One cool evening in May, my husband and I pushed through masses of Seoul residents crowding the subway and made our way to the giant World Cup Stadium, east of our home in the Korean capital.
Like hundreds of converging Korean fans, we wore our fuschia jerseys emblazoned with the tiger, the symbol of the men's national football team. Soon, like 80,000 other spectators, we were on our feet screaming as Korean mid-fielder Kim Do-heon scored a goal for Korea against Senegal. We did the Mexican wave and shouted 'Dae-Han-Min-Guk' (Republic of Korea).
A woman plumped herself on the concrete steps beside us, cradling a toddler between her knees. She hugged him, then playfully tilted his head back as the child dropped his jaw in delight.
I imagined the upside down stadium as the boy would see it – a grass green sky, pin-sized angels in knee-high socks suspended from their cleats, kicking a gold ball which miraculously didn't fall. A gunmetal spring sky on the floor of his world.
"Game no good", said Mr Kim, our driver, the next morning. "No win". Mr Kim had watched the game on TV the previous night, no doubt lubricated with shots of soju. Senegal had scored a goal in the second half, making it a draw. We had worn red plastic bracelets with '화이팅' embossed on it, Korean for 'fighting'. It's a sort of ubiquitous war cry for difficult obstacles. Koreans pronounce the word in English but since there is no 'f' sound in their language, it became 'Hwaiting'.
Once, on a steep hike in North Korea, I passed a group of South Koreans going uphill. "Hwaiting", they chorused, "Hwaiting". I felt encouraged.
At the football stadium the Red Devils, the official fan club of the men's national football team, had booked the entire north wing of the arena. They were a coordinated ocean of red jerseys, cheering to drums, and jumping and waving in synchronised undulations. Some wore headbands with red horns that lit up, pinpoints of light in the deepening evening.
The crowd roared. Businessmen who had come straight from work and still in their suits and ties pulled on their red jerseys. Shirts were untucked in the mayhem and toilet rolls flew across the stadium like unraveling white streamers. People wandered around cradling cups of Hite beer.
In the middle of the stadium, the Red Devils unrolled a vast flag and a hundred arms held it up to make it sway. Squinting at the strong stadium lights, I thought about how Koreans do everything in groups.
Sometimes, if the weather is nice, we would head down to the banks of the broad Han river which traces a lazy W right through the city. There is a 40km riverfront track for jogging and cycling alongside it. It's a pleasant spot but narrow and marked at each kilometre.
In the evenings, the sun would set the water alight and sometimes egrets would peck at fish in the shallower reaches. Often, a few men would set up fishing rods and then, if they were lucky, tethered the live fish to a ring and left it in the water until they were ready to head for dinner.
We sauntered downtown on weekends, avoiding the gangs of rollerbladers who whooshed past in total harmony in their shiny lycra outfits that hugged each muscle and wearing winged helmets, looking like some obscure Central Asian god on wheels.
The individual here is powerless. And yet, Koreans worship their heroes like anyone else. Park Ji-sung, the country's football superstar at the time, was scheduled to play a last friendly match before Korea went to the 2006 World Cup tournament in Germany. I was eager to go to that game too, to suck in the madness of the crowd, the whorls of cheers and the despair when a goal was missed.
On the day, the Korean team played well: dribbling, shooting and passing to one another. They were professional and passionate all at the same time. I found myself rooting for this strange and intense peninsula that had been my home for the past 16 months. I wanted them to win.
When the game was over, the team gathered at the north end of the field in a neat line. They put their arms around their shoulders and bowed once, briefly, to their fan club.
Silently in my mind and from a distance, I bowed back.