Jeonju · Wednesday — Paper and ferment

Day 3 · Jeonju

Wednesday — Paper and ferment

Wednesday, September 23, 2026 Wansan-gu (Jeonju Traditional Culture Center vicinity) / Seoshin-dong

inside a hanji workshop, standing at the edge of a wide shallow vat filled with opaque white water, mulberry fiber visible through the whole depth; drying frames of translucent sheets stacked along the far wall, each one faintly luminous against weathered timber — she watches a fresh-pulled sheet hang against the frame, fiber still visibly settling at the edges, not yet moved

The sound the water makes when it drains back through the screen — I did not expect that.

I had thought it would be a slow day. I was wrong and I am glad I was wrong. The hanji workshop near the culture center was not a class, not a demonstration with eye contact and a typed explanation. I stood at the side of the room for twenty minutes before the craftsman acknowledged me, and then only to move slightly so I could see the vat better. The water in it was white and opaque, mulberry fiber suspended through the whole depth of it. He pulled the screen in one motion — unhurried, level — and the sheet was just there, two seconds, complete, hanging wet and thin against the frame, the fiber still visibly settling, edges slightly uneven where the water had pulled.

The room smelled entirely of wet plant fiber. Warm and vegetal and close. The kind of warmth that isn't climate-controlled — it's structural, layered into the walls over decades. I stayed until he'd stacked a full run of sheets, each one translucent and faintly luminous against the drying frames. He did not ask me to leave. He did not perform the work for me.

at a three-table soup counter with no legible sign, standing at the laminate counter, a pale broth bowl in front of her, steam rising in a narrow column toward a bare fluorescent tube mounted above the pass — spoon raised, broth on it, she has paused — not eating, watching the steam curl before it disappears into the ceiling light

I left when he started cleaning the vat. Found a place two streets over that had no sign I could read — three tables, a laminated menu, a woman who pointed at the soup when I hesitated. Gukbap, pork, the broth pale and clean. I ate the whole thing standing at the counter because the only chair left faced the wall.

bowl of pork gukbap — pale milky broth, thin slices of boiled pork, a mound of rice half-submerged, spoon resting at the rim

Later, Seoshin-dong. I'd changed into the wide-leg trousers and put everything loose into my pockets. The fermentation shop with the earthenware jars lined along the outside wall, each one older-looking than the next. A woman came with her own container. The owner ladled something out — doenjang, maybe, or something further along than that — without weighing it, by instinct or habit.

on a narrow residential street in Seoshin-dong, standing at the threshold of a doorway — worn timber frame, the interior a dark rectangle behind her — earthenware onggi jars ranged along the outside wall of a fermentation shop across the street, their rims dark with age — she has stopped in the doorway threshold, watching the owner ladle across the street, not yet stepping through or back

I watched from across the street. A scooter had stopped between us and the engine was still running.

row of large onggi earthenware jars along the shop wall, dark age-rimmed lids, Korean handwritten price tags tucked beside several jars

The jar lids were dark with age at the rim, just the rim.

What she wore

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I wore the mini skirt because I knew I'd be standing still for a long time and I didn't want anything complicated happening at my ankles.

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Changed into the trousers after the workshop — the afternoon felt like it wanted more structure, or maybe I just wanted pockets.

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I put the blazer on when the light started going — not because it was cold, but because the evening in Jeonju feels like it deserves one considered thing.