North Korea may have Pyongyang, but South Korea's got Seoul

Considering that it’s home to 25 million people, it should come as no surprise that Seoul’s initial impression is, unequivocally, one of size.  Sheer, unabashed size and scale.  This isn’t a metropolis, it’s a megalopolis.  I never thought anything could make Shanghai feel small, but I think I’ve found it (I’ve never been to Tokyo, which people say has the same effect).  New York, Delhi, London, Beijing, LA, and Paris are all amateurs when it comes to size, apparently, and coming straight from comparatively tiny Phnom Penh further exacerbated Seoul’s megalopolisness.

I made the rookie mistake of falling asleep on the shuttle into the city after telling the driver t drop me off at the Ritz, where I was very much not staying but served as the closest stop to the Gangnam Artnouveau City Hotel.  I awoke with a start as we pulled up to some other luxury hotel whose name escapes me, the Buena Vista Social Club still playing on my shuffling iTunes, squinted out the window up at the canyon of gleaming skyscrapers that had materialized in my sleep, and hoped sincerely that we hadn’t already passed the Ritz (we hadn’t).  The overnight flight had not been the most restful, as I had drifted in and out of consciousness, struggling both to wake up and sleep, and felt worryingly warm the whole time—I run cold anyway, and aren’t flights supposed to be freezing?—which made me wonder if I hadn’t managed to get out of Southeast Asia without some sort of tropical illness.  So the plush shuttle, in all of its 90-minute air-conditioned glory, was the perfect place for a nap, but then I found myself and my backpack incongruously on the doorstep of the Ritz-Carlton having no real idea of how I’d gotten there.

Side note: let me tell you, it sounds dumb but there’s a definite embarrassment factor to having an impeccably turned out five-star doorman smile at you, take your filthy rucksack in his white-gloved hand, and ask, “Checking in, miss?” when you are in reality staying someplace else.  As I explained this to the three doormen and concierge who gathered around me, I tried my best to remain dignified in my baggy batik print pants and douchebag backpacker bracelets and give the impression that normally I didn’t dress like this or carry my things in this somewhat disgusting receptacle.  Luckily they took it in stride and packed me off into a taxi for an easy 15-minute ride to my real hotel, which, while not the Ritz, was no slouch either.

After washing my hair, brewing a few cups of barley tea, and fully waking up, I brought up Google maps and tried to get my bearings.  At this point, you may be wondering, Are you some kind of directionally-challenged idiot?  Did you run into doorways before you had a smartphone? but no, I’m not—you see, Seoul has very few actual street names, which complicates things a bit, and the idea of anything being on a grid here is laughable.  Instead of street names you have neighborhood names, and the bulk of the streets simply reflect in which neighborhood they happen to lie.  Gangnam, where I was staying (couldn’t resist), for example, is Gangnam-gu when referring to the neighborhood, while there are several streets called Gangnam-daero.  It can be very conducive to getting lost.

What I quickly realized, however, is that the phenomenal metro makes up for this in a big way.  It is Seoulian in scale of course, but so clearly laid out, with everyone written and announced in Korean, Chinese, and English, that getting pretty much anywhere, even north of the river and all the way across the city, pretty simple.  Throw in being cheap (less than $1.50 a trip), frequent, clean, and free of crazy people and you essentially have the anti-BART.  It was also weirdly uncrowded, even at rush hour, which struck me as pleasantly odd and remarkable in a city of 25 million.  My commute from Clapham Common to Victoria, by contrast, involved me waiting in a queue five deep just to squeeze my way onto a train that packed so tightly that the 25-minute ride was basically soft core porn.  It makes me wonder how Seoul pulls it off.

As part of my attempt to absorb a bit of culture in my flying visit, my destination was Gyeongbokgung, which is the oldest and largest of the dynastic palaces clustered in the city’s north and conveniently has its very own metro stop (the subway system isn’t idiot-proof, but I have to admit that getting from Gangnam to Gyeonbokgung comes pretty close).  Considering that it’s a major sight in the heart of the city, I was bracing myself for throngs of visitors, something on par with the hordes that descend upon Tiananmen Square, and getting ready to shield my face from the spokes of eye-level parasols that are the hallmark of Asian tourist attractions in sunny weather.  I was surprised to find that the walk to the metro’s palace exit was deserted and silent, so much so that I wondered if the whole thing was closed for August or something.  But no, I stepped blinking into the blazing sun and was greeted by all of three other tourists making their way through the gate, so I trekked across the main courtyard—a decent trek—and paid my way in.

There were a few tour groups, sure, but the sheer size of the palace grounds, along with the green bulk of Mt. Bukhansan rising up behind the north walls, lent it a kind of lazy, quiet peace that would seem impossible to come by in such a massive city.  Rather than the urban din of cars, sirens, music, or even voices, it was the cicadas who hummed away, and with the gracious clusters of tall, leafy trees stretching out awnings of shade over the lily ponds and footpaths, it was easy to imagine what it must have been like to be a Korean royal of yore in the summertime.  The living quarters, banquet hall, library, and temples were all cool and pleasantly dim inside, a respite from the fresh, robust heat, which, coupled with an army of servants, lavish furnishings, and unmatched wealth and power, must have made royal life very good indeed.

Hyangwonjeong, a lovely little island pavilion that exists in the middle of a ginormous city

I spent a solid couple of hours wandering around the complex, which really does just go on and on and on, and eventually, sun-bleached and still underslept, retreated back to the other universe that is Gangnam.  I opted to follow the locals and get myself an iced coffee to fortify myself so I could go shopping and get a manicure, the whole experience of which couldn’t have been more different from the serenity of the palace grounds.  Neon, flashing 50-foot billboards, k-pop blasting from unseen speakers, plastic surgery clinics every 15 feet, everything everywhere packed and buzzing with tens of thousands of fashionably-attired people worshiping at the altar of cool—that is Gangnam at night, and it is pretty great (maybe minus the plastic surgery clinics).  My little jaunt up to Gyeonbokgung had softened the city, humanized it someone, so that by the time I came back to Gangnam, I no longer felt turned around and dizzied amidst a forest of skyscrapers and nearly palpable capitalism.  It's nice knowing that, even in a megalopolis that plays host to more human beings than I can wrap my head around, it’s possible to stretch out on a bit of grass, look up at the sky, and feel like you’re in the same mountain town that Seoul has always been.

Plus, Incheon Airport is probably the best airport I have ever flown in and out of, so I would probably go back just for that.  Free wifi, movie screenings, and massage chairs?  Seoul, consider me officially won over.