Growing up, I had the opportunity to travel often due to my father's career. I quickly became accustomed to the sight of big white moving trucks with less-than-catchy slogans, the smell of thick, black labeling markers and the sound of a million different languages while passing people in busy, crowded airports. I spent 2 years in Japan, too young to remember anything significant, but I'm told that my first word as a child was "Arigato," meaning "thank you." My first significant memories of a place other than the U.S. was my home for 3 years, Seoul, Korea.
The capital of Korea, describing Seoul as "busy" would be a complete understatement. The city was most often a complete blur of yellow taxis, the air filled with car fumes and an overwhelming smell of fish from nearby markets. A trip to the marketplace meant a death grip on my hand from my mother, continued down the line to my two sisters and my brother. I didn't mind trips into the city, only because they usually ended with an ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins, or a piece of Poolppang from the marketplace, a delicious and sweet pancake-like treat.
It's funny, picking up and moving to a different country now seems almost crazy, but I was a kid and back then everything was a little more simple. I remember being sad because I would miss my friends and family, especially my grandparents. I would miss going to the park with my grandpa on a sunny afternoon, and I would miss the way my grandma's fridge was always stocked full of chocolate pudding cups especially for me. Still, I trusted my parents and accepted the fact that my life would be stuffed into cardboard boxes and I would be suddenly uprooted and planted somewhere new. So my 6-year-old self with long brown hair and big hazel eyes boarded a plane and never looked back.
F-1 was our house number. Our little gated community rested exactly half-way up a long, steep hill. At the bottom of the hill was the noisy, busy city, and at the top was the school that I would attend. I remember standing on top of the monkey bars on the playground near our home, staring out at the city below. Seoul was so different than my small neighborhood home in Cortland, Ohio, yet I never felt scared or uncomfortable. I loved the bright lights and fast-paced nature of the city. I fell in love with the spicy food. I watched the clock for the colorful egg lady who showed up on our doorstep once a week selling fresh, brown eggs, carrying them in a basket on her head. My siblings and I drew chalk cities on our driveway, sometimes pictures of our life in Ohio. I bugged the guard who sat at the gate a little too much, always trying to piece together his broken English with my small vocabulary of Korean to form a conversation. Mostly I giggled and his old, brown eyes glistened as we watched cars pass by. I felt safe in our little community and although I missed home, I didn't mind where I was at in the least bit.
I remember waking up extra early for my first day of pre-kindergarten at Seoul Foreign School. Armed with a Hello Kitty backpack and little brown pigtails, my mom, my siblings and I made the early morning trek up the hill to school. The K-12 school was as big as a college campus. My building alone was three floors. The school was complete with a theater for special events, a huge playground, a soccer field and a track, an indoor pool and an elevated indoor sidewalk that connected different buildings, like the high school building, the gym, the art building and the gymnastics building. I quickly made two best friends, a little blonde girl from the Netherlands and a tanned, dark haired girl from Hawaii. We signed up for after-school art classes on Tuesdays and gymnastics on Wednesdays and we became inseparable.
My family and I traveled back to the U.S. a couple of times each year, often for Christmas, Thanksgiving or Easter. Sometimes for my favorite holiday, one that I could only experience in the States, the Fourth of July. Sitting on blankets munching on snacks, surrounded by family and watching as the night sky is illuminated with bright colors and fun shapes, smelling the smoke from the fireworks and trying to time the "BOOM" perfectly, is something that I'm sure I will never get tired of, no matter how old I get. Many of my childhood memories are from the 3 years I spent in Seoul. I learned to ride a bike on the big soccer field at my school. I dressed in a colorful Hanbok and participated in the Korean festivals every year. My favorite Korean holiday fell on May 5th, Children's Day. The soccer field was transformed into a carnival, complete with a dunking booth, games and prizes, cotton candy, popcorn and more.
Every new experience was a small lesson. My parents have always taught me to be accepting of other people. When I moved back to the States and started school, I heard the word "weird" over and over again to describe the place I had lived or the food I had eaten. I noticed it because "weird" was never in my vocabulary. I had embraced the people and the culture in Korea. Their language, their food, their holidays and traditions, they were different to what I was used to, but never weird. I realized how big of an impact that traveling and experiencing other cultures had on me as a person. I am forever grateful to my parents for my experience and I have an undeniable passion for traveling. I would love to return to my old stomping grounds one day, maybe ride a bike on my old soccer field, buy some Poolppang from a marketplace, or knock on the door at F-1, just to see who lives there, 15 years later.
The capital of Korea, describing Seoul as "busy" would be a complete understatement. The city was most often a complete blur of yellow taxis, the air filled with car fumes and an overwhelming smell of fish from nearby markets. A trip to the marketplace meant a death grip on my hand from my mother, continued down the line to my two sisters and my brother. I didn't mind trips into the city, only because they usually ended with an ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins, or a piece of Poolppang from the marketplace, a delicious and sweet pancake-like treat.
It's funny, picking up and moving to a different country now seems almost crazy, but I was a kid and back then everything was a little more simple. I remember being sad because I would miss my friends and family, especially my grandparents. I would miss going to the park with my grandpa on a sunny afternoon, and I would miss the way my grandma's fridge was always stocked full of chocolate pudding cups especially for me. Still, I trusted my parents and accepted the fact that my life would be stuffed into cardboard boxes and I would be suddenly uprooted and planted somewhere new. So my 6-year-old self with long brown hair and big hazel eyes boarded a plane and never looked back.
F-1 was our house number. Our little gated community rested exactly half-way up a long, steep hill. At the bottom of the hill was the noisy, busy city, and at the top was the school that I would attend. I remember standing on top of the monkey bars on the playground near our home, staring out at the city below. Seoul was so different than my small neighborhood home in Cortland, Ohio, yet I never felt scared or uncomfortable. I loved the bright lights and fast-paced nature of the city. I fell in love with the spicy food. I watched the clock for the colorful egg lady who showed up on our doorstep once a week selling fresh, brown eggs, carrying them in a basket on her head. My siblings and I drew chalk cities on our driveway, sometimes pictures of our life in Ohio. I bugged the guard who sat at the gate a little too much, always trying to piece together his broken English with my small vocabulary of Korean to form a conversation. Mostly I giggled and his old, brown eyes glistened as we watched cars pass by. I felt safe in our little community and although I missed home, I didn't mind where I was at in the least bit.
I remember waking up extra early for my first day of pre-kindergarten at Seoul Foreign School. Armed with a Hello Kitty backpack and little brown pigtails, my mom, my siblings and I made the early morning trek up the hill to school. The K-12 school was as big as a college campus. My building alone was three floors. The school was complete with a theater for special events, a huge playground, a soccer field and a track, an indoor pool and an elevated indoor sidewalk that connected different buildings, like the high school building, the gym, the art building and the gymnastics building. I quickly made two best friends, a little blonde girl from the Netherlands and a tanned, dark haired girl from Hawaii. We signed up for after-school art classes on Tuesdays and gymnastics on Wednesdays and we became inseparable.
My family and I traveled back to the U.S. a couple of times each year, often for Christmas, Thanksgiving or Easter. Sometimes for my favorite holiday, one that I could only experience in the States, the Fourth of July. Sitting on blankets munching on snacks, surrounded by family and watching as the night sky is illuminated with bright colors and fun shapes, smelling the smoke from the fireworks and trying to time the "BOOM" perfectly, is something that I'm sure I will never get tired of, no matter how old I get. Many of my childhood memories are from the 3 years I spent in Seoul. I learned to ride a bike on the big soccer field at my school. I dressed in a colorful Hanbok and participated in the Korean festivals every year. My favorite Korean holiday fell on May 5th, Children's Day. The soccer field was transformed into a carnival, complete with a dunking booth, games and prizes, cotton candy, popcorn and more.
Every new experience was a small lesson. My parents have always taught me to be accepting of other people. When I moved back to the States and started school, I heard the word "weird" over and over again to describe the place I had lived or the food I had eaten. I noticed it because "weird" was never in my vocabulary. I had embraced the people and the culture in Korea. Their language, their food, their holidays and traditions, they were different to what I was used to, but never weird. I realized how big of an impact that traveling and experiencing other cultures had on me as a person. I am forever grateful to my parents for my experience and I have an undeniable passion for traveling. I would love to return to my old stomping grounds one day, maybe ride a bike on my old soccer field, buy some Poolppang from a marketplace, or knock on the door at F-1, just to see who lives there, 15 years later.