The Last Full Day – Croissant Cookies, Cultural Codes, and Goodbyes That Linger
What do you even say when you realize it’s your last full day in a place that’s started to feel like home?
I woke up knowing this morning would be the last of my routine — the last time I’d come downstairs, give my room number in Korean, have my breakfast, then cross the street to Mammoth Coffee and order my now-familiar iced Americano. It sounds small. Mundane, even. But that ritual had come to mean something. It was a quiet breath before the rush of the day, a moment of stillness that reminded me of a life I used to live — long days as an undergrad, where the future was unwritten and the world felt huge and full of promise. But it was more than nostalgia. This life I was living — studying abroad, waking up in Seoul, learning something new every day — felt like the life I was meant to build. One centered around learning, traveling, and storytelling. One that would let me connect people through education and cultural understanding. So I took my time with it all — the toast, the eggs, the kimchi, the coffee. I sat outside and watched the city stretch into the morning haze.
This wouldn’t be goodbye forever.
Just goodbye for now.
That phrase became my mantra — for now, for now, for now.
(Though let’s be honest — I was hell-bent on coming back by the end of the year. I didn’t. But still.)
After breakfast, we took the subway for one final visit to HUFS. There were no more language classes today, no verb charts or pronunciation drills. Instead, we had a few final lectures from local educators, students, and HUFS staff — one of the speakers was my close friend who lived in Korea.
She spoke about her experience as an American student at Ewha Womans University, what it was like marrying a Korean national, and adjusting to life in Seoul. Her story, personal yet grounded in shared cultural dynamics, struck a chord. It reminded me of the complex space we occupy as cross-cultural learners — never quite tourists, not yet locals, always somewhere in between. The day ended with heartfelt gifts from the HUFS staff — followed by a round of goodbyes, handshakes, and the exchange of contact info. Then we were set free to run last-minute errands, mail packages, or simply wander the streets one more time.
My friend and I had made plans weeks ago to spend this evening together — one last night before I headed back to the States. Our first stop was the campus post office, where we mailed out a box of skincare goodies to a friend back home. Navigating the postal forms in Korean proved… challenging. I tried. I really did. But after a few confusing exchanges, my friend stepped in to finish the process (thank you, friend). The woman behind the counter smiled kindly — a reminder that sometimes connection doesn’t require fluency.
My knee was still sore from the month’s adventures, but we pressed on and hopped on the subway to visit one of her favorite cafés near her apartment — a cozy spot with croissant cookies and beautiful drinks. We sat there for a while, catching up on life and just being — two friends, thousands of miles from where we’d met in Hawaii, sharing a moment that felt deeply ordinary and unforgettable at the same time.
From there, we dropped off bags at her place and headed to her university campus — Ewha, one of the most famous women’s universities in the country and a common filming location for K-dramas. The campus was stunning, with an eclectic mix of old European-style buildings and sleek, modern architecture. It was surreal seeing where she had built her life — a new chapter written in a different language.
Later, we met up with her husband and then (naturally) went on one last photo booth adventure, because that’s just what you do in Korea (and honestly, it’s one of my favorite things now). Afterward, we wandered around the neighborhood before choosing a small, traditional Korean restaurant tucked into the corner of their block. Dinner was perfect. The food was simple, rich, and real — the kind of meal that makes you wish you could stretch time. The owner, a kind ajumma, lit up when she realized I was truly enjoying her cooking. “You really like Korean food,” she said, smiling as she brought more banchan to the table. I hope I can find that restaurant again someday.
After dinner, we made our way back to their apartment to hang out for a bit, and then my friend offered to call a taxi back to Insadong for me. I had planned to ride the bus — I’d done it before — but I wasn’t fully comfortable taking a cab alone at night, even in a place as safe as Seoul. That fear, drilled into me from a lifetime in the U.S., lingered beneath the surface. Rational or not, it was real. My friend understood and offered to accompany me. When we got to the hotel, she hugged me goodbye at the curb, we made promises to see each other once she got back to the States, and then parted ways.
I went upstairs, grabbed my laundry, and set to work. I wasn’t ready for bed yet — not on this last night.
Once the bags were packed and the clothes folded, I slipped out into the street one last time.
There was a little bar across from our hotel that had become our haven during those first hazy days in Seoul. I went there alone, ordered one final drink, and sat quietly, soaking it in — the music, the light, the city. Afterward, I stopped at the 7-Eleven that had become our lifeline. I grabbed snacks and my favorite drinks, then headed back across the street.
Back in my hotel room — a room I’d come to think of as mine — I curled up in bed, fully aware this would be the last time I slept there.
And for the first time in a long while…
I didn’t dream.
