A Sneaky Kind of Love
By Ribka Tewelde, a first-year ETA
Dear reader,
You know that line from “Love Actually,” the one at the very beginning?
“If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.”
That quote has echoed in my mind ever since I settled in Namwon, Jeollabuk‑do. They say love here is tucked away in the embrace of Jirisan, and the lanterns in the town square wink at you as if they know something you do not. The town is even called the “City of Love,” thanks to the iconic story of Yi Mong‑ryong and Sung Chun‑hyang. Their tale is everywhere, painted on the walls, a constant reminder that love once triumphed here.
But I have to be honest with you.
At first, I did not really give Namwon a fair shot. I was always looking for an escape—hopping on buses and trains to big cities every weekend. Chasing the allure of Itaewon’s buzz, Haeundae’s glittering beaches, or Mokpo’s cable cars, I barely spent any time here, only coming home to work, eat and sleep. I couldn’t even tell you what my daily commute looked like because my mind was already focused on the next trip. Looking back, I regret not slowing down enough to really see the charm of the town right in front of me.
Now, I will be even more honest.
Transitioning from life in the U.S. to life in Korea felt like being dropped into a whirlwind. I was constantly fumbling my words, missing social cues, and feeling like a burden to my co‑teacher. I could never tell if my students were actually engaged and enjoying my material or just enduring my classes because they had to. The strain of navigating a new culture wore on me, and back home, life carried on without me—graduations, weddings, even my baby cousin’s first steps all unfolded while I was an ocean away. The familiar sources of love and comfort were nowhere to be found.
Back in the U.S., one of the ways I often showed love was through organizing and mutual aid, but being so far from my friends, who were all still deeply engaged in social justice work, made me feel powerless and detached. It was as if life was passing me by while I was stuck here. At the same time, I could not escape the hyper‑visibility of being a foreigner in Korea, where I am always noticed but simultaneously isolated. My bed became my refuge after long, tiring days. I was exhausted—physically and emotionally. Namwon became the backdrop to my struggles, reminding me of everything I felt I had lost. I was so focused on the love I had left behind, I did not leave any space for Namwon.
And yet, reader, this city still tried its best to love me anyway.
As the days passed, cafe owners began to recognize me, offering personalized greetings that consistently brightened my days. One sunny morning, a kiddo shyly waved hello on his red, electric bike. I waved back, giddy, now pleased to have a positive start to my day. In another instance, an older woman exclaimed, “예뻐요1,” as I walked through her decorative store and I just couldn’t help but smile after receiving such a lovely compliment. Earlier in the year, the math teacher handed me a bag of my favorite chocolates and a bottle of water as I walked into school—a subtle, grandfatherly gesture of care. Throughout the monsoon season, my usual cab driver consistently offered me an umbrella reminding me of my fussy aunt that would always ask if I had enough money and supplies to tackle the day when I was back home. I saw big smiles and heard choruses of, “안녕하세요 선생님,2” in the convenience store from children in the neighborhood. I always responded with an even bigger smile and said hello back. One of my students wrote a thoughtful thank you letter that brought me to tears. (I know we are not supposed to have favorites, but hey, I’m only human). On my birthday, my co‑teacher gave me my favorite sweet treat with a beautifully written note, and she has continued to be a wonderful mentor and work friend throughout my time here. And as my family and friends gradually visited Korea, they fell in love with Namwon, too—its hospitality and warmth captured their hearts just like it eventually did mine.
In the end, Namwon’s love was not in its mountains or legends—it was in the quiet gestures, the smiles and the unspoken warmth of the community that welcomed me long before I noticed. Love was here all along, gentle and steady, waiting for me to see it. So dear reader, don’t be like me—rushing past the moments and people right in front of you. Sometimes love is already there, nestled into the spaces you have been overlooking, patiently waiting for you to discover it.
With love,
Ribka