Daejeon is Pretty

I spent high school in New Mexico, gaping at sunsets that turned the whole world shades of pink and purple and night skies that featured the dull glow of the milky way tracing its way across the sky behind millions of tiny tiny stars.

I studied in Salamanca, a town dripping with history, paved with ancient cobbles. The whole city is built of sandstone, glowing a warm gold under the sun and the sodium lights that illuminate the city at night. I'd cross the old town wall, walk down to the river, and turn around to gape at the magnificent city rising above me, reflected perfectly in the still waters of the River Tormes, in the place where fiction began.

I moved to Budapest and burst into tears the first time I saw the Parlament. I wandered cemeteries full of tombstones larger than most homes and more ornate than many churches. I felt the wind that had traveled down the Duna to brush my cheeks as I traipsed happily across suspension bridges to sit in dark, sexy gardens and drink bitter herb liqueurs. I traced the patterns in tile roofs with my eyes and never grew tired of the curved lines and bright colors.

Then I moved to Daejeon, a city of neon lights and new, square, beige buildings. I liked it straight off, but I was not sure if it was beautiful. Interesting, dynamic, exciting? Of course. But beautiful? I had my doubts.

I found the river. I found the parks. I found the mountains. I discovered that small children and shop assistants smile at me wherever I go. I bought a bicycle and went for runs at dusk. The cold weather came, and with it new colors and scents.

Daejeon's beauty is growing on me. I'd even go so far as to call it pretty.