It was a warm summer day when my family decided to drive to the Han River. The excitement was palpable as we drove through the bustling streets, with the sun casting a golden hue over the city. My mother, father, Jenna, and I were all looking forward to a day out together.

As we approached our destination, we noticed a peculiar area that seemed reminiscent of a cult-like gathering, with various establishments arranged in a distinctive 'ㄷ’ shape. There were cafes and restaurants, all vying for attention, but there was an unsettling aura about the place. The signs read "Zone 1," "Zone 2," and so forth, implying that we had to complete some sort of challenge or signing ritual to participate.

We decided to explore the first two zones, sipping coffee and observing the oddities around us. However, when we reached the final zone, a chilling realization struck me. We were supposed to sign a document indicating our consent to join this mysterious group. The section labeled "Consent" was completely blank, its stark emptiness sending a chill down my spine. In contrast, the other zones contained written remarks from previous visitors who had declined membership. I leaned closer, squinting at the handwritten notes. Some were absurdly comical, while others were strikingly blunt: “Get lost,” “Never coming back,” and even, “I regret this place.”

The most disturbing part was a section where people had written their reasons for refusal in mirrored Korean characters. I could make out phrases that sent a shiver through me—words like “Leave us alone” and “Never return” seemed to leap off the page. My mother frowned, and we both understood that this was not a place we wanted to be part of. In a moment of shared resolve, we grabbed a pen and scrawled, “We’re cutting ties with you,” before hastily retreating from the unsettling atmosphere.

As we settled into a cafe in the third zone, cautiously sipping our drinks, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Suddenly, a figure in a strange mask approached us. My heart raced, but to our relief, nothing happened. The tension lingered until my mother insisted we check out a nearby fruit shop that she had been eyeing. There, we discovered black cherries for sale. The shop assistant, friendly and overly accommodating, offered us a generous deal, revealing that he was about to leave his job for another. It turned out that everyone working there was simply trying to earn a living, just like us.

The next scene unfolded against the enchanting backdrop of Paris, where my mother and I were eagerly anticipating a reunion with my friend, Cassie. We stumbled upon a charming café, its warm ambiance inviting us in like an old friend. Nestled at a quaint round table, we unwrapped the blueberry cookies that Isaline had lovingly brought back from her recent travels, their sweet aroma mingling with the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee.

As we indulged in the cookies, laughter bubbled up around us, weaving a tapestry of joy and camaraderie. My mother relished each bite, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips as she savored the last crumb. In the midst of our chatter, Cassie animatedly shared tales of her upcoming trip to Orléans, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she detailed the adventures that awaited her.

But my mother’s mind was elsewhere, fixated on the food back at our accommodation. “We need to finish what’s in the fridge,” she insisted, clearly torn between enjoying the moment and her responsibilities. Cassie, sensing the dilemma, chuckled, urging my mother to let loose and enjoy the day. The café buzzed with life, yet the undercurrent of urgency from my mother added a strange tension to our joyful gathering.

The final story transported us to Thailand, where my mother and I were staying at a magnificent hotel. The place was breathtaking, nestled amidst lush greenery and overlooking a serene river. We decided to venture out to enjoy the local scenery, eager to explore the natural beauty that surrounded us.

As we approached the river, we were greeted by a man offering free boat rides. Intrigued, we hopped on a small boat resembling a leaf, eager for a unique experience. The ride was exhilarating; we donned life jackets and glided across the water, marveling at the stunning views.

Upon reaching a picturesque spot, we struck up a conversation with the boatman, who expressed his dream of visiting Korea. “I’ve never seen snow,” he said with wide eyes, captivated by the thought. My mother, ever resourceful, informed him that a ferry ride could take just 40 minutes to reach our country. The man, visibly impressed, jokingly asked, “Will you marry me?” The lighthearted exchange made us both laugh.

Later that evening, we ventured out for dinner at a restaurant that resembled a lively marketplace in Namdaemun. The atmosphere was electric, with Thai men seated nearby, celebrating with drinks and lively chatter. As we scanned the menu, our curiosity piqued at the unusual dishes laid before us.

Our attention was drawn to peculiar pickles and exotic greens, each with a unique story. The locals were eager to share, introducing us to their favorite dishes. Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any better, one of the men took us on a wild ride on his motorbike to show us a rare species of frog that only lived in that region. The frog was tiny, with a striking red face and a vibrant green body, and it leaped gracefully, as if time slowed down with every hop. My mother and I couldn’t contain our delight, and our laughter echoed in the night air, creating a memory that would linger long after our adventure in Thailand came to an end.