Intercontinental Breakfast

6.30am, the Ibis Gangnam, Seoul: showered, shaved and suited, Korean businessmen arrive for breakfast.

Shortly after dawn in business hotels the world over, the same tragedy is performed. Actors emerge from the intermission and file unthinkingly down to the theatre. They gather their props, the interchangeable components of the continental breakfast, and take position upon the stage. The script takes no remembering; it has no words.

I am an outsider, and not because of my race. (A couple of gaijin join in the ritual cremation of bread and picking up of croissants with tongs). No, I am an interloper; I've wandered through the wrong stage door. I sit quietly in a corner with my bran flakes, toast, sweetened orange juice and appalling coffee, hoping I'm not spotted.

The worlds we inhabit are so close to one another, they're capable of these brief, awkward overlaps. Breakfast over, we withdraw back to our own dressing rooms, continents apart, and the only thing we really share is the insatiated hunger that dogs our mornings.

I got Seoul but I'm not a soldier

I must have slept for most of the bus journey from Incheon airport into Seoul. When I finally emerged onto the streets, expecting to have to take a taxi to my hotel, I asked a cab driver if he knew where it was. He looked at me disbelievingly, and pointed over my shoulder. I was standing directly outside it.

A long shower failed to wash away the lethargy from my 5am start. I couldn't face the prospect of travelling into the centre of town, and chose instead to wander around Itaewon where I'm staying. It feels very different to Japan - more westernised for starters. American chains like Taco Bell and Quiznos sit behind market stalls peddling novelty socks and knocked off t-shirts. Bars are either upmarket, opening onto the street, or seedy looking, up discreet staircases that say things like "Western Bar".

There are a lot of foreigners; Indians, Americans, Europeans. Italian restaurants, curry houses, burger joints. It is the most ethnically diverse place I have been in Asia. I keep hearing the sounds of people clearing their throats and spitting. And the further I walk, the more Americans.

I peel up a side street and there's a change of mood. I have never, for a second, felt scared in Asia. Never felt like I'm walking down the wrong street or I need to be on my toes. A Korean guy walks past and looks at me strangely. It's disconcerting, but not really menacing. I can't work it out. I drop back down, and am amazed to find a huge second hand English bookshop; the penny still not dropping as I peruse the shelves.

By the time I find a decent looking place to eat something Korean, I've worked it out. The guy in the restaurant asks me where I'm from - "England", I reply. "Not soldier". He smiles; "You don't look like soldier", he reassures me. Outside the window a big black guy in US army fatigues folds his arms and leans back on his car. The Yongsan Garrison is a grenade's throw away. I devour a bowl of deliciously sweet, rich beef bulgogi and remember why I love Korean food so much.

I've almost certainly been drinking too much lately. I need a night off. Fortunately, the prospect of getting drunk in a "Western Bar" full of squaddies, hookers and the occasional spitting local makes an early night a pretty easy pill to swallow.