Travelling as much as I have been over the last few months, you'd usually expect something to have gone horribly wrong at some point. I'm fortunate enough to say that up until now, nothing has gone *that* badly — a twelve-turned-twenty-hour bus ride in [[dar es salaam, tanzania|Dar es Salaam]] was at least with other people; the whole [[kilimanjaro|cerebral edema]] thing ended up okay, and credit cards rescued most of my planning problems. My airline had inputted one letter incorrectly on my passport entry, which required a quick verification by immigration security. For the first time in my travels, crossing the border had not gone smoothly. I walked into what I will reductively call the deportation office — based on the somber faces of those around me who didn't have similar passport privileges — a little annoyed but still relaxed. My phone had died, but I knew that I should be able to make the last train (my delayed flight landed at 11pm). In fact, I was almost happy to be able to have a place to plug my now-dead phone in, as my power bank was also dead. The only problem: South Korea uses a different plug type to Japan, which is an assumption I foolishly never thought to double-check. And suddenly, I realised I might be in a spot of trouble: stuck in immigration, now past midnight, meaning no simple public transit to the hotel, with no phone. Then, that evening (I should say morning — 3am or so) I tried to check into my AirBNB, but the secrets of the smartlock eluded me (to be honest, this was a complete lapse of intellect on my part). I had no Korean phone number, so I couldn't call the help line. Right when I was about to sit down, accepting defeat, my hero emerged: a middle-aged guy, living in an apartment probably originally intended as a cleaning supplies storage room, stepped outside for a cigarette wearing nothing but his underwear (I'm not sure he was expecting anyone else to be there). I asked him (using a translator) for help. He was naturally reluctant (I think he wanted to go put pants on first). In the end, he called the help line, tried to explain the smartlock to me, gave up when he saw how confused I was, then did some magic on the smartlock and let me in. The next day, I was running late for the appointment that constituted the *entire* reason I was in Korea, because my phone had pointed me in the wrong direction. I had to call a cab. Even though my phone was nearly dead, I knew I had enough to get an Uber — but then it started raining, heavily. My phone froze up, the remaining 15% drained in about 3 minutes, and I couldn't see where my Uber had parked. My phone was dead — probably water damaged — I was late to an appointment I had been 500m from 30 minutes ago, and my Uber cancelled the ride. I tried hailing a cab the old fashioned way — even though the vast majority are prebooked — and by some miracle, the *eighth* taxi I tried, standing in the middle of a four-lane road, stopped for me. I jumped in, then realised I spoke precisely no Korean, and the traditional, elderly driver spoke precisely one word of English (address?). The address was on my dead phone. Somehow, in an old Tupperware container stored in the glove department, he found an iPhone charger. It took six minutes for my phone to awaken from its damp slumber. It took another two for him to decipher the address, another four for us to realise we went to the wrong building. I did get the appointment done, though. It all works out.