Emptiness can be found everywhere. You can travel across the world to a remote place only to find that your problems have followed you there. When there’s a void within you, it doesn’t go away with a change of scenery. I know this first-hand by living in different countries, and the place that offered me the most opportunity for introspection was an island called Jeju in South Korea. I lived there for five incredible years in my thirties teaching English.
Jeju Island is a magical place. The energy there is like nowhere else. Sandy beaches sprinkled with volcanic rock are watched over by Mt. Halla as it extends its often-snowy peak to the clouds. There has been great tragedy on its soil in the last century, and its culture stretches far back in history. During the Joseon Dynasty, exiles and outcasts that had fallen out of favor with the government were sent there as punishment. You might find that hilarious given that now it is a prime vacation destination in Asia.
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Jeju is now facing incredible amounts of development as companies scramble to cash in on its natural beauty. Much of its shamanic and spiritual sites have been lost, replaced by resort hotels and expensive vacation homes. There is often a concern of air pollution and dust nowadays, and the mountain is hard to see through a thick haze. But when I lived there, it was paradise.
Blue-green waters and white sandy beaches drew me every weekend in the summer. The air was clean and there was a hiking trail that went all the way around the coast. You could find me often traversing its paths. The sea called to me. I loved to take a long walk near Hyeopjae Beach on the North part of the island, walking for a few hours until my legs felt fatigued, and then I’d sit down at the beach and go swimming when there was no one around. I spent many hours in silent introspection.
It wasn’t all solitude and inner work, however. Sometimes, I would join the other expats at bars to party like an idiot in the dark. When the sun set, the sunny, sparkling beach was no longer the focus, and we’d head into town — to a place called City Hall. It was a few blocks of shopping, restaurants, cafes, and bars. A few of the bars were very foreigner-friendly —the owners or bartenders could speak English.
We’d convene, laugh, and act upon our passions. Absolutely nothing and no one stood between us and whatever we wanted to do. We were all single, well-paid, and pretty much alcoholic. And trust me, the alcohol was endless, with no cultural stigma about the copious consumption of it. We often joked that alcoholics from other countries came to Korea to simply fit in.
But alcohol can’t solve anyone’s problems. Partying is fun, but it left us empty at the end of the night.
I had a best friend who would come into town with me, we’d find trouble, leave one place and walk between bars together when people annoyed us, looking for somewhere better than where we’d just been, and many nights we’d end up at this sleazy nightclub called Jane’s Groove. And for some reason, I thought every time we went in there that it would be different.
Jane’s Groove was nothing but a room on a second floor of a building that was dark with loud music. You wouldn’t ever go there unless you were wasted.
If you went in before midnight, you’d be the only one in there because the crowd only picked up after about one o’clock. There was always a line to get in at that time, and waiting in line was part of the thrill. With a line like that, you feel like you’re attaining something and working for it. Once you got in, you felt like you’d waited a while and you needed to find meaning in there by dancing on chairs or something. The owner and bartender, Minji, had bleach-blond hair and always looked happy to see us, so knew that we must be finding our way toward something greater.
We didn’t want to go home. We wanted to keep the euphoria of total freedom and intoxication going before we had to face ourselves in the mirror at home again in our quiet, lonely bathrooms as we washed off our makeup. Nobody wanted to just go home. Facing the lonely self is too much.
So, we many times left Jane’s and still couldn’t go home. My friend and I liked to head to Kimbap Heaven, a restaurant offering kimbap, fried rice, dumplings, ramen, and all kinds of other Korean quick bites. You would get a little piece of paper and check the boxes of the food you wanted. They were open till sunrise.
You could walk into Kimbap Heaven at four o’clock in the morning and find your comrades from the bars and clubs sitting at the tables waiting for their food, looking deflated and drained. The expat community was so small that you simply knew everyone and there was nowhere else to go but Kimbap Heaven.
They looked attractive in the darkness of the bars, but the lights were fully on at Kimbap Heaven. It was bright as hell in there. You could see the makeup running and the redness in the eyes. You could see people falling apart at the seams.
This is where the truth lies. The existential truth. In a late-night restaurant in South Korea at 4 AM. This is where you see the cracks forming, the doubt creeping in, and the existence being questioned.
We just wanted one last stop before going home to our beds. We wanted to stuff our mouths with delicious fast food and reflect on the night — one more night in our pathetic existence where we had to numb out instead of facing life itself.
It seemed glamorous to be teachers who could party anytime we wanted with no limitations in Jeju Island. I also visited nightclubs many times in Seoul and Busan. It’s the same everywhere.
Summertime was about pop-up parties on patios and rooftops and raves at the beach. It seemed like we were living the life. But at the end of the day, we were filling our bodies with toxins and collapsing at Kimbap Heaven, then going home to face the emptiness before starting the workweek again.
We were trying to find meaning in dark, dirty bars with loud music, wearing our best makeup and doing our best hair so that people could blow smoke in our faces and come home smelling like tobacco. We were exchanging gossip about the new teachers on the island, leaving to find meaning at other bars without saying goodbye to the friends we came with and ending up at sleazy nightclubs that were nothing more than dark rooms with absolutely disgusting things all over the floors. We wanted to feel like existence was worth it but it never was.
I took a taxi home every time to my rural apartment about thirty minutes from City Hall, reflecting all the way on how happy I was to get home to my bed because partying wasn’t that great after all.
My best friend and I would spend each Sunday horribly hungover. We’d make our way back to City Hall to eat sushi around noon, then lounge around a cafe for hours, totally exhausted. And we put a lot of effort into trying to live the good life, trust me. But we found nothing. We have no answers.
Years later, after living in paradise and having a life that many people would die for, we are still unsatisfied and don’t know why we’re here.
Hi, I’m Emily. In addition to writing, I also teach meditation, read tarot, create podcasts, and I’m a spiritual coach. For more about me, have a look at my website. If this writing helps you, you’re always welcome to buy me a coffee.
The divine in me recognizes the divine in you.
