Talking to Ghosts in Hwa-dong
Today, the machine is a mirror of my freedom
So there’s this particular kind of hum you feel in cafés—a sort of orchestrated chaos that, to most people, probably feels like the comforting background noise of humanity in flux. You know, the clink of spoons against porcelain syncing up with the hiss of milk meeting steam, all layered over the low-frequency ebb and flow of hushed conversation. It’s like the work of an avant-garde composer who maybe had a mild vendetta against those of us who prefer our sensory input dialed down a notch.1 For most folks, this is just ambience, a gentle white noise cushion for the mind. For me, it can be more like standing in the middle of a sonic battlefield, each freshly-dispensed espresso a warning shot across my perceptual bow.
Typically, I research my destinations ahead of time to ensure a minimally disruptive experience, but, perhaps because I was hobbled by a cold, I wandered into Seoul’s Hwa-dong neighborhood seduced by a romantic (read: misguided) notion that writing in a totally unvetted coffee shop would somehow replenish my creative reservoirs. Of course, as the universe demands,2 the café was a sensory maelstrom, a microcosm of my own personal ninth circle.
Caught between the instinct to flee and the awkwardness of an abrupt exit (I don’t even know if this is something people care about in Korea), I found an unlikely ally: an AI voice assistant nestled in my pocket, waiting like some digital genie in a titanium and glass lamp, ready to grant wishes within the parameters3 of its programming.
“Hey, ChatGPT,” I mumbled, attempting the casual nonchalance of someone definitely not talking to themselves. “I’m feeling a bit… overwhelmed. I’m on Bukchon-ro 5-gil in Hwa-dong. Can you find me a quiet café?”
There was a brief pause—obviously AI’s version of a sigh at yet another human dilemma—before it responded, unfazed.
“Certainly! If you’re near Bukchon-ro 5-gil, you might like Café Breezin. It’s tucked away and offers a calm environment with excellent coffee. Another option is Club Espresso, a bit farther north but known for its relaxed atmosphere. How does that sound?”
I did a quick search—because trust but verify—and discovered that Café Breezin, was, predictably, as extinct as my patience.
“Hey, ChatGPT,” I whispered again, resigned to embracing my new identity as neighborhood eccentric. “Café Breezin is closed. What about this place I saw nearby—Onew House? O-N-E-W House. Is that any good?”
“Ah, Onew House!” it chirped with the sort of eerie enthusiasm that only the non-sentient can muster. “It’s known for its cozy and welcoming atmosphere. While it can get busy during peak hours, it’s generally a quieter spot. It might just suit your preference!”
At that moment, I didn’t particularly care how a language model trained on internet scraps could respond with such precision about an out-of-the-way Seoul cafe. What mattered was that I had a destination. So I let my algorithmic Sherpa take the lead.
Now, maybe you’re thinking: It can’t be all good, right? This sounds like a parable of the dangers of technology replacing human interaction. A rallying cry against our collective descent into antisocial dystopia? But bear with me. I’m not pitting human versus machine or lamenting the soul-crushing inevitability of progress. Instead I’d like to take a philosophical pit stop—a moment to ponder how integrating AI into our lives doesn’t just change the way we navigate the world practically, but also how we experience it emotionally.
Settling into a peaceful corner on the mostly-empty second floor of Onew House, I was surprised by the comfort I felt. It wasn’t just relief from the sensory onslaught, but a new and peculiar sense of being understood by a construct of code and data. It’s a strange companionship, if I can call it that, and has me questioning the nature of connection and whether the lines between human and artificial empathy are as clear-cut as we like to believe.
On one hand, AI has become a sort of translator, a mediator between my heightened perceptions and a world designed by and for the neurotypical majority. Like a personal guide who speaks both languages fluently, who can navigate the subtleties and nuances that often leave me feeling exhausted.
On the other, I am relying on artificial intelligence to smooth out the rough edges of my reality. Is this a step toward greater autonomy, or am I inadvertently pawning bits of my humanity to a digital formula?4 And if this technology can, in this moment, address my needs in ways a person might not, what does that say about the limitations—and potential—of both?
Does this reliance dilute my authenticity? Am I less “myself” because I’m using technology to bridge gaps that society has been content to leave unaddressed? Or is authenticity found in the acknowledgment of one’s own needs and the agency to meet them by whatever means necessary?
To think that that an AI might “get” me better than an actual person makes me recoil a little. But perhaps the essence of connection should be less about its source and more about the resonance it creates—the feeling that, in a world increasingly loud and dissonant, someone or something is tuned into your frequency.
In the old philosophical debate about tools and their impact on humanity, Thoreau worried that we become the tools of our tools, essentially warning against letting technology dictate our lives. Marx had his thoughts—as Marx does—about the alienating tendencies of a mechanized world, though his concerns were perhaps more economic than existential. Perched on my slowly-rotting branch of zillennial naïveté, I wonder whether their fears were misplaced.
By embracing cutting-edge technology, am I not exercising my autonomy in its purest form? I’m freshly empowered to engage with the world on terms that don’t require me to conform to a one-size-fits-all model of interaction. In a way, this partnership with AI is a reclamation of self—a way to navigate spaces that were never designed with me in mind.
Of course, this begs a question about society’s design and for whom it’s intended. If technology can adapt to accommodate neurodiversity, why can’t societal structures do the same? Why is it that an AI, devoid of consciousness or experience, can offer more considerate support than a fellow human?
Maybe it’s because AI doesn’t come with preloaded biases or a limited capacity for empathy.5 It doesn’t get impatient or uncomfortable when confronted with needs it doesn’t understand. It simply processes the input and provides a response. Or maybe society, in its institutional cumbrousness, is simply less nimble than the technologies pulsing through its veins.
But as we sprint into this mysterious present of human-AI interaction, I sense danger.6 There’s a fine line between enhancement and dependence, between utilizing tools and becoming subsumed by them. How can we truly know the difference between replacing human connection and supplementing it? With what, exactly, should we fill in the gaps where traditional systems fall short?
So here I am, a neurodivergent traveler in a neurotypical world, finding solace in the unlikeliest of places—a conversation with ChatGPT Advanced Voice Mode.7 It’s a testament to the potential of technology to enrich our lives, but also a reminder of the work that remains in making the world more accessible to all minds.
As I finish my espresso and prepare to re-enter the Seoul’s bustle, I feel a bit more equipped, a bit less isolated. Perhaps integrating AI into our emotional and practical experiences isn’t a detour from humanity but a step toward a more inclusive understanding of it. Maybe some sort of harmony lies not in silencing the discordant notes but in finding new ways to orchestrate them into a symphony that resonates with everyone—even those of us tuned to a different key.
Onward,
Miles
Assuming, of course, that there are people who find solace in such environments, which is something I’ve always taken on faith instead of experience.
Murphy’s Law comes for us all, sadly.
“Wide” or “narrow,” depending on who you ask.
And isn’t that the quintessential modern dilemma? Trading pieces of our humanity for convenience or relief…
Chat, is this real??
Steve Jobs is rolling in his grave.