The walnut cake theory of Korean hospitality
There are days, most days, if I’m being honest, when Seoul feels less like a city and more like a high-speed assembly line I’ve accidentally stepped onto sideways. Everything moves with this synchronized, conveyor-belt urgency, and I’m the defective product drifting against the current. Cars don’t so much drive as lunge: sudden, angular movements that make me consider slamming my horn with righteous theatricality. I almost never do, because in Korea the horn is not so much a warning as a declaration of open hostilities. Doorways swallow people whole; nobody waits behind to hold anything open. Coffee cups — still upright, still warm — are abandoned on sidewalks like tiny exhausted soldiers who have fallen in battle. The whole landscape starts to feel like a collage of micro-indifferences, each one trivial and yet collectively forming this impression of a society in which everyone is pathologically sealed in their own sleek ergonomic capsule of self. Screens are part of the problem, obviously. We carry these glowing rectangles like secular rosaries, caressing them for spiritu