Imperfect oranges
Korea is not the best, nor is France. Small towns are not better, nor are big cities. I started writing about why I chose to live in this French city again — and stopped myself several times. It is a "choice," but not one driven by willpower. For several years, I moved back and forth between Korea and France, a few months at a time. I think I wanted to make the best possible choice with this one life I was given. Where to live, and as what.
Then, around December 2025, something shifted. I decided to stop listening to my mind and start listening to my body. Where did I smile more? Where did my body feel at ease?
In 2025, I went to Korea and lived my way through a series of small rooms in Seoul. I moved so many times that someone joked I must own a moving company. In none of those places did anyone exchange so much as a greeting. I realized how much hellos and small talk matter to me.
I took on part-time work — cooking, cleaning. It was a mix of fun and humiliation. Interesting at times, revolting at others.
I also threw myself into teaching, my actual work. I gave outside lectures too. That had been my biggest hope going to Seoul. I thought I wanted to speak in front of large groups — and then discovered I didn't, which caught me off guard. I couldn't tell if I had always been this way or if I had changed. Without the deep, intimate connection of one-on-one exchange, I didn't know what I was supposed to feel. I came away deflated and drained. The determination not to make a single mistake. By the time I'd transferred subway lines and made it to the large lecture hall, I had already spent every last drop of energy. The audience probably didn't notice. I stayed for the after-party, came home, and didn't sleep a wink.
I went to foreign language meetups too. Met people from all over the world. In those moments, I came back to a version of myself that felt comfortable. When I mentioned I had married and lived in France — or rather, still live there — people would shriek: No way! Are you serious? You don't look like it at all! That was fun. They found it strange that I didn't seem like a married person. Young people apparently have a certain image in their heads of what a married person looks like.
I thought I was doing well. Or maybe I thought I had to be doing well.
Every single moment, I felt like a failure. My mother encouraged me: "You're starting from the ground up — that's fine." Or sometimes, even without anyone saying anything, I felt it on my own — that everything from the past few years had been reset to zero.
I packed only a month's worth of things for the return trip. Just a few pieces of clothing. Everything people told me to take, I left behind.
"Why bother lugging all that. I'll be back soon."
Just imagining the French apartment in winter made my body go cold. I lay sprawled on the warm heated floor of my family home and shuddered.
"European apartments are no place for human beings."
I arrived in Toulouse and spent a night in a hotel. In the morning, I went down for breakfast. For this price, this is the service? I nearly cried at the waste of money. In Korea, in Korea, in Korea… even a tiny guesthouse gives you five-star treatment.
I spotted a pile of oranges — bruised here, dented there, underripe in one spot. The idea was to pick one and feed it into a press, which you operated by hand. With your own hand. Was this contraption from the 19th century? I laughed.
"You'd have to have energy in the morning just to get your juice. What do old people do?"
"Why would old people not have energy?"
My partner's reply made me laugh. The conversation was no back-and-forth.
Which made it hilarious. I kept giggling to myself.
I talked nonstop. I talked by myself, really. It had been a very long time.
Imperfect oranges.
Flawed but charming.
Irregular oranges.
I loved those oranges so much.
Coming home, I found everything exactly as I had left it — things I loved and things I resented alike. Books, clothes, dishes, blankets, even the food bowl of our cat, who had crossed over while I was away. Strangely, I didn't cry. It felt like one chapter had simply closed.
An overcoat I had set aside to donate was still sitting right there. The air had turned cool, so I took it out and put it on again. Fifteen years old, a little worn. Heavy. The dense, sturdy fabric — nothing like what they make now — felt just right. If I had walked around Seoul in this coat, people would have thought I'd arrived from another era.
What would it have been like if I had done everything in Korea — all those activities, all those pursuits — in France instead? Hard to imagine. The conditions here wouldn't have allowed the same things in the same way, so a direct comparison doesn't really work. They are simply very different things. What I can say is that most of it felt dry. It didn't convert into a sense of richness in life. It wasn't meaningless. Moment to moment, there were things that were genuinely enjoyable and fulfilling. But……… (this part still hasn't sorted itself out cleanly in my mind.)
I couldn't let my guard down for a single moment. Not even while sleeping. Not even the instant I woke up.
What would it have been like if my partner had been with me in Seoul through all of that? Would I have been able to breathe a little more?
We probably would have fought a lot and resented each other. Or maybe the home we shared would have been wonderfully warm and happy. Honestly, I have no idea. I can't even picture it.
To put it plainly: the me of right now does not like the Korea of right now. Investing there feels far too risky. People spend money extravagantly. People try too hard to control others. Everyone is too busy reading the room, and too quick to resent.
There are good people too. I know that. I miss my family and friends.
Maybe years of living in France have changed my body and mind. Or maybe an identity that always felt a little misaligned has simply grown even less compatible with Korea. (That is not to say France fits me well either.) Everything is too fast, too efficient, too anxious — everyone is too on edge. I can keep up with that pace. I used to live that way. Stumbling here and there, but mostly grinding myself down to fit.
But in the process, I start to dislike myself. I start to feel perpetually insufficient. I keep pushing myself. I try not to — but honestly, if it were easy not to, who would ever do it?
And then I end up resenting others. Resenting people who are slow, or who don't pick up on cues. A friend living in North America told me once: "In Korea, I end up disliking people. Here, I end up loving them."
These days, I'm developing a book about sexuality with two other members. I'm not the lead — more of a planner and editor — but I engage deeply with the subject too. When I'm in France, I feel sexuality woven into everyday life. Not just in terms of physical intimacy. I mean sexuality as it shows up in sensuality and creativity.
I get sick often. Maybe because my senses and emotions outpace my body. Maybe because I only have one kidney. I take a lot in, and I fall ill easily. Here, when I'm sick, I rest. I stay in bed for a day, two days, without going anywhere. And then my body recovers. It doesn't spiral into something serious.
(To be continued)
