[LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 3] Carrying a grandma through Yaksu Station

An alley in central Seoul's Haebangchon i April 2019 / Courtesy of Rachel Stine

By Rachel Stine

I'm sure anyone who continues to suffer through this slog of a travelog ― or an editorial, or whatever it is ― is eager to hear about the breakup drama I alluded to in my last entry. We all love breakup drama. That's why we invented an entire YouTube genre dedicated to LA influencers crying on bedroom floors.

Well, perhaps we'll get into the breakup drama and perhaps we won't … but let's instead take a detour to provide some context about "jeong" in South Korea, and how it's faded out of Seoul life in the past decade.

I was very hesitant to publish this anecdote, because I don't want to seem like a self-aggrandizing clown. But without context, it's difficult to understand what, exactly, the Olle Trail can help us rediscover.

Since I'm writing in English, I'm going to assume that not all readers are familiar with the Korean concept of "jeong." So in the spirit of clarity, here's an explainer:

Have you ever cyberstalked the Facebook page of someone you didn't get on with in high school … only to find yourself feeling weirdly proud that they're a lawyer now?

That's jeong.

Have you ever walked through a neighborhood you used to work in, just to see if the old noodle shop is still there?

That's jeong.

Do you refuse to upgrade your 2011 Nintendo 3DS because, even though it's scratched up, it still carried you through 13 countries and five Pokemon tournaments?

That's jeong … in a particularly stubborn form.

Jeong isn't exactly nostalgia and it's not not exactly love, either. I suppose it could be loosely translated as attachment.

Back in 2012, jeong was one of the cultural qualities that drew me to South Korea. I was an exchange student at Yonsei University at the time, and I can still remember my first encounter with this distinct cultural concept on the Seoul subway.

I suppose I seemed lost on Line 2, because a middle-aged woman demanded (in that fussy "ajumma" way) that I sit next to her in the elderly seats.

As it turned out, her daughter was also studying abroad, but in Queens, New York. Did I need help settling in? Did I need a translator? How was I going to eat spicy food for three months, anyway?

That's how Sue and I became friends. She took me to get my hair cut, treated me to coffee and assisted with basic translation. Even after I returned to New York, we kept in touch.

I feel that that story epitomizes the spirit of jeong. As recently as 2012, that warmth and small village spirit was woven into every aspect of daily Korean life. I suspect it's one of the reasons my OCD got better when I moved here.

But 2012 was over a decade ago. And unfortunately, virtually any Seoul-dweller will report that community vibes have been in steep decline since then.

It's beyond my scope of expertise to pinpoint the cause, but I have suspicions that social media ― and its tendency to amp up outrage ― was a person of interest in the murder of jeong. But for me, there was a particular day the death occurred. This happened in Yaksu Station, around 2018.

I was on the subway platform that day, listening to a podcast. I don't remember which one. Knowing myself back then, it was probably some keto-Crypto "seize the day" YouTube schlock.

My concentration only broke when I heard someone groan: "It hurts … it hurts."

I turned around. Behind me was an 80-something Korean woman sprawled across a subway bench.

I glanced along the platform. It was rush hour, and the station was packed. Some skinny blonde lady was scrolling through her phone. Korean businessmen were typing very long (and apparently very detailed) messages into KakaoTalk.

I paused my podcast and walked over to her.

"Are you okay?" I asked in Korean, leaning down.

"It hurts," she intoned. Her eyes were closed.

"What hurts?"

For a minute or two, I tried to get a response, but she was slurring her words. Looking back on it now, I think she was having a stroke.

When she became unresponsive, I realized this was way beyond my capabilities. I scanned the subway platform looking for an emergency call button. I remember debating whether or not I should call 119, but I didn't know how to explain where, exactly, we were in cavernous Yaksu Station.

An old Korean guy must have noticed my panic, because he hurried over. "What's going on?" he whispered.

By now, the train was slowing to a stop in front of the glass doors. The woman flailed her arm in the direction of the cars, suddenly clear for the first time: "My son! I need to meet my son!"

I turned to the old guy, wide-eyed. I was just some 20-something EFL idiot; I needed to defer to the more experienced adult.

He hesitated, then nodded in the direction of the train cars. We got on either side of the lady, hoisted her up, and half-dragged her into the train. I remember turning right and laying her down in the elderly seats while the guy withdrew his phone and dialed 119.

I glanced behind us. The Korean businessmen in suits were on the train, too. They were staring.

The old woman was still delirious, but after another round of interrogation, she managed to say the name of a subway stop minutes away. We relayed the name to the emergency responders at 119. When the train doors opened at her destination, two paramedics were waiting for us on the platform (Korean efficiency strikes again!).

They sat her in a wheelchair and rushed her towards an elevator. The old guy and I watched them go.

Afterwards, we stood on the platform and talked. He asked me the usual questions ― what country was I from, how old I was, how did I learn Korean … then he handed me a business card and told me to keep in touch.

Soon I was on another train, backtracking to Samgakji.

I was on my way to attend a weekly North Korean human rights meeting, where the majority of volunteers there are older, conservative Christians. (HBC's queer bars? Boomer Christian churches? Yes, I admit I run in diverse circles.)

But holding onto a subway handle, I kept replaying the situation in my head. That skinny blonde lady scrolling through her phone.

Maybe she didn't speak Korean.

But what about all those 40-something suits? They understood.

Well, maybe they thought she was drunk. Remember that 2011 blog with all the drunk office workers passed out in Hongdae? That was big back in the day.

But … she didn't look unkempt. She had clean clothes and seemed put together. And even if she had been drunk, did that make it okay to ignore her?

I got off at my destination feeling disturbed.

"That never would have happened in 2012," I blurted out to Tim Peters, the pastor who runs Helping Hands Korea's weekly meetings.

He smiled grimly. "Do you remember the old nickname for Seoul?"

I suppose I didn't, because I just stared.

"The world's largest village."

Well, apparently the world's largest village had lost its jeong.

When I walked back to Haebangchon later that night, I tried to dismiss the incident as a weird consequence of city life.

Months went by. I focused on the jeong I felt chatting with regulars at Le Chien Blanc, or dropping off rent to my landlady, who always gifted me plastic bags full of fruit.

But on bad days, when some taxi ajusshi made sexually aggressive comments, or some boss threatened to get me "deported for sending food to the North Koreans," the Yaksu event would creep back into my mind.

"It hurts. It hurts."

The Korea of 2012 and the Korea of today seemed like completely different places. So on Jeju Island when the tackle shop lady from Olle Route 1 appeared, acting like someone from a decade ago, I was shocked. Maybe jeong wasn't gone after all.

Her kindness made me wonder if it might be worthwhile to hike the rest of the Olle trails. Ultimately, I would end up taking those hikes, but they would be completed alone, in the wake of a life-altering breakup.

LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 1 How hiking Jeju's 437km of trails changed my life
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 2 Fighting agrarian anxiety attacks on Jeju's paths
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 3 Carrying a grandma through Yaksu Station
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 4 Going full white lady in the woods
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 5 Getting ice cream and umbrellas from strangers
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 6 Discovering deer carcasses at the tea museum
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 7 Healing perfectionism on Pyoseon Beach
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 8 Confronting OCD in Woljeong-ri
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 9 Reading a poem about death in the woods
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 10 Confronting the subconscious saboteur
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 11 Worrying about comments section chaos
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 12 Saying goodbye in Gueok-ri
LIFE'S OLLE TRAILS 13 Walking back, fast or slow

Rachel Stine has volunteered in the North Korean human rights sphere for over a decade. Her writing has appeared in The Huffington Post, The Korea Times and other major news outlets. You can view nature photography from her journeys around the world at flickr.com/photos/rachelstinewrites.