South Koreans have pale white faces. Oriental is what many people call them, though they aren’t oriental. Their faces are like rice cakes: soft, squishy, and fleshy, like the pastry itself. Their faces pearl white or the color of sunscreen that reflect the harsh rays of sun as it beats onto their umbrellas as they stroll down hilly streets. The porcelain color of their faces reflects at one another as they chatter about the newest Korean beauty trends. Asking one another what the best course of action is so they can keep their porcelain faces polished and pretty, like a doll. So that at least if not smarts or money, they can have pretty faces that they have manufactured for themselves.

Their faces are unchanging like the seasons the Han River runs through. The cherry blossom springs and brittle winters that try to encapsulate it, constrict it in a choke hold of heat or an icy grip to the arm. It always stays the same, partially because of the boats that pass through it and partially because the waters are so resilient.

The same persistence follows the children of Seoul. Their chatter and bribery can be heard even from ten stalls down. The old women tell them that they can’t have extra Tteokbokki (떡볶이)or bungeoppang (붕어빵), that it’s “bad for business if I’m nice to you.” Their hands and spatulas shoo the children’s round angelic faces away as they run with treats in hand.

As the waters and people are strong enough to carry cargo, they are strong enough to carry the budding culture that flows out of the heart of its Seoul. A type of Seoul that breaths like it’s alive to tell people what’s in it. How it is complex and beautiful just as the many languages, dialects, and faces that fill it. How it’s Seoul is a small mountainous home away from home, rocky and changing like the faults that surround it, yet still the same Seoul as it was before. The Seoul that is malleable, yet soft as a rice cake.

– Moses Suchomski