A yellow Hanbok and a trembling dog in Jeonju

The yellow dust had finally settled by early May, and the air in Seoul felt just warm enough to be dangerous. It is the kind of weather that makes you believe, quite foolishly, that a three-hour drive with a toddler and an anxious dog is a great idea. Ajin turned two last month, and I had this stubborn image in my head of her walking through stone-walled alleys in a bright yellow Hanbok. I wanted that memory so badly that I ignored the reality of what it takes to get there. My husband didn't say much while I was packing, but I saw him eyeing the mountain of bags near the front door. We had the stroller, the diaper bag, Haneul's travel crate, and enough snacks to survive a week, even though we were only going for one night.

The long road to the tollgate

We left on a Saturday morning, which was our first mistake. The navigation system kept adding minutes to our arrival time, the red lines on the map stretching out like a warning. Haneul was already shaking before we even hit the highway. He is a small dog with a heart that beats much too fast in the car, and he spent the first hour trying to burrow his head behind my lower back. I felt his tiny, rhythmic tremors against my spine, a constant reminder of his discomfort. Meanwhile, Ajin was surprisingly quiet until we passed the Jeonju tollgate. It was as if she knew the movement was about to stop. The frustration of being strapped into her car seat for three and a half hours finally boiled over, and she began to scream. It wasn't a tired cry; it was an 'I am done with this' roar. My husband kept his eyes on the road, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. I tried singing her favorite songs and dangling snacks, but the car felt small and the air felt heavy. By the time we pulled into the public parking lot, I was already wondering why we hadn't just gone to a park near our house.

The weight of a practical decision

The Hanok Village Public Parking Lot was a sea of cars. We paid 12,000 KRW for the day, which seemed fair until I realized how far we had to walk. Getting the stroller out, settling a crying Ajin into it, and then slinging Haneul's bag over my shoulder was a workout I wasn't prepared for. The sun was surprisingly sharp. As we began the trek toward our booked Hanok stay, the wheels of the stroller rattled violently against the uneven pavement. My husband stopped at a corner, wiped sweat from his forehead, and looked at the crowded streets. 'We should have just booked a hotel with a parking lot,' he said. 'It would have been easier for everyone.' He wasn't being mean; he was being practical. But in that moment, when I was trying to hold onto the dream of a 'traditional' experience, his practicality felt like a critique of my planning. We walked the rest of the way in a tense silence, the only sound being the clatter of the stroller wheels and the distant chatter of tourists.

High thresholds and thin walls

When we finally reached the Hanok, it was undeniably beautiful. The wooden pillars and the tiled roof looked exactly like the photos. But as soon as we stepped inside the gate, the reality of the architecture hit me. Hanoks are built with high wooden thresholds between the courtyard and the rooms. For Ajin, these were like mountains. Within the first ten minutes, she tripped over the ledge of the main room, her little knees hitting the hard wood. Haneul wasn't doing much better. He refused to step onto the polished floors, his claws clicking frantically as he tried to find traction. The room was much smaller than I anticipated, and once we laid out the bedding, there was almost no floor space left. Every corner of the traditional furniture seemed to have a sharp edge perfectly aligned with Ajin's forehead. Haneul eventually found a corner behind a floor lamp and curled into a ball, refusing the dried sweet potato treats I tried to give him. He just stared at the door with wide, watery eyes, waiting to go back to the car that he had hated so much just an hour before.

Searching for a place that would take us all

By evening, the hunger was real, but finding a place to eat in Jeonju with a dog is a puzzle. Most of the famous bibimbap restaurants have strict no-pet policies. I had a list of 'pet-friendly' places from a blog, but when we arrived at the first one, there was a forty-minute wait. Standing in line with a toddler who wanted to run into the street and a dog who was terrified of the passing crowds was impossible. We ended up at a small, quiet place on a side alley that didn't have a line. The bibimbap was fine, but I couldn't really taste it. I was too busy making sure Ajin didn't throw her spoon across the room and checking if Haneul was breathing okay in his bag under the table. My husband ate quickly, his mind clearly already on the logistics of the next day. 'Let's just get some Choco Pies and go back,' he suggested. We did, and we spent the evening in our cramped room, listening to the conversations of the guests in the room next door. The walls were so thin I could hear the neighbor's phone notifications. I spent the whole night terrified that Ajin would wake up and cry, disturbing the entire building. It wasn't the peaceful, traditional night I had imagined.

The yellow Hanbok at Gyeonggijeon

The next morning, I was determined to get the photo. We rented a small yellow Hanbok for Ajin near Gyeonggijeon Shrine. Putting it on her was a struggle—she didn't like the stiff fabric or the way the skirt felt around her ankles. But for about fifteen minutes, as she toddled along the stone wall of the shrine, she looked like a little doll. The sunlight hit the yellow silk just right, and she gave me one genuine smile that made the previous 24 hours feel almost worth it. Haneul even poked his head out of his bag for a second, looking curious about the trees. It was a fleeting moment of the trip I had planned. Then, Ajin decided she was done with the Hanbok and started trying to pull it off in the middle of the path. We changed her back into her leggings and t-shirt in a cramped public restroom, and the magic dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. We headed back to the car shortly after, skipping the rest of the sights I had marked on my map.

The quiet aftermath

The drive home was quieter. Ajin fell asleep before we even reached the highway, her head tilted at an awkward angle in her car seat. Haneul was also out, finally relaxed enough to sleep now that he knew we were heading back to his territory. When we finally walked through our front door, Pudding was waiting in the hallway. She gave us a long, judgmental look, sniffed Haneul's fur—which probably smelled like Jeonju dust and stress—and then walked away to her scratching post. Haneul immediately went to his favorite cushion and didn't move for three hours. I am looking at the photos now, the ones of Ajin in that yellow dress against the grey stone walls. They look perfect, like we had a wonderful, easy time. But then I look at the bruise on Ajin's knee from the Hanok threshold and the way my husband's shoulders are still hunched from the tension of the drive. I’m not sure when our next trip will be. I keep looking at pet-friendly hotels with elevators and wide hallways, wondering if I should just give up on the 'aesthetic' travel for a few years. My husband hasn't mentioned Jeonju since we got back, and I haven't asked him if he'd ever go again. We are just back to our routine, which feels much smaller but significantly safer.