The woman stopped in an alley with Hangul written on it and looked around

In a dim alleyway within a South Korean market, a middle-aged woman stood partway down the lane. The asphalt at her feet gleamed with oil, and the narrow space was crammed with what looked like food-stall equipment. Yet when I took this photo, none of the stalls were open. There was no smoke, no smell of grilling meat—only rows of idle contraptions fitted with metal grates and chimneys. Come nightfall, I could easily imagine the air turning hazy with the smoke of barbecued meat and offal, the din of customers so loud it might make one’s ears ring.

Signs of various sizes hung outside the stalls, all written in Hangul. Since I can’t read Korean, I had no way of telling whether a place specialized in premium beef barbecue or in stir-fried octopus. For all I knew, I might order what I thought was meat and be served seafood instead. That sort of gamble at mealtime can be a thrill, but it’s a dangerous game if one’s stomach isn’t prepared.

When I glanced back at the woman, she was still standing there, glancing about in every direction. There was no trace of anxiety in her face—if anything, she seemed to be enjoying the act of observing. Perhaps, like me, she had lost her sense of direction. Then again, in a maze of alleyways like this, getting lost is part of the experience. Even without knowing where the exit lies, a person drifting along with the flow of the crowd will, sooner or later, be guided by the scent of barbecue smoke.