There is not a single degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a spiritualizing of the soul.

Oscar Wilde

29 June 2023

• 10:55-11:05 CTS broadcasting stop to Jeonju Intercity Bus Terminal stop bus number 5002, 11:25-14:15 Jeonju Express Bus Terminal to Seoul City Center Bus Terminal bus, 14:40-15:00 Express But Terminal station to Dangnam station metro, 15:10-15:15 Dangnam station to Hongik University station metro
• Clubbing at night

Farewell to Jeon-ju

My hostel in Jeonju was empty when I woke at 9:00. All the guests (German guy, Dutch girl, and Norwegian guy who had stayed in my dorm) had checked out. The lights in the common area were off. The owner was out.

I ate breakfast by myself, when the owner came back.

“I have time to buy a choco pie at PnB, right?” I asked him before leaving for my bus to Seoul.

“Yes, but if you like red bean, the best bun in the world is also here.”

He showed me the location, a 5-minute walk away. I wondered if he’d tasted red beans in Japan. I really wanted another choco pie.

“So which is better, choco pie or red bean?” I asked.

He chuckled, as if the mere comparison was an insult.

“Red bean.”

I hurried to the restaurant – more like a tiny stand with one table and a couple hard at work, making dumplings. Even locals were likely to miss this spot. There weren’t any signs or photos. I presented a note the owner had written me, requesting one portion of jjinppang (a bag of eight red bean buns), and treated him to a bun upon my hasty return, in spite of his protests. After an amicable farewell and handshake, I checked out.

I took the bus to the Intercity Bus Terminal, knowing full well that I was making a mistake. After all, I’d arrived to Jeonju via the Express Bus Terminal. Indeed, the Intercity one told me to go to the Express one, even though I was about to take an intercity bus. At least the two were a mere 5-minute walk apart.

On the rainy way to Seoul, I ate the jjinppang. The owner was right. It was the best red bean I’d tasted.

The dough was super thin, and the crimson paste, darker than any bright red convenience store equivalent, included several secret spices. Not too sweet, not too fat, not too heavy…

Back to Seoul

Four hours of trains and buses later, I made it to Hongdae, for my favorite Seoul hostel.

So good to be back! I remembered the way from the metro station. A Dutch girl who volunteered there immediately inquired about my hanbok, deeming it a balance of comfort and style.

“It’s a conversation starter,” I replied. Part of the reason I’d grown fond of wearing traditional garb.

A middle-aged guest from Hong Kong said my form of hanbok was very popular in South China back in the day. While we were talking, I recognized a guest from my last time in this hostel, in May: the Dutch girl with a dojo who had gone to Okinawa in the meantime to train in karate.

“What a coincidence!” we both said. She’d checked in last night after returning from Japan.

No sooner had we said this, than the Israeli girl from my last time stepped out of a room.

Another guest from May.

Then the Thai-Japanese volunteer from my last time arrived. She’d landed in Seoul yesterday after spending the weeks since May in Japan. She’d recognized me from behind, before I even turned around.

So we all happened to return to this hostel at the same time.

I spent the afternoon chatting with the Dutch volunteer and a Romanian guest. She was 22, tall, slender, statuesque, a redheaded beauty with a mellow voice, and a professional-level talent for makeup and styling. He was 27, my height yet bigger in size, curly haired to the point of almost having an afro, with a goatee, a low voice, and a heavy, rolling-R accent.

I researched hostels to volunteer in Sapporo (results were grim). A few guests put on Parasite, so I watched the beginning with them while eating a disgusting convenience store dinner. The last time it had happened was probably in this hostel, in mid-May.

Partying in Hongdae

At night, I walked fifteen minutes to Q’s hostel. Not as good as mine, in terms of size and layout, but the vibe at the common area was nice. A quarter of the people there were queer – a fact shocking to me, since I was used to being surrounded by cishets my entire life, with never more than one queer person around. Q knew them all because she’d volunteered here for 4.5 months.

Tonight’s pre-pride party going out group included a hilarious Korean-American girl who’d quit her job as an immigration lawyer in Tijuana and come to Seoul to perfect her Korean at a language school; a sweet trans man from Barcelona; an English guy from Sheffield, who had moved to Tokyo 3 months ago to study Japanese at a private language school for 2 years, while working part time at a comedy bar near Shibuya Crossing (I told him I’d come visit); and some random guests, who tagged along at the last minute.

We all went out to FF, Q’s favorite club, which held a pre-pride party (our reason for coming to Seoul today).

Queer people. Queer anthems. We were home.

“This is so much better than Seomyeon!” I yelled in Q’s ear. Our group danced together and had a blast. I danced with random people and the most fun Asian-Australian girl.

Fucked Up at the Club

As the night progressed, I was slowly starting to notice the people at the club.

Yet I got cold feet. After last weekend in Busan, I’d lost the ability to approach anyone.

“Just dance your way to them,” the Barcelonian volunteer told me. “You can do it, come on.”

I couldn’t.

If they were interested, I figured they probably would’ve approached me.

“You’re with a group, so it’s harder to approach someone that way,” he said.

“It’s my first time going out with a group,” I said. I’d always went out to queer spaces by myself.

I watched couples dance all night. I couldn’t focus or let go of my thoughts. Even closing my eyes and dancing like in Tokyo didn’t help me move on.

Finally, at 2:00 or 3:00, I sat on the floor in a corner, unable to fake it any more. Jealousy and fatigue overtook me; physical and emotional exhaustion. The couple in question happened to be next to me the entire time.

I realized my last shreds of confidence had disappeared altogether. This affected me in a way that made me seem drunk or incapacitated. My friends came to check on me.

I forced myself to re-join them. We danced for a while. Then it was time for me to go.

“Are you okay?” Q asked me outside the club, as we waited for the others.

My pangs of inferiority from Busan left me momentarily quiet.

“I think I’m fucked up,” I said, staring into space.

She went to look for the others. I noticed the fun girl I’d danced with.

“Do you think I might become a home wrecker?” she blurted me after one or two sentences of chatting. A guy she’d been texting had just told her he had a girlfriend.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” I replied after hearing all the details. “I was in a similar situation some time ago, and his girlfriend didn’t even know he was bi. I’m happy I said no.”

Q texted me. The group had decided to stay.

I walked back to my hostel for twenty minutes by myself. On the way, my clothes got so dirty, that I had to wash them in the bathroom of the hostel upon my return.

3:30 am, rinsing my hanbok with shampoo, exhausted from dancing and inadequate sleep, this scene couldn’t have visualized my emotional state better. It wasn’t just KN1 who had played with my feelings – it was people from Japan, from Busan, all in the same timeframe. Too recent, too confusing, too raw. The volunteers had made it seem so easy: the girls went out, and in a manner of minutes, guys at the club were theirs.

In a straight world, life for queers was different.

Today’s highlights: jjinppang; returning to my favorite hostel; clubbing with Q in a queer space.

Stray observations:

• Korean are obsessed with apple juice inside a cut watermelon, and caramelized strawberries on a stick for dessert.
• My shoulders hurt nonstop these days, even when not carrying anything. Perpetually sore from five months of carrying bags.

30 June 2023

• Bar in Jongno 3-ga area
• 00:00-1:00 Burlesque show
• Clubbing in Itaewon

My Favorite Hostel

After last night’s partying, today was a quiet day. I spent half of it writing in my hostel about my first time here in mid-May. I couldn’t not write this post while back at the same place.

I hung out with the Romanian guy. He’d left his country at 18 to study math and physics at Cambridge; yet recently quit his job, to travel for a long time.

A 19 year old guest from Sheffield joined us. He was of Southeast Asian descent, and went to Warwick University, which I’d almost attended.

Both guys were as tall me, but twenty kilos heavier. In Japan and Korea, I’d sometimes felt overweight: almost none of the guys had body fat here; they were either insanely skinny, or buff.

“You know you have a really soothing voice?” I asked the British student at some point. He spoke more calmly than a Buddhist monk.

He seemed taken aback.

“What, no one’s ever told you that?”

“I’ve been told that I speak slowly,” he said slowly.

It wasn’t overlong and aggravating, the way old people sometimes spoke. It was just chill. As if he had all the time in the world.

He was shy, and calm, and Zen. Some would find him monotone, but I felt serene next to him. Almost as if I were meditating. Actual meditation had never had this effect on me.

A middle-aged Japanese woman from Saitama checked in. Bright and talkative, she greeted everyone and inquired about their origin. When I answered in Japanese and mentioned my nationality and day trip to Saitama, she let out a cry of shock, and immediately exchanged details with me.

When the Romanian guy introduced himself, his going to Cambridge came up.

“結婚したい！” the Japanese woman exclaimed.

“She said she wants to marry you,” I translated, much to his befuddlement.

“I’m too young!” he protested.

The Dutch volunteer returned from a day of shopping. She’d splurged on makeup and accessories for tomorrow’s pride parade.

I discovered how much we had in common. Both in a gray area on the sexuality spectrum. Both interested in the vibe a person gave off. Both disliked dating apps. When I recounted last night to her, she finished my words.

“Every time is like this,” I said. “I go out, drink, dance, have fun. Then I feel like shit, and mope back to bed.”

The same for her. I couldn’t figure out why. She was an attractive redhead – tall, slender, with doll-like features. Artistic and articulate, professional with styling and makeup. But she hadn’t been going out to clubs.

She reacted with the same confusion toward me.

“I am not what people look for,” I said.

“I feel like I’m my group of friends you would be popular,” she said. “Like, the type of cute, creative –”

“Weird?”

“Well, yes, but in a good way.”

More common ground came up. She’d never been in love.

Nor did she have a companion for the parade. She’d made plans with a random, middle-aged woman from a Facebook group to attend it together. I invited her to go instead with Q and me.

At 19:00, I reluctantly left the hostel for my next one. I promised the volunteers and guests to see them again sometime in the next month.

To my utter lack of surprise, my new hostel was horrendous. One of those Korean hostels with a miniscule dormitory, a shower over the toilet, and no common area. It was empty, too: no one was around. More like a capsule hotel, where you went just for a bed.

Jongno 3-ga

I went out at 22:00 to Jongno 3-ga, one of the two gay areas of Seoul. The street was bustling with food stalls and foldable tables. Tons of people were sitting like this on the edge of the pavement, eating and drinking.

Then I entered the best bar in the area. It was quiet and serious. People having dinner. Not too many of them. A few patrons on the bar.

I sat down not too far from the only two young guys. They were conversing in Japanese.

One was from Osaka; the other, a Filipino who had studied Japanese in Australia, in high school. I enjoyed chatting with them, and found myself accidentally saying “ne” (yes in Korean), instead of “hai” (yes in Japanese).

At 23:00, both guys left, each to their accommodation. They did not want to miss the train or party until late.

Now what.

Jongno 3-ga turned out to be a disappointment. People went there to eat street food with their friends. Not to meet strangers. There weren’t any other decent bars. I did not want the night to end like this.

My First Burlesque Show

So I hopped on the metro south to Itaewon. One of the two nightlife hubs of Seoul, it was the hotspot for queer clubs. I made it just before midnight to a burlesque club that was throwing a pride show.

It was small and half full. Almost everyone was foreigners. I talked to a Korean guy eating dinner alone at the bar. His friend had bailed on him at the last minute.

“He went to meet his lover,” the guy explained. His head sank in depression.

“I know how you feel,” I said.

“You do?”

“Well,” I said, trying to recall if I’d experienced the exact same scenario, “we’ve all been there, haven’t we?”

He said the “friend” in question was always rude to him. Always, always, always.

“Is he really your friend?”

“He’s a workmate,” the guy said.

Afterwards, he went away for a moment, and upon his return, did not want to engage in more conversation.

So I talked instead to a bunch of American expats who were teaching various subjects in Seoul and Busan. Nearly all were also enrolled in the local school of burlesque, and worked as performers. The girls were easy to talk to, and so was the only guy, who turned out to be paradoxically shy, despite his occupation involving showing off his body. He was too afraid to approach people, to go out alone, to travel by himself.

“I’m a follower, not a leader,” he said, when I asked him where he would continue from here, and he didn’t know the answer.

“It’s pathetic, but it’s really fake it till you make it,” I told him, regarding my process of approaching people. Just like the Dutch volunteer, he echoed my process of “going out – having fun – staying alone – feeling like shit”.

Then came the time for my first burlesque show. It was short, cheeky, and risqué. Everyone was in good spirits.

(I chose to upload the less racy video.)

Afterwards, around 1:00, the Korean guy left, and I hurried after him, suspecting he was headed to an area in Itaewon I’d been meaning to check.

Itaewon’s Homo Hill

Homo Hill was the gay capital of Korea. Quite literally, a hill with homos on it. I had no idea where it was, nor what was good. Even though it was obvious that the Korean guy didn’t seek my company, he agreed to take me there.

No sooner had we set out than I ran into the fun girl from Hongdae, whom I’d danced with the previous night and given my two cents regarding her cheating boy drama.

We’d texted earlier today. She’d told me about the developments to that story. And now she was here.

As future outings to Itaewon would teach me, such chance encounters were not uncommon. The same people frequented the same spots.

The fun girl was with a Hawaiian guy she’d just met. The three of us followed the Korean guy. The Americans at the burlesque club had told me about the main places in Homo Hill. So had Google. Yet the Korean guy took us to other places, for locals only.

First, a club with old K-pop songs. The Hawaiian and I were the only foreigners. We danced for a while, until the Korean guy took us to another place.

We crossed “trans street” and stood in line (a long line) to another local-only spot. A super cool club with current K-pop and tons of people. It reminded me of my favorite club in Shinjuku, except on a larger scale.

The Asian-Australian girl and Hawaiian guy didn’t join us. They’d called it a night. Moreover, the Korean guy and I soon split up. I was again by myself.

It struck me how differently Koreans partied than the Japanese. Half were the masculine type, more rigid than loose and breezy. The rest: flamboyant, know-all-the-moves-to-every-K-pop-song. They moved their bodies so fast, it seemed even better than the girls on TV. They were adorable and fun and had great vibes. The two groups were usually divided by height.

I tried to recall Japanese guys from Shinjuku. Similar groups existed, but I couldn’t remember any of them moving their body like this. They were a bit more reserved. And polite.

Then my usual process repeated itself. I danced and danced but got cold feet every time I wanted to approach someone. I felt like no one was wishing for me to do so.

Koreans felt like a closed club. Partially because of the language barrier. But also due to the beauty ideals. I felt like I was back in Israel, where the vast majority of male queers looked the same, and looked for the same.

I hated that feeling of being the odd one out; of not being able to fit in. I didn’t want to approach the handful of foreigners that had entered after me. I wanted to talk to the locals. I had one month left in this country.

In the end, like yesterday, I left a little before 3:00. The night bus was so busy, that people couldn’t get on, nor even off. It was as packed as the train in Osaka to Universal Studios, when I’d gone there in early March, incidentally on a school holiday.

I heard more Japanese spoken around me, both by Japanese people and foreigners. We exchanged a few words. Yet I was tired of trying to make connections.

Just like yesterday, I went to bed at 4:00, the same thoughts and feelings plaguing my sleep.

Today’s highlights: the people at the hostel (why did it attract such interesting types?); speaking Japanese at a Korean bar; my first burlesque show; the second club in Itaewon.

1 July 2023

• Seoul pride festival and parade (~5.5h)
• Clubbing at night

Seoul Pride

I woke up at 10:30 again, just like yesterday. The plan for today was simple. Pride.

The booth festival started at 11:00, while the parade at 16:30. I spent the morning writing about last night in bed. Then, at 12:45, I walked a mere ten minutes from my hostel to the pride venue at Euljiro 2-ga, and entered through the rainbow-flagged gate.

I immediately bumped into the Japanese guy from last night. We’d texted a little in the morning. He’d just arrived as well. I greeted him, but soon enough, got an “enough mingling” vibe from him. A bit odd, considering he’d liked my interview on the Japanese news from back in February, and complimented my blog.

So I checked out the booths without him. There wasn’t much to do – they were mostly selling merchandise, rather than offering polaroid booths or free swag. In Tokyo, the pride venue was several times bigger, featured multiple sections – a food area (sorely lacking in Seoul, as I’d learned in a few hours, because people spent all day here and everyone was hungry and thirsty), tons of booths, photo ops, a large stage… the stage here was small, and didn’t have any performances at the moment.

The venue in Seoul was basically two short streets. There wasn’t much for me to do. At this hour, the place was only half full.

Hungry from a lack of breakfast, I left the festival, stocked up at 7/11, and came back, snacking while waiting for the Dutch volunteer to arrive. Q and her gang weren’t due until the parade.

She was fashionably late all right. Tight red dress, elaborate makeup. Rhinestones, pink hair extensions, a tiara. People immediately asked to take her photo. They stopped her constantly. A few times, they asked me to be in the photo. I had donned my new purple hanbok from Jeonju for the occasion. It didn’t really hold a candle to my companion, but nonetheless received a few comments.

We talked to people, got temporary tattoos, stickers, fans, all sorts of little things. Eventually, we just stood in line for a whole hour for the only photo booth around.

Three things happened then.

First, we engaged in a very deep conversation about sexuality, and found out how, yet again, we were both of the same mind. Sexuality was fluid, in our opinion; ever-changing. I explained to her how mine had changed since childhood. We shared a history of asexuality, and resisted the idea that most people were 100% straight. Neither of us had been in a relationship.

Then someone made my head turn.

A Rare Re-Encounter

A Korean guy walked past us. Smoking, mask down, wearing all black.

I saw a third of his face from the side. It was all I needed. The shy guy from the drag club in Busan.

I told my companion about him. Our exchange one month ago was extremely brief: I’d asked him if he’d wanted to dance; he’d said no; that was it.

Thanks to the Dutch volunteer’s encouragement, I plucked up the courage and approached him. He immediately recognized me.

Still, he struggled to speak in English. I couldn’t tell if because he was bad at it, or just nervous.

“What are your plans for today?” I asked.

“Um…” he stuttered. “I don’t know, too hot…”

It really was. I was a puddle. So was everyone else.

It wasn’t raining, at least. But summer was in full force. Maybe I’d caught him in a bad moment.

I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m going to the parade later, and then to Itaewon at night,” I finally said. “You can catch me around if you’re interested.”

He returned an awkward smile. Yet another “let’s end this conversation” attitude. So with that, I left.

I re-joined the Dutch girl at the line to the photo booth. Told her about our exchange. What were the odds of me seeing him again?

I immediately regretted not asking for his number.

“Just ask for his Instagram,” she said.

I had flashbacks to the day I’d met the Miitaka guy. The Busan guy hadn’t made me feel that way. Yet I decided to return to his spot.

He was gone.

No.

No, no, no.

I looked around.

Nothing.

I filled with regret. Not again.

Back in line, feeling a bit downcast, a guy asked me and the Dutch volunteer what we were waiting for. He was a Mongolian undergrad student of chemistry. So funny and sassy, that I invited him to join us.

From here on, the three of us hung out together at pride. Took photos at the photo booth, with the anti-gay protestors, talked about anything gay: Beyonce, Taylor Swift (his idol), the new Barbie movie, etc. Much of our flirting went right past the Dutch girl, which was funny, because she couldn’t understand half of the not-so-innocent things that left our lips.

He was so much fun to be around. Round glasses, decorated baseball cap, a black hoodie, even in this weather (“I don’t like to sweat, so I just don’t,” he quipped). Yet every now and then, I scoured the crowd for a Korean guy in all-black, to no avail.

Then I saw some of the drag queens from Busan were here. They were going to perform on the stage. I resolved to greet them afterwards and ask them about him. He was a regular at the club. Not so big of a club. Surely they would know him.

Apart from that, the atmosphere at pride was incredible. So much color and joy. Eye-popping outfits (or lack thereof, as a few Korean girls made sure of). I was a bit surprised by the last point, as a matter of fact, because in Tokyo, I’d seen a bunch of shirtless guys, but here, it was the opposite.

There was a nun handing out rainbow stickers, as well as uncles and aunties offering free hugs. Two guys in a Mario and Wario costumes. Apart from that, most people were actually casual, wearing everyday clothes. Tokyo Pride was bigger, wilder, less hot, and more organized.

The Parade

Once the parade began at 16:30, all hell broke loose. The Dutch girl and I waited in a corner for the Romanian guest to find his way through the horde of people toward us. (The Mongolian guy had left to find his friends.) My other friends from Hongdae – Q and her group, who I’d gone out with two nights ago – couldn’t find me for the life of them. There was a complete standstill at the starting point. It was that chaotic.

In Tokyo, by comparison, you had to sign up to walk the parade, and wait in line at a designated spot at a specific time. Everything was in perfect order.

Regardless, I reveled in the event. There were people dancing on top of vans (including a few from the burlesque club last night). I recognized many faces, such as two foreign guys who’d hiked Hallasan at the same time as me on May 23 (and ignored me later that day).

There were so many policemen, that it seemed as though every single officer in Seoul had been sent here on dozens of police buses parked outside the city hall.

“They should make a movie about a heist during pride,” the Dutch girl said.

“Oh, yeah, like that movie in the Met Gala,” the Romanian guy said.

“Stealing from a bank during pride?” I said. “That would be so queer.”

There were a bunch of Christians carrying anti-gay posters. Later on, a small group of Christians who’d come to support us instead.

I wondered aloud if most people at the parade were straight. Such was the case in Tokyo. In Seoul, I couldn’t really tell.

The parade was quite long, with the loop taking an hour and a half. When it was over, my companions returned to their hostel in Hongdae. My other group of friends was MIA, having somehow, inexplicably, lost sight of the parade.

I couldn’t find the drag queens from Busan. Nor anyone I knew. So I returned to my hostel at 18:30 and wrote all this in bed. I would see my friends in Itaewon tonight anyway.

Then I texted my favorite drag queen from Busan, to ask if she knew the guy in question.

She did.

I sent him a message with tears welling in my eyes. I was drawn to him, but not in the way that warranted such a reaction.

Still, the singularity of the situation got to me. It was a rare moment of finding someone I’d wanted to come across.

In between all that, I talked to a British guy in my dormitory. He’d landed in Korea yesterday, and was clueless about the whole country. Just like me on May 9.

We talked about various Korean topics – I mentioned pride, and the reason why I was slightly tearing up – he mentioned the movie Barbie, whose press tour was scheduled to take place in Seoul tomorrow – I mentioned seeing an ad for this event a while ago, and discussing it with my friends at pride today, how we wanted to attend it tomorrow, despite not knowing when and where it would be held – and the British guest said he was friends with the co-producer of the movie, and knew exactly where all the cast was now in this city.

What.

I asked him to find out details about tomorrow for me. After mentioning pride and my intention of going out to Homo Hill tonight, he and the producer expressed interest in joining.

He went out while I was in the shower, after which I took the metro to Itaewon.

Itaewon’s Homo Hill… Again

Having made it a little after 22:00, before all my friends, it was too early for places to congest. I returned to my favorite club, where the dance floor was nearly empty, and met a group of American and English expats who were teaching English in Seoul and Jeju island. We danced until the club began to fill up near 23:00.

I asked someone to dance. He said no. The guy from Busan and I texted a little, until I asked him out, and he stopped responding. Then the two guys from Hallasan and the parade showed up. All I could think of was rejection.

Finally, the Romanian guy and Dutch girl arrived. She was again most fashionably late, having done her hair and makeup in another cool and artistic way. They were astounded by the atmosphere in the club: the Korean boys who were dancing so fast, having memorized the choreography to every K-pop anthem.

“This is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,” the Romanian guy said, “and I’ve been to gay clubs in Europe.”

The night taught me just how much he was an ally. Not here just to have a good time or experience the vibe. He really wanted to understand gay culture, this world, how dating worked. He never, ever danced, but tonight, gave it a shot.

At some point, he became my wingman. He wanted to see me doing well, and so, for the whole night, he encouraged me to make moves, and offered to make conversation.

I didn’t really need it – I preferred to initiate things on my own – but I appreciated it in a way that made me see him in a new light. Straight guys weren’t usually that supportive. That interested in understanding and experiencing the culture. They didn’t care if you were doing well or not.

Then the Korean guy from the burlesque club showed up. We said hi. That was it.

“It’s crazy how much I keep seeing the same people over and over again,” I told my companions.

After midnight, at long last, Q and her friends arrived. I hadn’t seen her seen Thursday night.

Since they weren’t sure where to come, I met them outside the club. The guard forced me to wait in line again. It had reached the end of the street.

While waiting in line, I met Q’s girlfriend. Yet I was so focused on my problems, that I just vented to them about everything that had happened to me since Thursday. I immediately regretted that.

Ten minutes of waiting, and I introduced Q inside the club to my Hongdae friends. Then, to my surprise, Ryu showed up, having just arrived from Busan. She’d come to Itaewon with her own group of friends. I was happy to see her again.

Finally, the British guy from my dormitory came as well. I went out to the street again, to show him the place. He was with the co-producer.

“Can you help us skip the line?” he asked.

I explained that it was impossible, and assured him that the line was moving fast.

The Dutch volunteer, due to her shift tomorrow, left at 2:00 for the night bus. I kept looking at the entrance to the club, yet the British guy never came. He must’ve given up on waiting in line.

Q’s gang left as well, to sit somewhere and rest. The Anglo expats had long gone to the burlesque show. Only the Romanian guy and I remained.

He was vaping and drinking nonstop, still trying to encourage me to find a date. It wasn’t pushy in any way. He was genuinely trying to be a friend.

I tried my luck again on my own.

No luck.

Near 3:00, the club was so packed, that I realised it was either staying here and dancing alone, or going elsewhere.

I wanted to return to my hostel and surrender. I was exhausted. But he said only us two remained – we should commit until morning – it was too early.

So I took him to another club. This one hosted the pride after-party, and as such, cost money. A drink wasn’t even included in the high price.

The second club was as the Korean guy from yesterday had said. Grungy and more racy, compared to the larger, brighter K-Pop place.

It was also my first encounter of a dark room.

The Romanian guy had stumbled upon it on the way to the toilet. He led me to it, to have a gander. I was appalled.

I returned to the dance floor. For the next two hours, the Romanian guy and I split up. He was busy talking to girls.

From here on, things took a turn. At some point, I was resting in a corner near the air conditioner, panting, dehydrated, my glasses foggy, my skin drenched in sweat, when I noticed the club was nearly empty. It was five AM.

I couldn’t find the Romanian guy. Assuming (and hoping) he’d left safe and sound, I ran for the 5:10 bus.

There was light outside. Dawn. I sat inside the nigh-vacant bus, knowing full well I looked tired and messed up, and tried to process the events of today.

My second pride was even crazier than the first.

It was yet another turbulent day, full of friendly moments (I’d had the luxury of hanging out with several groups of friends – the Mongolian guy had joked I was a “social whore”), and depressing moments. I did manage the make the most out of the day. Yet not in a way I could’ve anticipated.

This was always the case.

Birdsong escorted my ambling back to the hostel. The sun was rising; the streets were vacant. It occurred to me that I never won precisely what I chased. Something unexpected always happened. But at least today wasn’t boring. At least I’d given Seoul Pride the dedication it deserved, and tried my best.

The latter point wasn’t true to many queers in Korea, who were deep in the closet.

I went to bed at 6:00, recalling my similar experience in Tokyo Pride, and convincing myself to at least appreciate the fact that my existence was, at this point in my life, no longer pedestrian. With exactly one month left in Korea, I resolved to use my precious time here to make the most out of it.

Today’s highlights: my second Pride; reuniting with friends from Busan; clubbing at night; the walk back in the morning.