My K-Drama Romance & Being Abducted in Korea

If you want to spark the next piece, consider buying me a coffee and leave any inspirations or feedback there or in the comments

If you were to look up the term lover-girl in the dictionary, you would find my signature, adorned with a pink, slightly tilted heart, right next to it.

I devour love stories, the song Love Story and the sight of a handsome stranger on the bus like Koreans eat kimchi. And for the longest time, this was also my inherent pathology.

I had to go through several bouts of learning, to be thrown out the other end of love, where one finds ordinary life and enough drive to move forward for their own sake and not another person’s.

And ironically, in Korea, the home of heart-throbbing K-dramas and a dating scene that is looking for its rival in competitiveness, I seem to have learned my lesson. Not only through men, but also through grandmas, and last but not least, stories.

But let’s not jump to early conclusions and spoilers, because this story is TRULY worth being enjoyed in all its questionable and ironic glory. The chapters are:

• What to know about dating in Korea
• Entering the dating scene
• My K-Drama romance (leaving a chapter out here for suspense…)
• My saving grace: Korean elderly people
• My adoption and abduction

What to know about dating in Korea

I wasn’t a stranger to dating when I came to Korea, and I would be a liar if I tried to pretend that dating wasn’t one of the things I was looking forward to when I first moved to Seoul.

Stories of foreign couples and koreaboos (please Google this term yourself, I don’t want to infect my algorithm), circulated on my feed well before I arrived. The omnipresence of international couples online didn’t pass by any of my arriving friends without touching their hearts, either.

All of us joked about the obsessed K-Pop super-fans and their excessive lives, but it took none of us long to simply walk around the city to realise that not everything in the dramas was inherently wrong. It is, in fact, true that being a couple in Korea comes with immediate societal benefits, as most experiences one can have in the city are targeted at groups of whatever nature, but preferably the “closer” kind.

I quickly learned the term “lovebug,” which describes two people who are seemingly unable to take their hands off each other, and there actually seems to be an unwritten rule that a boy and a girl need to hold onto each other for survival, even if all they do is walk down a street. Even in winter, when -5 degree winds flow down the streets, girls and boys will stick their hands into each other’s jacket pocketsto ensure that an immediate touch is maintained.

I can’t shake the irony of reading headlines like the following upon encountering this double-meaning for this local sort of bug:

I, being an oblivious first-time dater in Korea, was not aware that another stereotype from the dramas was also true: The frequency of texting.

The seemingly fabricated drama that Korean love series propel is actually based on the factual background that most Korean couples text ALL THE TIME. And that means that if you plan on going on a date with an endemic man on this peninsula, you will need to glue your phone to you.

As someone who loses her phone in regular cycles, I am thus uniquely malprepared for the Korean dating scene. And yet, to my surprise, I landed quite some dates and genuine conversations.

Entering the dating scene

I did, however, talk to many, way too many, guys via text messages, learned useless information about their lives, pretended to be impressed by those who had what Koreans deem “a respectable CV” (meaning an office job and a SKY-degree), and actively explored how little English abilities I can see myself falling in love with.

I smiled through it, time and time again, as a man tried to entertain me (or, god forbid, impress me) with a single sentence in German, which I couldn’t understand anyway. The number of times someone said“pig’s leg” to me in German to my face out of the blue, just because “Schweinshaxe” is a common dish in Germany (not my native country, Austria btw, but that is apparently a minor matter), is mind-boggling. And frankly, quite funny.

This sounds harsh, but trust me, I entered the whole thing entirely googly-eyed, because I really assumed that love was beyond language.

Not only is that dumb on a communication level, but also, I have a degree in linguistics and my job used to be speech and language therapy, so NO, I can’t live with a guy I can’t speak with. Also, I quickly learned that quite a high number of Koreans (compared to Austria) have a lisp, both in Korean and even worse in English, and though I would never be enough of an asshole to point it out to them directly, as a speech therapist, I find dirty talk with a lisp not remotely sexy.

But again, I would be a trickster if I told you I didn’t have fun.

These men were not just a little funny, but also kind, tried hard to make every date comfortable, and were genuinely kind humans. I don’t want to downplay the friendliness, attentiveness, and respectfulness these men showed me, a foreigner in their country.

Did some of them treat me like a child who knew nothing because I wasn’t a native? Maybe. But never due to bad intentions.

More so, out of a misguided attempt to protect me, which hell knows I don’t need. I mean, how did they expect a foreign girl to end up in Korea all alone? Not by coincidence, and naivety certainly. Had I not met these men in Korea, on a first date, I might have become friends with them, just to understand the interesting baseline they were coming from.

In that way, being a foreigner kind of defies the gravity of Korean social norms: A female foreigner can be friends with a Korean guy, though people might still assume otherwise. It is much harder for a Korean girl and a Korean guy to be friends. Many movies and dramas, such as “Love in the Big City” showcase this painpoint of mainstream Korean society.

My K-Drama romance

Then I came across an interesting theory: If you meet 7 men, the best of those is the best you will ever get, statistically speaking. Honestly, I don’t remember the actual origin of this intriguing theory, but at least it gave me an outlook on the adventure ahead.

№3 (as I will label him to avoid names), was the best of 7, as I would later come to realize. And Mr. 3 and I had quite some enjoyable dates, and though I am careful about the label here, the closest thing I know to a real-life K-Drama. So much so that he outlasted all those numbers that came after him…

I met number 3 for the first time by coincidence.

We had been texting for quite a while, and suddenly it turned out that I was by accident in the area that he lived. All alone, to his surprise, not so much to mine, because going to cafès and writing is my default, which is something he didn’t yet know.

We met in the middle of the night in a park near Hongdae, and started talking. And never stopped until 5am in the morning. It was surprisingly easy, funny, not perfect, but certainly the type of date where time flies.

On the way to the bus, I couldn’t find my T-Money card as the bus was already coming up behind us. He suddenly reached into his pocket, pulled out his credit card, and gave it to me. I stared at him blankly as he handed me my heavy bag that he had been carrying for me the entire time.

I asked what I should do, and he simply suggested I run to the bus station, with my bag and his credit card, and get on the bus. “With your credit card?”, I asked, shocked. He nodded.

And so I ended up sitting, seconds later, on a bus home with the credit card of a guy I had been on a date with, and my heart throbbed. I turned the card in my hands, again and again, looking at it with a smile.

Weeks later, I met him again, after overcoming a literal funeral, a holiday, and other adversities (which again felt like in a K-Drama) among a million retellings of the date for my friends, as I waved his credit card at their stammering faces.

The second date started late and ended late, sitting by the magical view of the Han River, drinking just a little to be tipsy, and getting closer step by step. It was the first holding hands, the first kiss, the first riding a crowded night-bus, hugged tight into his chest.

As if it couldn’t get any more perfect, we were approached by a man with a huge camera and a backpack as we stood on the bridge looking towards Gangnam. He handed us something, suggesting it was a present, and both of our eyes bobbed as we looked at a beautiful, printed picture of the two of us, glancing out at the river.

Both of us agreed that it was insane, maybe a little 운명 unmyeong (or “fate” in English) that this had happened. The most insane thing of all was that we actually looked like a couple in the picture.

On the third date, he again carried my bags, this time a lot of shopping bags from Myeongdong he had encouraged me to get, despite my trying to hold back because I already knew it would be his burden. He assured me it was fine as he breathed harder and harder on our way up Namsan, to walk to the Seoul citywall there.

We walked there in the most illogical manner, because he kept assuring me he knew where to go, despite my internal compass telling me to turn by 180 degrees. But it didn’t matter to me, I was happy just walking as he kept repeating the word “almost”, which became our next inside joke. We were almost never “almost there” when he said it.

We spent quite some time at the city wall, taking in the beautiful view in a way that I can only describe as “intense,” and then I made my way back safely.

It was this date, the third, at which Koreans usually ask each other to go out, because before that, any relation is not considered exclusive. But he didn’t. There were many completely logical and clear reasons for him not to do so.

And though I hate to admit it, I think that was the point that I started getting weary of me being a foreigner and him a Korean, obviously looking for a foreigner. I started seeing us for what we were: The image of a couple who are potentially just reflections of matching social-media feeds.

After that, on our next date, we met for a walk during Halloween weekend in Hongdae. Not to go out, but just to look at the costumes and enjoy the mingling of people. He kept explaining things to me, shoving us through the crowd, but this time we didn’t hold hands, and though it certainly was just because of the immense crowds, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our dynamic had shifted.

Afterwards, we went to his house and things happened the way they always do, in what seemed like a natural progression from our third date. I stayed the night and could tell, based on several definite signs, that I was the only girl he had taken to his flat in recent history. And yet, somehow I also felt that I wasn’t the girl who was meant to be there.

Falling in love with independence

As I sneaked my way out of the room and into the blinding morning lights of Seoul, which I only saw on the occasions on which I stayed over at his house, I felt nothing short of Carry Bradshaw. It was more than once that I whispered to myself “I should rewatch the episode ´how to have sex like a man´ when I get home”.

It was a feeling of owning the world, the sun shining in my face as if it tried to transfer all its energy into me, and like a true Carrie, I walked to a nearby cafè to sit down and write an article. Caught in the clarity that overcomes one when transcending one’s own boundaries, this was somehow as natural as breathing to me.

What continued to become trickier was defining what I wanted from this man. More and more, as I met Koreans on dates and outside of dates, I realized that dating a foreigner was a separate category thing to do. My position as a white girl with a Korean guy was becoming somewhat awkward; my trust in “us” meaning something was swallowed up by the pride of living life on my own accord.

Additionally, many of my friend shared their experiences with dating, and the longer I lingered in this weird in-between, the less I wanted to be with him specifically. I realized I was in love with the idea of having a relationship, not with what it immediately meant for me or the man in front of my eyes.

As I elevated my standards on who to give my attention to and learned my own value. I spent less time worrying about my dates and yet seemed to get more compliments. Only that more and more guys I would text turned out to only want to sleep with me. When I asked why, their answer was either that “you looked like the confident type” or “you are a foreigner, so it seemed logical that you are here for a fling”. And though neither was true, both of them had a kernel of truth.

They were friendly about just wanting to sleep with me, telling me as early as somewhat feasible, directly, respecting my boundaries without pushing and complimenting me a bunch. Some of them I had genuinely great conversations with after telling them I wouldn’t sleep with them, and that left me baffled. I almost wanted to start sleeping around because the way I was treated made me feel so safe and respected, which is weird for a woman who expects disregard after rejecting a guy.

This is why I would never shame Korean men, in general and not individually: They have been nothing but kind and respectful to me, without exception. They taught me so much about my own levels of confidence and self-respect. But I stopped wanting to be called pretty, confident, clever, and other compliments I had never gotten from men before, only from my female friends.

In fact, that was the very thing I didn’t want to hear. I wanted to meet a guy who interested me, not one who was interested in me.

And so, as Mr.3 faded into the mist of men who I wasn’t sure wanted me, my foreign identity or my body, I grew a confidence and knowledge that would afterwards lead to a realization that I didn’t see coming:

Not the “I need to love myself first to love others” kind, but rather “what I want is not a Korean boyfriend, but a Korean grandma”…

My saving grace: Korean elderly people

I learned that I want a man who I am interested in, but what I need is a man who can hold me up on the worst of my days, like the little daisy I turn into on a random Wednesday.

Two weeks ago was one of those Wednesdays.

I forced myself out of bed, messed around for one hour to find a working ATM for my foreign card, took a train with a massive delay I didn’t see since my SIM card had run out, and then, worst of all, fell face-first on the sidewalk on my way to Yongsan. I was too much of a bitch to myself to buy a Band-Aid for my bleeding, pounding wound immediately, and rather kept cursing and pushing through like a “big girl” (more like a dumb masochist with a weird love for blood and pain) for an entire day.

I walked with my bleeding hand held like a prize, in a weird sort of “notice me, I’m hurt” quest. Again, it was one of those Wednesdays, nothing that makes sense happens on such Wednesdays. And guess what? In a shopping mall full of couples, not a single guy talked to me because of my bleeding hand.

And that, although I knew exactly that a boyfriend could’ve prevented my entire Wednesday-disaster:

He could’ve kissed me awake, helped me pick up money from ANY ATM, ushered me to a different train knowing that it was going to be late, caught me before the fall and even after that, would’ve had the reason to put a Band-Aid on me immediately, wrapping me up into a blanket shortly after with a cup of tea in hand.

Maybe I would’ve cried into his hoodie, left a smear of mascara there, as he patted me on the back, whispering “it’s alright, I’m here” until the pain subsided. I would certainly not have suppressed any tears as I walked around growling in pain. Again, I was sooo in love with the idea of a relationship and the immediate ease it would cause on my Wednesdays and general everyday life.

Life abroad alone is kinda hard sometimes, as much as the feeling of bad-bitch prevails.

The next day, a regular Thursday, my ability to reason returned.

I went to a 7/11 to buy a Band-Aid and proceeded to put it on. As I awkwardly angled my wrist to make the inherently easy process uselessly complicated, my saving grace approached from the right.

He attracted my attention with a kind “sorry” and as I looked up, an elderly man with an encouraging smile and jam-jar-thick glasses held out a small white bottle to me. Wound desinfectant, I realized. He pulled out some tissues, instructed me without any language-usage on how to angle my hand, and expertly dissected my wound.

Then he held out the Band-Aid and intensely suggested only to put it on, once my wound was dry. I complied happily and bowed in deep gratitude as I apologized for being so dumb as to fall on the sidewalk. He responded:

“No, this not your problem. This is my country’s problem.”

My mental image of him added a red-cape flying behind his back as he left and suddenly I realized that while I wanted a boyfriend, maybe what I needed was an elderly, Korean grandpa or grandma with a kind heart.

My adoption and abduction

Korean elders really are the best. When they see you are in need, they swarm you and tell you exactly what to do. The only problem is: You really need to do as they say.

A few days later, I was in Andong, at a bus station in the snow. I was scared I had missed my bus and asked an auntie near me, who said it was still coming. As I sighed in relief, she was obviously intrigued by my foreign presence, told me I was pretty, and asked me for a picture. Then, she urged me to have coffee with her, which turned into dinner with her best friend and neighbor, which quickly became a city tourthat ended in their apartment, not my hotel.

As I sat there, sipping honey tea in a foreign apartment, not knowing where I was or how to get back to my hotel, this interesting pairing of elderly people tried to decrypt my travel-route, change my travel plans to “better hotels” or “safer places”, while I was sitting in what in any other books would be the set-up for abduction or abuse.

And the worst thing was: I couldn’t even properly tell them I wanted to leave. First of all, because we relied exclusively on my questionable Korean and in-between translators when we hit a halt. And secondly, because they were so kind and so absorbed in helping me, literally adopting me in the process as they saved their numbers as “Korean mum” and “Korean dad”, I couldn’t exit the situation without causing a disruption in harmony.

And god knows how I would get home if I caused a problem. Afterall, they had brought me here, in their car, kindly but also without allowing for objections.

I ended up in my hotel room a solid 7 hours after I had first met the lady and stared at myself in the mirror in utter shock. What on good earth had happened to me? I had clearly put too much trust in the elderly and underestimated their ability to take me captive.

My new mum and dad had also suggested I meet them for breakfast the next day, but I found a way to get away, despite the fact that these people even knew where I lived, which was more than a little scary.

I met another grandpa that day at a temple, who worked there as a volunteer to do tours in German. I thanked him and took the opportunity, being way more careful this time to maintain my distance.

Yet, I still ended up in his car, as he showed me another temple and eventually took me to my hotel. This time, directly, without detours to random strangers’ houses. And I was more than grateful.

And then I plopped in my headphones, archived the past encounter as “another nice grandpa” and sank my imagination into the depths of a looong fantasy-novel graphic-audiobook. Because I am, despite having tried several parts of the Korean society, afterall safest by myself, in my mind, in the company of a fictional boyfriend.

There would be so many more stories to tell, so many more learnings from each date I went on, each young man I met, each grandma I engaged in overly lengthy language-less conversations with, and each grandpa who healed me a little with a caring wink.

But in the end, the Korean men taught me my value, and the Korean elderly taught me the value of freedom. Both of which I now treat like treasures.

Am I still fucking alone? Maybe, but in a weird way, I am finally happy about it.

Not in a “learn to love yourself first” type of way, more in a “learn to run from others before they abduct you” sense, but I guess the specifics don’t matter.

I love myself, now. Alone, maybe not forever, and I still know I am a fucking bad single, but as long as I have headphones, spicy books, and an E-Reader, I think I’ll be fine.

If you would like to follow me on my daily journey via Instagram, where I publish my poems and the behind-the-scenes of my writing.

Follow me under “Hannah’s Cafè” here, my publication “Wander Woman Adventures” for lots of fun travel blogs, or:

Listen to an ever-growing amount of my articles and reflections on my podcast “The Mugcast” or rants on my “Midnight Mugshots” on Spotify or YouTube