A few years had passed since I was unceremoniously booted out of South Africa and issued with a temporary ban. I was in high spirits about travelling again and started to scan the horizon for reasons to get the heck out of the UK. I figured that I need not look any further when, on my birthday, I set fire to a bed in a stranger’s house while falling asleep with a lit fag in hand. The well of dignity had run dry, and the fire was as good an excuse as any to vacate my current mind-numbing reality once again.

A diet of pills, powders and emotionally stunted men was no longer satisfying my thirst for novelty and unabated adventure. Plus, I was living at my mum’s place in Edinburgh at the time and she and my stepdad were starting to get irked at the sight of me decomposing on their sofa all day after benders. I was keen to get working on a new version of myself, one that everyone would like and respect; one that could continue living out there on the edge but that gave slightly more of a fuck about the trajectory of my existence.

Hiking in Pentland Hills, Edinburgh after a bender

I’d done an English teaching course, and my plan of action was to travel the world and teach English. I was set on Colombia but the packages for teachers were meagre and, in my case, also included possible death by cocaine overdose so in the end I decided against it. A friend suggested teaching English in South Korea. At first, I thought this was a terrible idea not only because of the lack of readily available recreational drugs but also because, well, as a tall woman not exactly of waif-like stature, I didn’t think Korean men were my type; essentially making Korea a void of everything that brought me joy.

After some reflection, I convinced myself that my reasons for ruling out Korea were not technically valid and could potentially stop me from having an enriching travel experience. So, I bit the bullet, booked my flights, and got started on learning some beginner Korean. More than anything, I was craving a culture shock of lightning-bolt intensity to shake things up a bit. There was no more fun to be had in the UK. Plus, I was willing to do anything to get away from the damn soul-depleting weather.

What I was hoping would be a grand ecstatic entrance into Seoul turned out to be a particularly low point due to the fact that I had stopped by my sister’s place in Qatar and rinsed them of their quota of laboriously sourced Savanna cider. I’d gone there to see her new baby girl but alas it turned into a flaming shit show, and we ended up falling out. I remember touching down in Incheon Airport, South Korea thinking, “This was supposed to be an exhilarating moment”. Instead, I felt like a selfish asshole who couldn’t even navigate a short family visit without causing havoc and upsetting everyone.

South Korea would soon offer me a bounty of seemingly insurmountable challenges to take my mind off things. The English academy that I had been placed at was in Suwon, a satellite city of around one million people located around an hour away from Seoul. I knew little about Suwon, just that it was the home of an infamous serial killer in the 90s. Upon my arrival one hot and sticky summer’s evening, I was met at the airport by the recruiter who had organized my placement. She accompanied me in a taxi to what I thought would be my apartment. To my shock and bewilderment, we pulled up outside a seedy sex hotel and she explained that I would be staying there for a week or so until my apartment was ready.

What the actual fuck! All my worst fears flashed before me. A fucking sex hotel! This can’t be for real. I checked into the hotel and entered a dimly lit room with a small window and an 80s-style beige-coloured hot tub in the corner. The room had a tacky boudoir vibe and smelled of cigarette smoke and bleach. There were condoms and tissues beside the bed; loud music and muffled voices emanated from the gentleman’s club below as the monsoon downpours pounded the pavement outside. As I sat on the pink satin bed sheets ravenously scoffing boiling hot ramen with disposable wooden chopsticks, I wondered if coming to Korea had in fact been one huge mistake. What kind of school puts their teachers up in a bloody sex hotel? The organization of the placement had seemed so legit. I couldn’t fathom why this kind of thing would be deemed acceptable. Surely there was some mistake.

The next day, a taxi picked me up and took me to the English academy where I met the owner and some of the other teachers. The head teacher Tom was a Korean American and was super helpful. As soon as I got the chance, I questioned him about the sex hotel, and he explained that all the foreign teachers stay there at the beginning because there is usually a delay in getting the apartment ready. He went on to explain that sex hotels in South Korea are considered budget accommodation and that people don’t have an issue staying in them. I told him that I didn’t feel comfortable there and asked if the apartment could be sorted out sooner.

I soon learned that sex hotels known as “Love Motels” in South Korea exist not only for the purpose of casual flings and affairs but also for young unmarried couples who still live at home with their parents. The tradition for many Koreans is to live at home until they get married and so the sex hotels are a welcome refuge for the country’s otherwise sex-starved young people.

Thankfully, a few days later I got the green light to move out of the jizz marinated fornication station into a compact studio apartment with a shower over the toilet. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last time I stayed in one of these places and if you had told me then the series of events that would lead me there a year later, I’d have sent you packing to the nearest mental asylum.

By Lauren Burnison

From Korea with Love