City to Wilderness: Solo Traveler's Journey from Seoul to Kakadu National Park

Landing in Seoul felt both foreign and familiar—the city of my heritage, yet one I've only visited sporadically since establishing my life in America. I chose to begin my journey here deliberately, to ground myself in the aesthetic influences that unconsciously shape my design work before venturing into Kakadu's primeval landscapes.

I booked a sleek apartment in Gangnam through Airbnb Plus, selecting a space that beautifully blended traditional Korean elements with contemporary minimalism—sliding paper doors alongside smart home technology, and a small courtyard with carefully arranged stones reminiscent of traditional gardens.

My first week was devoted to Seoul's design districts. Dongdaemun Design Plaza, with its fluid Zaha Hadid architecture, offered endless inspiration in its curved spaces and innovative exhibitions. The juxtaposition of ultra-modern design against Seoul's ancient palaces created a visual dialogue that I found myself photographing obsessively for future client presentations.

For solo travelers seeking authentic design experiences, I recommend venturing beyond the typical tourist path to Seongsu-dong, Seoul's answer to Brooklyn. This former industrial area has transformed into a haven for independent designers and artisanal workshops. I spent hours in converted factories housing everything from handcrafted ceramics to experimental furniture designers pushing the boundaries of form and function.

Perhaps most meaningful was my visit to Bukchon Hanok Village, where I arranged a private workshop on traditional hanji paper-making. The tactile experience of creating something with techniques passed down through generations connected me to my Korean ancestry in ways that simply observing never could.

While Seoul's contemporary design scene captivated me professionally, I was determined to experience the cultural depth that informs Korean aesthetics. I arranged a five-day detour from the capital to stay at a traditional Buddhist temple in the mountains through the Templestay program.

At Woljeongsa Temple, nestled among ancient pine forests, I traded my designer wardrobe for simple cotton robes and embraced the monastic schedule—waking before dawn for meditation, participating in ceremonial meals, and learning the philosophical principles that underpin Korean spatial concepts like madang (courtyard) and kan (the space between things).

The minimalism practiced here wasn't the trendy, curated sparseness of design magazines but a deeply intentional emptiness that creates space for contemplation. As an interior designer constantly filling spaces, this experience of intentional emptiness was profoundly reorienting.

Returning to Seoul, I viewed the city through transformed eyes. I sought out spaces of contrast—places where tradition and innovation conversed rather than competed. The National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art became my sanctuary, particularly its installations examining Korean identity in a globalized world.

For solo female travelers in Korea, I found an unexpected resource in pocket wifi, which proved essential not just for navigation but for translating signs and menus in real-time through my phone camera. This technological bridge allowed me to venture confidently into non-tourist neighborhoods where English is limited but cultural experiences are rich.

My most treasured Seoul memory came from an impromptu invitation to join a family's Chuseok preparations after I admired their traditional hanbok clothing in a market. This glimpse into authentic Korean home life—the careful arrangement of ritual objects, the generational knowledge passed through food preparation—reminded me why I became a designer: to create spaces where human connection flourishes.

The contrast couldn't have been more dramatic—from Seoul's precision-engineered skyline to Darwin's laid-back frontier atmosphere. I deliberately scheduled two transition days in Darwin to decompress and adjust to Australia's rhythm before venturing into Kakadu.

Darwin surprised me with its multicultural character and tropical sensibility. At the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory, I discovered Indigenous Australian art that resonated deeply with my designer's eye—the sophisticated use of negative space, the storytelling embedded in visual patterns, and color palettes drawn directly from the land.

I stayed at a boutique hotel overlooking the Arafura Sea, where the design thoughtfully incorporated indigenous influences without appropriation—something I've strived for in my own practice when drawing inspiration from Korean traditions.

Preparation for Kakadu required a complete mindset shift. Seoul demanded stylish functionality; Kakadu required practical durability. I invested in a quick-dry travel outfit that balanced protection with breathability for the tropical climate. My interior designer's obsession with organization served me well as I packed my waterproof daypack with essentials for wilderness exploration.

The night before departing for Kakadu, I joined a sunset harbor cruise where I met Indigenous guides who shared stories of the region's creation. They spoke of Kakadu not as wilderness to be conquered but as a living cultural landscape—a perspective that would fundamentally reshape my experience in the national park.

"You must watch and listen first," advised my guide Emma, a Bininj woman whose family had lived in the region for countless generations. "The land will speak to you, but only if you're patient enough to hear it." As someone who makes her living articulating design visions to clients, the prospect of silencing my analytical mind to simply receive the landscape felt both challenging and necessary.

Entering Kakadu National Park felt like stepping back in time—not by centuries, but by millennia. As a designer accustomed to working with precise measurements and controlled environments, the sheer scale and wildness initially overwhelmed me. This was a landscape that defied human attempts at organization, yet revealed its own profound order the longer I observed.

I based myself at Cooinda Lodge for the first week, taking guided tours before gradually venturing into more remote areas. The Yellow Water Billabong cruise at dawn became my daily ritual—watching mist rise from ancient waters while crocodiles glided silently beneath our boat and jabirus stalked the shallows with prehistoric elegance.

What struck me most was Kakadu's natural color palette—ochres, umbers, and siennas that shifted with changing light. These weren't the trendy colors of seasonal design catalogs but enduring hues that have defined this landscape for thousands of years. I found myself collecting small samples of earth (where permitted) and documenting color combinations that would later influence my design projects back in St. Louis.

The highlight of my Kakadu experience was a specialized cultural tour to view ancient rock art at Ubirr and Nourlangie. As my Aboriginal guide interpreted the layered paintings—some dating back 20,000 years—I recognized sophisticated visual storytelling techniques that contemporary designers still employ. The X-ray style depictions of animals revealed an understanding of form and function that transcended mere decoration.

"These aren't just pretty pictures," my guide explained. "Each image carries knowledge—about seasons, animal behavior, human responsibilities to country." As a designer who strives to create spaces that support human flourishing, this integration of beauty and practical wisdom resonated deeply.

For solo travelers in Kakadu, safety becomes a primary consideration. I invested in a satellite communicator, the emergency beacon, which provided peace of mind during remote hikes while allowing me to share my journey with friends back home. The device proved invaluable when unexpected storms altered my plans during a three-day guided walk through Kakadu's stone country.

Traveling solo as a mid-life woman between such contrasting destinations presented unique challenges and unexpected advantages. In Seoul, my Korean heritage gave me a cultural foundation, but my American mannerisms sometimes created confusion. I learned to navigate this in-between space, using it as an opportunity to connect with locals curious about my story.

Korean society's emphasis on family and group activities initially made solo dining uncomfortable—until I discovered the pojangmacha (street food tents) where solo diners are common and conversation flows easily between strangers sharing tables. These became my evening ritual, places where I could process each day's inspirations while enjoying authentic tteokbokki and listening to locals' stories.

In Kakadu, being a solo female traveler actually opened doors. Rangers and guides took special interest in ensuring I experienced the park deeply, often sharing insights they might not volunteer to larger groups. My professional background in design led to fascinating conversations with Aboriginal artists about the relationship between natural environments and human creativity.

Safety concerns required different approaches in each location. In Seoul, I relied on the city's excellent public transportation and pedestrian infrastructure, often exploring late into the evening in well-lit districts. For Kakadu, I joined guided small-group excursions for more remote areas while exploring accessible sites independently during peak hours.

The most valuable travel tool across both destinations was my travel journal, where I not only documented experiences but sketched design elements and color combinations that caught my eye. This analog practice of recording observations by hand connected me more deeply to each place than digital photography alone could achieve.

The greatest gift of solo travel at this stage of life was the freedom to follow my curiosity without compromise. When I discovered a ceramics exhibition in Seoul that resonated with my design sensibilities, I could spend an entire day there. When a particular billabong in Kakadu captivated me with its changing light, I could return at different times to observe how the landscape transformed.