I was already sweating through my shirt when I realized the real problem wasn’t the heat. I’d taken the subway for two hours to get to the Gwangju five-day market, excited to show my viewers around. But when I opened my bag to start the broadcast, my phone wasn’t there. I’d left my iPhone at home.
All I had was my backup phone—a Galaxy Fold 5 I use only for streaming. The frame rate was terrible, the screen was shaking, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how ridiculous this looked. “I came to a new city and forgot my main phone,” I told my chat. “I feel like someone who declared war and forgot to bring a gun.
”
The viewers thought it was hilarious. One joked that I was a guy pretending to be a first-generation streamer while literally holding a phone. I laughed and promised them a full “no-phone era” experience for the day. I had no map, no GPS, no way to look anything up.
So I decided to make it a challenge: find a raw fish restaurant by asking strangers. Just like people did in the old days. I flagged down a passerby. “Excuse me, sir, I don’t have my phone.
Do you know where there’s a sashimi place nearby? ”
He pointed down the road. “Keep going straight, then turn onto the main street. Walk two blocks.
”
“Thank you so much. ”
“Wow, I haven’t asked a stranger for directions in years,” I said to the camera. “But honestly, this is kind of nice. ”
The chat was full of positive energy.
Some viewers said they were getting motion sickness from my shaky fold-phone camera, but they were cheering me on anyway. One even said it reminded them of watching streams ten years ago on old AfreecaTV, and that it wasn’t bad to go back to that feeling for a day. I kept walking. The neighborhood was full of new apartments, everything built within the last few years.
I passed a Gyeonggi-do market sign and joked that I was there to save the local economy single-handedly. I spotted a blue building up ahead. It had the look of a fish market. The sign said something about squid and a night market.
“That’s it,” I said. “I found it. ”
But when I got closer, the shop was still setting up. Chairs were being put out.
A worker told me they opened at eleven. It was only ten-thirty. I couldn’t stand around for half an hour in the heat. So I decided to find a café first.
I asked another stranger, and he pointed me down a long road. I walked until I found a small coffee shop called “Five-Minute Coffee. ”
Inside, I asked the woman at the counter if I could sit and wait for a bit. She was friendly and nodded.
When I asked for a tomato juice, she smiled apologetically. “We don’t have that. No milk either. ”
“Then I’ll take a blueberry juice, cold, please.
”
She looked young. I thought she was a student, maybe a part-timer. I asked her if she was the owner. “Yes,” she said.
“I’m the owner. ”
I was surprised. She looked like she was in her early twenties. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?
”
“I’m twenty-two. ”
“You look so young. How did you end up starting your own business? ”
She explained that she opens every day from nine in the morning until eight at night.
She’d always wanted to run a café, even back in university. During the school vacation, her younger sister—who looked just like her—had been helping out at the shop. “That’s amazing,” I said. “I actually do interviews with small business owners sometimes.
Would you be open to chatting a little? ”
She seemed a bit startled by the question, but she didn’t say no. I told her not to worry, that I didn’t want to pressure her. Then one of my viewers sent a donation with a note: “Order the owner her favorite drink.
”
“The viewers say thank you for the interview,” I told her. “What’s your favorite drink? They want to buy it for you. ”
She hesitated.
“Just an iced tea is fine. But you really don’t have to. ”
“No, they insisted. You can’t order the most expensive thing though,” I joked.
She laughed and picked a simple iced tea. I sat down with my blueberry juice and waited for my order. The chat was still buzzing. Some viewers had gifted me “140 stars,” a donation tier on the platform.
I was still three gifts away from the next goal, which would let me get a drink and a waffle for free. “I’m at minus three stacks now,” I said. “Just three more and I’ll get the blueberry juice and a waffle. ”
It became a running joke.
The viewers kept teasing me, sending just enough to keep me hovering near the goal but not quite reaching it. I played along, begging and laughing. “If I hit minus four stacks, I’m leaving,” I threatened. “I’ll just go straight to the market.
”
The chat laughed. “Go eat, you hungry fool. ”
“I’m your meal friend,” I shot back. “Let’s go together.
”
A viewer named Eric sent another 140 stars. The total moved to minus three. I kept joking that I needed just one more person to push me over the edge so I could finally taste that juice and waffle. Finally, the orders came.
The waffle was fresh and warm. The blueberry juice was ice-cold. I took a bite and let out a satisfied sigh. “This is exactly what I needed,” I told the camera.
“Now I can talk about how great the owner is and how underrated blueberry juice is. ”
I looked around the café. It was small but clean, with a warm atmosphere. The owner had gone back to work, wiping down the counter and preparing for the lunch rush.
“You know what’s funny? ” I said to my viewers. “I forgot my iPhone, but I brought the iPhone charger. ”
The chat erupted with laughing emotes.
One viewer wrote: “A viewer donation came in! Check it. ”
I was still holding a card that my viewers had sent. I held it up to the camera and read it: “Thank you for interviewing the owner.
We’ve sent the payment for the drink. ”
I thanked them sincerely. “The viewers told me to pay for the owner’s drink, so I did,” I said. “And they also said to enjoy my meal.
I’m trying. I’ll see you all later. ”
I asked the owner if I could take a picture of the shop for my broadcast. She nodded shyly.
I snapped a photo, thanked her again, and stepped back outside into the bright Gwangju sun. It was almost noon. The heat was starting to get serious. I had a raw fish market to visit, and I still had no phone.
“Alright, chat,” I said. “Let’s find that sashimi place. By asking more strangers. ”
I walked down the street, passing a middle school, a small intersection, and a row of shops.
The air smelled like grilled meat and fish sauce from the nearby market. My fold phone was still shaking in my hand, but I didn’t care anymore. I stopped a man crossing the street. “Excuse me, sir, is the fish market this way?
”
“Keep going right, then straight. You’ll see it. ”
“Thank you. ”
I looked back at the camera and grinned.
“Two hours on the subway, no phone, no map, and I still found my way to fresh squid. Not bad, right? ”
The chat flooded with stars. I checked the count.
One more 140-star donation came in, then another. “That’s four, that’s five—wait, that’s the goal! ” I shouted. “We did it!
Blueberry juice and a waffle, coming right up. ”
I was still laughing when I walked into the fish market, the smell of salt and sea hitting me immediately. A woman was slicing squid at a stall, her knife moving fast and precise. “Excuse me,” I said, approaching her.
“I don’t have my phone. Can I order a plate of seasoned raw squid? ”
She looked up at me, then at the shaky phone in my hand, and smiled. “Of course.
Sit down. I’ll make it fresh. ”
I took a seat at the low table and looked at the camera. “We made it,” I said.
“No phone, no map, just people helping people. This is the old-school way. ”
I took a deep breath and let the cool air of the market wash over me. “Now let’s eat.
”