It's nice to know that Robert de Niro and I have at least one thing in common - when we walk down the street, we both get stared at.
In this way, though unfortunately in no other, being a white person in Korea is like being a celebrity. Very quickly, you get used to the idea that every time you go outside, you will be stared at. Children will come up to you and say "hello", old people will peer at you, people will point and whisper.
To be a white person in Korea is to be some exotic beast, a strange creature with big eyes and a pointy nose. You are the subject of curiosity, you will never be just another face in the crowd, just another sweating individual on the subway. No, you're special, you're different, you're wierd.
You could be casually pondering ketchup options in the supermarket aisle when you turn around to see two transfixed toddlers staring up at you. Or you could be sitting in the park, minding your own business, when someone you've never met comes up and asks if they can practise their English with you.
This suits me fine. I became accustomed very quickly to being the subject of so much attention, to the point where it now seems natural. When I returned to Belfast from Taiwan last year, it took me a little while to adjust to the idea that nobody was looking at me any more. Not one stranger came up to me, said "hello", and then ran off giggling.
Of course, being a foreigner in Korea is not really like being a celebrity. There are no autograph-hunters or stalkers. But still, not once have I thought to myself "ooh, I don't want to go out, people will stare." It doesn't bother me in the slightest. This leads me to the conclusion that celebrities who moan about how they "just want to be left alone" are being ever so slightly precious.