My introduction to South Korea occurred unexpectedly in 2013 during a Mandarin homework error. At the age of 16, I lacked the essential traits for language learning: self-assurance, resilience, and a willingness to speak aloud. When faced with selecting a language, I opted for Mandarin, believing that my supposed photographic memory would allow me to master the intricate Chinese characters through hours of memorization, without needing to articulate them. I was mistaken.
This self-imposed silence came to an end three months later when I met my conversation teacher, a native Chinese speaker. As anticipated, my performance was dismal. Both of us ended up in tears; she discreetly wiped away her tears and suggested I watch Chinese television dramas to enhance my pronunciation.
That evening, I anxiously browsed Netflix. At that time, the selection of Asian dramas was limited, featuring a few intense Japanese crime shows, some Chinese epics filled with swordplay, and one South Korean series about a high-school rock band with impeccably styled hair. As a teenager in England caught up in One Direction mania, this felt like a treasure trove. I clicked on the appealing thumbnail showcasing the young Korean cast, thinking, “Well, she did recommend watching a drama.” I often reflect on how different my life might have been had I not made that choice.
My fascination with Korean culture ignited immediately. The catchy soundtrack of the drama, “Shut Up & Let’s Go,” was infectious, the four lead characters strikingly attractive (I literally gasped when the guitarist first appeared), and the city of Seoul captivated me. It appeared to be a lively metropolis filled with enduring friendships, delicious cuisine, and a thriving entertainment sector. It felt like the beginning of something extraordinary, and I was determined to experience it firsthand.
Five years later, I realized that goal. At that time, Korean culture had not yet achieved widespread recognition, so I traveled to Seoul under the guise of learning Korean—a cover story more plausible than admitting my K-drama obsession. While waiting for the global audience to catch on, I had consumed and cherished every K-drama I could find. But the question remained: would Seoul meet my heightened expectations?
To my delight, it exceeded them. Weeks transformed into months, and months into years, as I felt enveloped in the enchantment of K-dramas, witnessing the rise of Korean culture through hits like “Squid Game,” “Parasite,” and the music of K-pop sensation BTS.
I remained a satisfied observer until, by sheer luck, I was cast in a K-pop music video (“What You Waiting For” by Jeon Somi), which has garnered over 70 million views. This opportunity led to more music videos, then to commercials, and ultimately to the dream: Korean dramas.
Eight years after making my Mandarin teacher cry, I found myself on the set of a Korean drama as a featured extra, where I was hired mainly for my height and blonde hair. On that day, I was also tasked with managing a group of foreign English-speaking extras, facilitating communication between them and the Korean production team.
Suddenly, the main actor of the day settled into the bar seat beside me. I was stunned—it was the handsome guitarist from “Shut Up & Let’s Go.”
In that moment, the reality of my journey struck me. I surveyed the room and recognized that from my first favorite Korean actor to the production crew with whom I conversed in Korean, and the group of extras I was directing, my life had transformed completely. One simple click had altered the course of my life and reshaped my identity. I had overcome my aversion to languages, gained confidence, and was living my dream.
Alice Amelia’s story, “How Korean Corn Dogs Changed My Life,” is published by Little, Brown.
