The Smell of Korea I Never Forgot

AI-generated illustration inspired by the streets of Busan.

Of all the things I could associate with childhood summers in Korea, somehow it's the sewer.

Whenever people talk about the smells of Korea, it's usually something pleasant. Street food, freshly brewed coffee, maybe the scent of rain on a summer afternoon.

For me, it's sewage.

I know. Very on-brand for a publication called Seoul Sillage.

But there's this particular smell I remember from childhood trips to Korea, particularly Busan—or Pusan, as I knew it back then.

It wasn't everywhere, and it wasn't constant. You'd just be walking down the street during summer vacation, and suddenly, there it was. A whiff of something unpleasant coming from a nearby drain.

You'd keep walking, and a few seconds later, it was gone.

I don't remember exactly where I was or how old I was. I just remember that smell.

Korea looked and felt different back then, at least in the places I visited. It wasn't the polished, design-conscious version of Korea that fills our Instagram feeds today. There were parts of the country that still felt like they were catching up with the pace of development, and as a kid visiting from America, I noticed the differences even if I couldn't quite explain them.

And I certainly wasn't thinking about how much the country would change.

I was just a kid spending summer vacation in Korea.

It's interesting to think about how much the image of Korea has changed since then. These days, Korea is practically synonymous with stylish cafés, skincare, fashion, and beautifully designed spaces. People travel across the world to experience the Korea they've seen online.

And there's plenty to love about that version of Korea.

But when I think about the Korea of my childhood, it's not necessarily the landmarks or tourist attractions that come to mind first. It's the ordinary experience of being there. Walking down the street in the summer, taking in an environment that felt different from the one I knew back home.

Including the occasional questionable smell.

The funny thing is, I don't particularly miss the smell. Who would? But I do like that something so random can remind me of those trips.

There's something oddly comforting about remembering a place through its imperfections. Not everything about a childhood memory has to be beautiful for it to be worth remembering.

And perhaps that's why this one has stuck with me.

It's a little ridiculous that my brain held onto the smell of a Korean sewer after all these years. Out of everything I could have remembered, that's what made the cut.

But I guess that's how memory works. We don't always get to choose which details stay with us.

Sometimes it's a song, a photograph, or a familiar voice.

And sometimes, apparently, it's sewage.