Off Script in South Korea

What a Martial Artist, a Temple Floor, and a Bomb Alert Taught Me About Surrender

by Francisco Marquez

Last October, I flew to South Korea with a flight booked, an itinerary in place, and a tour guide ready to lead the way.
But I made one intentional choice: no research.
No videos. No blogs. No mental prepping. I wanted the real thing. I wanted to walk into it blind — no filters, no expectations.
I didn’t go to “find myself.” I went to feel everything firsthand.

And I did.
What I got wasn’t a vacation — it was a full-body, spirit-level jolt.
I came back humbled, stretched, cracked open, and changed.

🥋 Breaking Boards, Not Playing Safe

I landed in Seoul wide open.
Within a day, I was barefoot in a Tae Kwon Do class, surrounded by strangers, moving to rhythms that weren’t mine — yet.
Then came the plank.

I’ve trained in martial arts for over a decade, but this was new terrain — different energy, different discipline.
When I drove my fist through that board, I felt something more than splinters.
I felt resistance break.

That was my first moment of clarity on the trip:
You don’t evolve by playing safe. You evolve by punching through hesitation.

💃 The

K-Pop

Detour

A few days later, I found myself dancing K-pop.
Yes. Me.
In a studio in Seoul, trying to keep up with choreography that had no mercy.
I was off-beat, off-balance, and fully outside my comfort zone.

Full throttle. Not for a role, not for a reel — just because it scared me.
I didn’t care how it looked. That was the point.

And it felt incredible.

There’s something liberating about being bad at something — about showing up anyway, looking ridiculous, and not caring.
It reminded me that growth rarely looks cool.
Sometimes it looks like sweat, awkwardness, and full-body laughter.

It’s not about mastering the steps — it’s about being willing to move. willing to “fail“, even.

🍖 Senses, Shock, and the Borderline

I ate everything.
Korean BBQ, bubbling stews, street snacks, grilled eel from a dockside shack.
It wasn’t just food — it was communion. Sensory immersion. A way to let the country speak through flavor.

Then came the border.

It took over five hours to reach the edge of the DMZ. Checkpoints, long roads, silence that got heavier with every mile.
And then — this foul, chemical stench in the air. Something was off.
Seconds later, a military commander stormed into the room, shouting in Korean. Loud. Urgent. Unmistakable.
We were being evacuated.

A balloon bomb threat from North Korea.
No questions. Just alarms, motion, adrenaline.
We were rushed back through several layers of security — eyes forward, no time to process.

In one second, the illusion of control was gone.
And all I could do was keep moving.

🧘 The Floor, the Pain, and the Monk’s Silence

After that chaos, I entered another kind: a Buddhist temple.

Silence. Stillness. Cold nights on hard floors.
We trained in traditional martial arts. No mirrors. No ego. Just movement, breath, and pain.

I probably sweat off 10 pounds in one session. I was drenched, soaked to the bone. And just when I thought we were done, the master said:

“Now… 108 bows.”

I thought, cool, a bow.
Wrong.

One “bow” meant: stand, bow, kneel, bow face-down, stretch out, and lift yourself back upright without using your hands — only your core and legs.
That’s one.
We were to do 108.

I made it through maybe five before my body gave up.
I dropped to the mat. Sweat poured into my eyes like acid.
Around me, 60+ people bowed like their lives depended on it — some trembling, some breaking.
I stayed bowed down. Not from weakness, but from raw truth. That was my edge.

Later that night, during dinner — a silent, vegan meal — someone whispered.
And the head monk snapped.
He stood up and yelled at the room in Korean.
A full-blown scolding that echoed through the dining hall.

We all sat in stunned silence. No one moved.
We ate in shame-faced quiet — chewing our food like it was penance.

That night, I laid on the floor, sore and stripped down — not enlightened, not peaceful, just real.
And that was enough.

🌇 Busan: Where It All Came Together

Busan was my favorite stop. Period.

City life and beach life colliding in the most effortless, alive way. Walkable streets, energy in the air, ocean at your feet.
That place made sense to me.

One night, me and a few fellow travelers got approached by an older Korean couple. They bought us rounds of drinks and shared their story — how they’d visited the U.S., how their kids now go to Harvard.
It hit hard — I’m from Massachusetts.
Somehow, halfway around the world, home found me.

The next day I wandered into a Korean hair salon on a whim. A group of cool women welcomed me in, pampered me like royalty — drinks, snacks, full experience — and gave me the best haircut I’ve had in years.
Afterward, we had an impromptu photo shoot in the salon.
Yeah — no joke. Photos, laughter, social media exchanges. None of it planned.
All of it magic.

But my favorite moment?
A last-minute night yacht trip in Busan — wind in my face, lights of the city reflecting in the water, fireworks exploding overhead.
That photo is still my iPhone background.
That night felt like a dream.
One I didn’t know I needed.

🎤 Jeju, Karaoke, and a

Mic Drop

On Jeju Island, I led a group of nearly 20 people into a karaoke bar.
They were reluctant. Shy. Unsure.
I was not.

I got drunk off Soju and threw myself headfirst into “8 Mile” by Eminem — full send.
The room exploded.
Jumping, screaming, singing with me — pure chaos.
By the end, I had strangers cheering, fists in the air, people spilling drinks and laughing like we’d known each other forever.

It was my idea. And it reminded me… sometimes, you have to be the spark.
No script. Just fire.

🎭 Coming Back — Changed

This wasn’t a vacation.
It was a mirror. A gut-check. A reset.

I didn’t go looking for peace. I found perspective.
In the silence. In the chaos. In the sweat, the flavor, the fire, the laughter.

Sometimes the most important thing you can do for your art — and your life — is to leave everything you know and say yes to things you didn’t plan.

Break a board.
Dance K-pop.
Evacuate a border.
Bow until your body gives out.
Sleep on a stone floor.
Get drunk and rap in a basement karaoke bar, connecting strangers from around the world with music.
Let strangers become memories. Let discomfort become story.

This trip changed me.
Not just as an actor.
As a man.

And I’ll be carrying it — in the silences between lines, in the way I walk into a room, in the kind of presence I bring

— from here on out. It’s part of me.