excited about actually getting to experience something like this for once, when they would always feel so exclusive and so far away.
I got a “Killin’ It Girl” gift photocard that I’m absolutely obsessed with and a hard plastic ticket photocard. The latter had a number of random options and mine was from the “On the Street” era (and the one I wanted the most out of the bunch!). The first activity was getting to press a button that would deposit another random card with one of Hoseok’s titles (i.e. the different sections of the exhibit), and I got “Dancer.”
Coming from an editorial and content background, I know that “And What?” is a nightmare for SEO, but I don’t care, I love it. It’s silly and tongue-in-cheek, it’s cocky and cool, it’s succinct and it raises intrigue. Like of course an exhibition all about his career so far would be all about capturing his versatility, his boundless talent and potential, his ability to adapt and inhabit all these identities and show off all these facets of him.
The first section, “Pioneer,” focuses primarily on how he was the first to officially debut solo in his group, but to me it’s also an apt modifier for how he has consistently created and broken records and set the standard for promotion and performance in the industry, earning him the nickname Jung “First Korean soloist to” Hoseok among fans. From reinventing what listening parties could be, to raising the bar for tour merch, to posting a homemade encore for a music show win that he can’t personally receive, he’s always defying expectations by being one step ahead.
I’m probably misremembering some of it, but the infinity box that greets you upon entry was so moving: peer down and you’ll see his endless potential, take it in from another angle and you’ll see that there’s so much more to him than meets the eye.
The “Dancer” and “Performer” sections show off his work on and off the stage in a lot of fun, interactive ways: a display case with his iconic red microphone, listening and viewing stations for his rehearsals, Hope on the Street lives, and street dance performances, even a room with just a massive projection of snippets from his tour.
Obviously, me being a writer, I found the “Storyteller” room so endearing. It celebrates not just his work as a songwriter and lyricist, but also this rich lore he’s created around his artistry and persona as j-hope. I would even go as far as to call it worldbuilding. (His mixtape was called Hope World, after all.)
His own style as a writer will always be so dreamy and romantic in my eyes: balancing moments of mirth and melancholy, observational but introspective, grounded but bright and brilliant and unafraid to get lost in imagination and fantasy.
The ball pit that took up most of the room was full of fun pastel spheres printed with words associated with Hoseok, from song titles, to the classic adventure stories he wove into his lyrics, to his many, many nicknames. I had half a mind to stuff the “Blue Side” ball into my pocket and walk out of there a thief, but of course I knew better. (That, and the CCTV camera was pointed right at me, and there were also staff members in the room.)
Before moving on to the next room, there was another activity where you could pick out a paper keyring with a surprise lyric. My first try gave me “Mona Lisa,” and while I love that song, I wanted something that better represented the full extent of what he can do. So I chose again—and got scolded for it by staff, because apparently you only get the one try, oops—and ended up with “Arson” this time. Perhaps the most experimental of his music, a song about leaning into risk and putting it all on the line that sounds like it.
The “Musician” section was like taking a walk through his eras, complete with costumes from his music videos.
I couldn’t wait to see these tiny “Daydream” sets for myself and I’d made sure to bring a doll for it. A kitty Hobi doll instead of the usual chipmunk or squirrel, but it really is just my favorite. I can’t stop thinking about the brainstorming sessions for this exhibition and the absolute genius who must’ve been like, “People love bringing their little 10cm babies places, let’s give them chairs and a bed to rest on and take the cutest photos to remember it by.”
They need to collaborate with Takara Tomy and make this toy CNS car available to the public, like, yesterday.
I’m gonna stop myself from saying anything about Jack in the Box and how much it means to me (and to culture) before I cry or I’m unable to shut up. So I’ll just say that it’s been divisive, but personally I really love how whimsical and silly and cute, how totally j-hope, the “Mona Lisa” cover is.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t really stop for the listening stations since the lines were long and I had this attitude of, I listen to them all the time, probably more than most of you ever will. So I almost missed this chance to hear the full version of “Blue Side”—a.k.a. “Blue Side (Self-Actualized Ver.)” as I’d called it when it was dropped without warning four years ago—a cappella, and I’m so glad I happened to read the sign.
I fell in line and waited about five minutes before my turn. I didn’t know what to expect, but I quickly learned what “solely through his voice” meant: the audio included not just the main vocal track, but also his harmonies and his ad libs. The vocals are honey-smooth, but the rap parts are more raw, like they’re recordings he did in the moment while writing them. I have to stress here that there is no other credited vocalist on this song, and it was overwhelming to hear layers and layers of Hoseok’s gorgeous falsetto. The only reason I kept it together and managed to avoid crying was the threat of vulnerability in this crowd. Sometimes I think it’s only right that this experience be a once-in-a-lifetime one you can’t find anywhere else—I didn’t even stay to listen a second time since it felt like disturbing a holy grail—but of course I’d do anything to be able to hear it everyday.
The room where you could leave messages on the walls had no more space, but I made do. I didn’t know if it would ever reach him, if it would even be decipherable, but I needed to let him know anyway: You’re the artist of my life.
My last meals on this trip: a saucy, creamy, crunchy, onion-y bulgogi burger paired with sweet onion shaker fries for dinner, and a fluffy little omelette with breakfast sausages and tomato sauce (no rice, sadly) on the plane.
Another detail I appreciated about the Mayven was how fuss-free it was, a relief for my social anxiety. I’d been looking for a “Do Not Disturb” sign to avoid housekeeping and learned that they didn’t actually offer it for days-long stays unless requested. Reception was on the second floor, so you could skip straight to the ground floor and slink away without seeing anyone. Nobody was at the desk when I checked out at 4 a.m., so I just left my key card with the automatic checkout machine.
I had a surprisingly blasé, almost anxious going-through-the-motions attitude about going on this trip. I know it’s an incredibly privileged take and so many people would’ve loved to be in my place, but it’s been quite a whirlwind six months for me and I wanted to document it and write through my feelings a little.
Work has been hectic with the other writers on the team moving on to different pursuits, leaving me scrambling to juggle productions, scripting, and daily programming. Finding their replacements has been taking some time. I’ve been pretty much burnt out and stressed since April and it hasn’t subsided. And it’s been so comforting to focus the rest of my energy on this tour and experience as much of it as I can, but that was the thing—with the rest of my energy used up like this, it left me drained, this supposed fluffy escapism ending up contributing to my burnout even further.
I still loved every second of it, don’t get me wrong, but it was such a strange feeling to grapple with. A kind of happiness that became all-consuming. I tried to make sense of it with Alissa as early as April when I flew to see him in Singapore. How I was so tired that a tiny voice in the back of my mind would say: I just want to lay in this hotel room and sleep and not go out. How I was so lucky to have seen him enough times—the fourth by then—that the smallest part of me could ever consider taking a j-hope concert (a fucking j-hope concert! me!) for granted like that.
And then I was gearing up to go back to Seoul, and some days it felt like I was on autopilot, doing everything because I knew I had to. Because I still knew this was all I ever wanted. Endless logistics, too many hours at the airport, going on a flight all over again. There was almost a sense of dread to it, like let’s just get this over with. Part of it was definitely the depression talking.
The crash that follows the euphoric sensation of a concert is a well-documented thing, but this is the first time I’ve experienced something like this, and it made me curious if anyone would know exactly what I’m talking about.
Or maybe this is yet another symptom of growing older, simple as.
By the end of it I swore I would never get on another plane until October.
All I know is, all of this spiraling, it doesn’t negate the beautiful memories I left with, the only ones that will matter in the end. The hard parts were easier than I thought they would be, and this concert was one thing I never could have lived with missing out on. Because it was all worth it: Getting a ticket at all. Finally getting a visa that lets me come back whenever I want. Exploring on my own terms. The sweet onion fries I’m still thinking about. Seeing him. Seeing him. Seeing him. Then seeing him two more times. What I’ve held on long enough to be there for. Every little thing that’s led me here. Every little thing I almost took for granted but never could and never, ever would.
I miss it all already. And I can only look forward to what’s next.
(Just let me recover financially first.)
