Not long ago, I assigned the Hatbearer and Gu Shu to attend to some matters on my behalf on Jeju Island, South Korea. It's always fascinating to explore the different perspectives and experiences that each individual brings to the table through their own lens. That's the beauty of working with allies who perceive the world differently: one pays close attention to the details, while the other sees the broader picture; one listens for the whispers of history, while the other tunes into the pulse of the present.
And yet, there are times when something is so inherently present—so deeply rooted in a place or a person—that it becomes impossible to overlook. Especially when that ever-present element is an authentic reflection of their essence. Even if you try to ignore it, it speaks—loudly—without ever needing to be named.
These days, nations are often evaluated by the size of their economies, the sophistication of their infrastructure, or the quality of their political and social systems. While that might provide a surface-level understanding of what to expect, in truth, such evaluations are unfair. How can we measure the spirit of their people by how much they export or how tall their buildings are? Or by how they respond to decisions that, while targeted at a specific group, affect everyone?
That's when we're talking about an entire country. But what about just a fragment of it? Is it really fair to assume cultural and social uniformity based solely on geography? Even within a single city, we encounter a rich spectrum of colors, rhythms, and flavors—so why expect homogeneity from a whole nation? Diversity is not only natural; it is essential.
What prompted me to write this travelogue of sorts about a work-related trip carried out by the Hatbearer and Gu Shu? A reflection shared on social media by a local resident of Jeju. He posted a few thoughts after receiving an unexpected gift from my representatives. That seemingly simple gesture reminded me just how much depth a genuine act can carry.
It's worth noting that the gift had no predetermined recipient. The Hatbearer and Gu Shu had been instructed to give it to whomever they deemed suitable. And what was this gift? A keychain shaped like a top hat, handcrafted using tela lenca—a traditional textile of Honduran culture.
Why that gift? Because it represented me. And in case it isn't yet clear, I am the Cat with the Hat—a top hat, to be exact. That Hat is more than just an accessory. It is a symbol of presence, of connection, of identity.
The message shared by that local resident was the following:
"A Honduran arrived at St. (abbreviation for Stay Yeoeon).
He said he came to Jeju after almost 30 hours to participate in the tea conference held on the island.
We talked a lot, and I received a gift.
It’s a hat called a 'top hat,' made from a fabric known as Lenca fabric.
When I used to backpack, I once carried a mini stone room, and it was so heavy that I remember giving it away quickly to lighten my load.
I’m left with this thought:
What gift truly represents Jeju?
Wheat chocolate? Fish like swordfish? The heart-shaped sands that are so popular these days?
Would you like to come to Jeju Island?
In the end, it seems to be an ongoing challenge for local creators.
I hope many wonderful products that represent Jeju will be made.”
This reflection resonated deeply with me. So often, as locals, we fail to see the beauty and essence of the place we inhabit. No matter who we are or where we come from, it is human nature to overlook what is most familiar to us. We even forget to notice things as vital as breathing—something we do automatically until someone reminds us of its importance.
When the Hatbearer and Gu Shu returned and shared their stories, I was struck by how, despite experiencing Jeju differently, they both agreed on one thing: the island is unforgettable. Each of them viewed it through a different lens, interacted with various people, and followed paths that didn't always cross—but both spoke of Jeju's quiet, lasting presence.
If I had to describe Jeju in one word, it would be 'tangerine.' But not just any tangerine, but Hallabong. This particular fruit, native to Jeju, may not look especially large or flashy. Yet, inside each segment is a vibrant, juicy, and character-rich flavor. That's Jeju. That's its people.
Jeju's history is not an easy one, but it is intensely captivating. It is a land that has faced profound challenges, and yet it has blossomed with grace. A testament to this resilience are the Haenyeo, or "women of the sea." These women dive into the ocean without oxygen tanks, battling cold currents and harsh conditions to collect seafood. Their practice stands as a powerful symbol of endurance, tradition, and love for life.
Another example is the book "I'm A Sad Child," which compiles the emotions of those affected by the tragic April 3, 1948, incident—a painful chapter in Jeju's collective memory. Though the villages have been rebuilt, many aspects of their past remain unrecoverable. Yet pain found refuge in poetry. As in the poem titled “Of a Hundred Years”:
“Reeds growing between the cracks in the rocks.
When will they grow and bloom?
Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa [representing gunshots]
When they bloom, will you say everything you couldn’t say today?”
Jeju's people are not perfect, nor are its economic, political, or social systems. But if the island teaches us anything, it's that even under the burning sun, in fierce winds and stormy seas, sweetness can thrive—just like the Hallabong.
If I could respond to Lee, I'd tell him this: even though I offered a small piece of myself and the country I call home—Honduras—through something symbolic like a Tela Lenca keychain, Jeju gave me something equally meaningful in return, perhaps not in the form of fabric, but through flavor, resilience, and a way of embracing one's heritage while still looking outward.
And honestly, what better way is there to capture life's complexity than through flavors? Life isn't about standards, metrics, or rankings. It's about being able to perceive and enjoy the full spectrum of colors, textures, and emotions the world offers. Not to judge them, not to divide them—but to blend them into something even more meaningful.
Thinking about this gives me peace. It reminds me that what we do as a community matters. It enables us to build cultural bridges, share knowledge, and break down prejudice. Every step we take together—every conversation, every shared cup of tea—is a seed planted in the garden of empathy.
Just like tea, where every infused leaf tells a story, or coffee, where each bean carries its origin, each of us is a flavor. A color. A note in the symphony of humanity. And together, we make an unrepeatable blend that gives body, soul, and meaning to our nations, our memories, and our shared moments.
Until next time.
Satoricha ~