The Lubrication of Words and the Shape of Silence
On the Air That Flows Through Two Cities
※ This essay is a personal record based on observations by a Korean who has spent many years living abroad, looking back at Korean society through the distance created by time and place. Korean society appears in diverse forms depending on region, generation, and environment, and the perspective presented here does not claim to represent all Koreans.
I didn’t notice the silence until I started listening for it.
In Seoul’s morning elevators, dozens of people pack in shoulder to shoulder without a single word. In London, the same crowded space usually comes with small apologies and quick acknowledgments. Neither feels wrong. They simply feel different, like breathing different kinds of air.
What follows is what I noticed.
Crowded but Quiet: The Shape of Silence
Stand in the middle of Seoul or Busan and the first thing that hits you is density. People move nonstop. The streets are always full. The city never pauses.
But stop for a moment and listen. Something unexpected appears.
Even with bodies pressed close and constant motion all around, voices are rare. It feels like walking through a silent movie, where only movement and background sounds remain.
Early-morning elevators bring this quiet into sharp focus.
The doors slide open. People squeeze in silently, filling every inch. There’s barely room to slip a hand between shoulders. Someone rushes in at the last second and wedges themselves into the remaining gap.
The air stays still.
In many other cities, this is where you would hear “Sorry” or “Excuse me.” Here, a hand reaches out first and presses the close button. A short mechanical beep follows. That’s all.
No one speaks. Some stare at the floor. Others scroll on their phones. A few look into empty space. Eyes rarely meet. The elevator rises, and the moment ends without comment.
Restaurants follow the same rhythm. You sit down. A server appears right away. The order is short.
“This one, please.”
There’s no need for extra feeling in the words. Big smiles or long greetings are rare. Yet somehow the order is understood perfectly, the food arrives quickly, and the bill is handled without fuss.
Small talk is simply left out. Everything moves faster.
But the longer you stay, the heavier that quiet begins to feel.
The Lubrication of Words: Easing Everyday Friction
London’s morning Tube platform runs on a different beat. The space is just as tight. People are just as rushed.
Yet when bodies brush too close, sound comes first.
“Sorry.”
It’s quick, almost automatic. The other person nods.
“No worries.”
A brief smile passes between them. It doesn’t explain anything. It simply melts the small tension of near contact. The moment moves on.
Cafés work the same way. If you hesitate in front of the menu, staff often step in gently.
“Take your time.”
It doesn’t speed things up, but it breaks the silence before it turns awkward.
“Busy day?”
“Yeah, always.”
These small exchanges don’t carry much information. They create a soft buffer so silence doesn’t stiffen into discomfort. Even if you linger, unease doesn’t pile up right away.
Misread Signals and Unspoken Layers
One afternoon in a Seoul restaurant, the difference stood out clearly.
A foreign traveler was ordering in careful, hesitant Korean. He greeted the server with a warm smile and a friendly “Hello,” then asked for recommendations.
The server gave a small nod—part greeting, part acknowledgment—and pointed at the menu. To someone used to conversational warmth, it could easily feel cold.
The traveler paused. The air around the table grew heavy.
Then came the turnaround.
Mid-meal, the traveler dropped his chopsticks. Before he could call anyone over, the server appeared with a fresh pair. His face stayed neutral. He said nothing. But his movements were fast and precise.
As the traveler left, the server offered a short “Have a good day.”
The words were plain, yet they carried a quiet wish that the meal had been enjoyable.
In many Korean public spaces, words are used less to build connection and more to get things done. Kindness often shows up as action rather than conversation.
In cultures where words act as social grease, silence can read as indifference. In Korea, silence often carries an unspoken layer—something everyone simply understands.
There is a word for this: nunchi. It is the ability to read a room without being told. To notice, sense, and act without saying anything.
Not Rudeness, Just a Different Way of Handling Space
To outsiders, this quiet landscape can feel distant or unfriendly, especially if you’re used to words smoothing every interaction. The missing chatter can be jarring.
But calling it rudeness misses the pattern. The same scenes play out everywhere in the city.
Faces are present, but dialogue is sparse. Meaning comes through clearly, even without explanation. It is a kind of city rhythm, closer to a silent film than a talkie.
What matters is that this is not a rejection of courtesy. Once people get to know each other, that wall of silence drops quickly.
Someone hands you a coffee without being asked. They walk several blocks with a stranger to show the way. At shared meals, they keep adding more food to your plate.
These wordless habits are easy to misread if you come from somewhere else.
What a Change of View Gives Us
I am not saying one way is better.
Scenes filled with words and scenes shaped by quiet both carry daily life forward in their own way. But when you place them side by side, one thing becomes clearer. We move through the same moments at very different speeds, with very different senses of distance.
You do not notice the air you breathe until you have breathed somewhere else. Only after walking through another city do you turn back and truly see the place you came from.