Seoul

Seoul runs on compressed time: a city that went from war rubble to world capital in one lifetime and kept the receipts side by side — five-hundred-year-old palace gates reflected in glass towers, grandmothers fermenting kimchi below billboards selling the future, monks' drums at dawn and PC cafés at four in the morning. The Han river cuts her in two; the mountains stand around her like a council of elders.

The sensible traveller watches the changing of the guard at Gyeongbokgung and rents the hanbok that makes palace entry free and photographs inevitable; walks Bukchon's hanok lanes early and quietly — people live there —; eats through Gwangjang market one skewer at a time; rides the Namsan cable car at dusk for the city switching on; and finishes in a noraebang, because Seoul does not consider singing optional.

The Guide's honesty: the metro is superb and the taxi line at 11:50 pm is a tragedy in three acts — know your last train —; the side dishes refill free and generously: pace the first banchan; hiking is the national religion and Bukhansan on a Saturday is a well-dressed pilgrimage — go midweek —; and the grill is communal: the tongs pass to whoever cooks best, which will not be you, and that is the correct outcome.