My Story

Philip—sometimes Joon-woon to childhood friends—6'2", long-legged, soft-shouldered, and born in Seoul the same year the Beatles released their first album. Two years later my parents boarded a KLM flight to Amsterdam with me asleep in a wicker bassinet; I grew up on canals, herring carts and winter ice-skates, yet never lost the scent of kimchi that drifted from our kitchen. Those twin passports gave me two manners of saying “I love you,” and I use them both daily.

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Languages live in my mouth like house-guests who refuse to leave: Dutch flows as easily as rainwater, English politely waits its turn, Korean tiptoes in when I count days of the month, and Mandarin offers quick greetings whenever I buy lotus-root at the Asian grocer. Switching between them reminds me that hearts can also translate—if we are patient.

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I have walked through twenty countries so far, collecting small rituals instead of postcards: sunrise tai-chi on the Bund in Shanghai, a solo waltz beneath Vienna’s street-lamps, bargaining for saffron in Istanbul with my terrible Turkish and a hopeful smile. The next stamp I crave is not a place but a person—someone who will trade the window seat for the middle, just so we can share the same view.

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Professionally I spent three decades turning empty sites into living stories as an architect—skylines remember my hand in glass, brick, and light. These days I consult part-time, which leaves Fridays wide open for flour-dusted countertops and Miles Davis on repeat. My signature apology-after-a-long-day dish is creamy Tuscan garlic salmon over hand-rolled tagliatelle, but the crowd-pleaser I bring to potlucks is Korean-Mexican fusion: gochujang pulled-pork tacos topped with quick-pickled daikon. I have yet to meet anyone who can eat just one.

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Weekends have become gentle ceremonies I perform for myself and whoever cares to join: Saturday farmers’ market at 9 a.m. sharp—espresso first, questions later; a slow bike ride along the river, basket ready for fresh peonies; Sunday brunch that stretches into a 3 p.m. board-game rematch. If the weather behaves, I’ll teach you the basic steps of rumba on my patio, the slate still warm from the sun. Evening might find us at a small jazz cellar where the pianist knows to play “Fly Me to the Moon” whenever I walk in, because ballroom is not a hobby—it is my second heartbeat. I still compete occasionally; a blue ribbon hangs in my study beside a photo of my wife pinning a corsage to my lapel. I keep it there to remind me that love once chose me, and can choose me again.

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Faith, for me, is a quiet room I enter on my own terms. I was raised Presbyterian, sang in the choir, yet find equal reverence in Buddhist temple bells and the hush of an empty mosque courtyard. I’ll gladly accompany you to midnight mass or meditate on a mountaintop—just don’t ask me to argue doctrine over dinner. Mystery, I’ve decided, is part of the romance.

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My friends describe me as the guy who remembers how you take your coffee, the weight of your niece’s birthday wish-list, the exact shade of scarf that will match your eyes. I send “drive safe” texts, arrive with jumper cables and a joke, and still believe a handwritten thank-you note is the height of elegance. If you leave a book half-finished on my sofa, you’ll return to find a silk ribbon marking your page and a fresh pot of ginger tea. Attention, I learned long ago, is simply love wearing glasses.

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Loss has etched its signature across my story: a rainy night, a curved road, the cruel irony of an accident on our daughter’s birth date. Grief took me to the wilderness Philip-yet-unfed, but even there I discovered that love is less a finite meal than an endless recipe you keep adjusting. I have cried, healed, sought counsel, danced alone in the living room until the stereo gave up. Today I can speak their names—Sarah and little Hana—without flinching, the way one touches a once-broken bone that has knitted stronger. Carrying them forward feels less like luggage and more like quiet passengers who whisper, “Go on, Dad—twirl her, laugh loudly, make new memories.”

So here I stand, suitcase finally unpacked, heart tuned to a new frequency. I am drawn to a woman who knows the world is wide but imagines it wider when seen together; who will let me spin her beneath street-lights, then debate whether the best gelato hides in Rome or Lisbon. Curiosity is her passport, kindness her native tongue. She can be 58 or 78—age is just another postcode. Perhaps she has known loss, perhaps only triumph; either way she understands that joy is not betrayal of the past but tribute to it. She values handwritten itineraries yet leaves room for detours, because the best stories bloom from wrong turns.

 

If you smile easily, if you don’t mind a man who still opens doors and occasionally cries at cello solos, send me a line. Tell me your favourite market-day snack, the dance you always wanted to learn, the country whose sunrise you’d chase tomorrow if gravity relaxed its rules. I will answer with honesty, a photo of the peonies I just bought, and maybe a recipe card stained with gochujang.

Let’s start with coffee—Dutch-style, strong and merciless—then see how far two passports, four languages and one renewed heart can travel. The table is set, the music is cued, and the next stamp in my booklet is waiting for your name.