Dear Joon-ho,
You won't believe where I’m writing from.
Let’s just say the road didn’t ask for papers, and I didn’t offer any. I borrowed (some might say "liberated") my uncle’s old scooter—the one with the patched seat and the horn that sounds like a tired goose—and set off at sunrise. No map. No plan. Just a full tank and the vague desire to see what’s on the other side of the hills.
I’ve passed rice paddies that gleam like gold, roadside stands selling pears the size of fists, and more than one suspicious checkpoint that mysteriously decided to ignore me. Maybe it’s the helmet with the patriotic sticker. Maybe it’s the smile. Maybe no one cares enough to stop a fool on a scooter.
Tonight I’m sleeping under the stars—real ones. No streetlights, no slogans, just me and the sound of the wind pushing stories through the trees. If all goes well, tomorrow I’ll reach the river. You know which one. I don’t plan to cross it, just… look. Wave. Wonder.
You were right about the taste of rebellion. It’s not just in the drink—it’s in the motion, the open road, the fact that no one knows exactly where I am. Let’s call it research. Let’s call it freedom. Let’s not call it in.
If I make it back, drinks are on me. If not—well, tell my uncle the scooter was heroic till the end.
Raise your glass for me, old friend. And if you hear a horn like a dying goose outside your window one day, you’ll know I made it home.
Yours in motion,
Min-seok
Min-seok
Joon-ho
