User:Donald
(Redirected from Family:Donald Keddie)
6/11/2005 A DAY IN THE LIFE OF DONALD
I woke up late today. It felt like a much needed rest after a draining workweek. The aircon purred behind and above my consciousness as I drowsily turned on the television. Just the usual Korean celebrities laughing and playing childish games, so I let myself drift off for more sleep. I did finally get going around 12:30 pm. There was no peanut butter left, so I would have to work for my lunch. I ground some coffee beans and set the water to boil. I filled the french press and stirred with a wooden spoon, before setting the timer for 6 minutes. Butter melted in the pan, while I cut slices of cheddar. The loaf was too small, and I was too hungry. Make two sandwiches. I sopped the outsides of four slices of bread in the butter. The timer told me that the coffee was done, as I carefully crisped the toasted cheese sandwiches to perfection. Carrying my coffee and sandwiches to my air-conditioned bedroom I felt like a hedonist epicure at least in a pedestrian sort of way.
I drank my coffee while listening to modern British rock, Coldplay and Keane, on my computer. After a couple failed attempts at conquering CIV2 I researched digital cameras and LCD TV’s on the internet. I need to document my existence here in Korea before all of this ends and time wipes out my place here. As it is I have no record of my time in Incheon, and my old place in Gangnam is no more. Many of my friends from Youngnak Church have moved on, married or changed completely.
I’m feeling like a failure these days. I was trying to go on a date today, but the girl went to Busan to see her family and hasn’t returned my phone calls or text messages. Either she has gotten cold feet about meeting me, or she has decided to stay longer in Busan. Korean women have a habit of just resorting to silence rather than explaining why they don’t want to see you again. It’s some sort of Confucian face-saving thing, I suppose. The university job at Korea University that I was pursuing has turned up with no response which leaves those hopes dashed as well. I was planning my vacation around meeting my friend Siam in India after he goes back home. Now it turns out he will be busy that week, but I have already bought my ticket. I have resolved that I will go to Bangalore anyway with or without Siam. It will be an experience, and nothing will be boring for me in India, of that I am sure.
Most of all, I am in need of a haircut. I grew my hair out to look more conservative for a job interview, but now I want to buzz it back down to its severe military cut. The students call me a “ssuhnim” or Buddhist monk when they see me like that. My balding pattern gives me a big M shape on my head. “M — McDonald, M, teacher, M! M!” One little girl told me last week that the M really stood for “Magical” like the Magical M Person in the Magic Tree House Books we are reading. Anything is fine so long as it distracts them from the fact that I exist to work and work these kids until they master the English language. I have kids with stress headaches(a 1st grader!), nosebleeds and exhaustion from late nights studying, but I cannot show mercy. Their parents pay me to squeeze their children’s brains, and I must fulfil that mission.
I left the house finally. It was already the late afternoon. I decided to walk away from the embassies and cross the street in front of Danguk University. The streets are packed with young couples and friends enjoying a Saturday afternoon. The girls all wear the same Korean fashion, soft frilly skirts stopping above or below the knee, brightly colored blouses and red or yellow highlights in their straight black hair. Everyone is skinny and petite, and no matter how old they are they try to look cute. Even middle-aged women and men adopt the style of children in ways you would never see in the U.S. I must seem like an alien from another planet to them. Everyone stares at me wherever I go in this country. The Korean guys wear pants and pastel, slightly effeminate shirts. Their hair is heavy with product, spiky and short. They have adopted everything metrosexual. The weather is not too hot for someone in shorts and a t-shirt. I saw some sharp looking Europeans from the UN Village sitting outside in the cafes working on their laptops, nursing lattes and taking in the street life. There was a group of black kids, a rare sighting here in Korea. I don’t remember ever having seen a group of black children in Korea in the past three years, but then I am now living among the embassies and diplomat’s residences. There was a military family also with a white father carrying his brown-skinned child on his shoulder. Somehow I couldn’t find the street where the Blue Club barbershop was. I ended up taking a detour through the side streets full of bustling shops. A piece of grit got caught in my eye, distracting me. I don’t like to stop once I get going, so in my own stubborn fashion I strode along fumbling with my eyelid as I went. By the time I was free of the particle I was headed up the hill to Itaewon. Rather than backtrack I decided to walk that way despite not really wanting to go there.
At this point my cellphone rang. “Hello? How’s it going? Where are you now?” “Oh, hey, Siam, I’m on my way to Itaewon.” “I have been calling everyone, but everyone is with their girlfriends today.” “I was to supposed to meet that girl I told you about, but I think she has flaked out on me.” “Ok, I’ll meet you at the Hamilton Hotel in Itaewon in half an hour.”
I knew Siam would need more than half an hour. I would have to kill time shopping in Itaewon until he arrived. Itaewon is the foreigner’s district in Seoul, famous for non-Korean restaurants and clothes that fit non-Korean bodies, infamous for prostitutes, nightlife and U.S. G.I.’s. Walking into Itaewon I stop at my favorite household/kitchen goods store. I study the kitchen utensils and towels before taking my leave. There is a midget woman ahead of me making her companion laugh with some joke. She is dressed in the same Korean style, but her body does not seem to fit the style. I decide to try to find a barbershop up the hill and climb up towards the Central Mosque. It is too early for the nightlife, but that doesn’t stop the occasional bar girl popping her head out of a door and calling to me in broken English, “Hello, come, one beer, come, hello? okay ...” I notice a store that I hadn’t seen before with a sign in English alphabet, “FOREIGN GOODS.” I cross the street to take a look, and the prostitute behind me with her broad, common face and hard body gives up her sales pitch and closes the door again, returning to the darkness of her bar. The supermarket turns out to be aimed at the Southeast Asian workers, mostly illegal, who do the work that Koreans won’t do in the newly rich Korean economy. The foods are Halal foods, and there are framed prayers to Allah for sale. Two Pakistani men are asking another Pakistani if he knows how to drive a car. Seeing no barbershops I decided to go back to the main street, careful not to look or acknowledge another bar girl calling at me.
As I came to the central intersection in front of the Hamilton Hotel a mentally disturbed old woman came to me begging for money. I was waiting to cross the street, so I took a step away from her, shaking my head, “No.” She kept mumbling something to me, touching my arm and brushing softly the hairs on my arm. I looked into her face, but I didn’t see a spark of a person behind her eyes. She seemed like someone disembodied, detached from reality. Giving up on me, she moved back amongst the throng of tourists, locals, Asians and Westerners looking for someone else. I stopped in clothing shops looking for short-sleeved shirts that I could wear to work. The Nike and Levi stores were dead ends, aimed entirely at Korean attempts to copy hiphop fashion. At last I found some shirts on sale at the Columbia Sportswear store which I could get some valuable use out of. After spending the money on the shirts I started to feel better about how my weekend was going after all. There is a kind of materialistic pleasure in the act of shopping and spending money. There was a beggar with no legs pulling himself along the sidewalk amongst the crowd. These beggars are everywhere in Korea, but instead of old Korean pop songs or Christian hymns, this beggar was playing upbeat 80's dance music with English lyrics. Only in Itaewon.
I stopped in front of the Hamilton Hotel to buy an international phone card. This is the only place I know in this city to get a reliable one, and I haven’t been able to call home for too long without one. I asked the lady, “Olmayayo?” She replied, “thuhtee dollah”. I thought, “30,000 won? It’s too much!” Finally I could extract that it was 13 not 30, but only after forcing her to tell it to me in Korean. My Korean is now better than the English of many of these street sellers, but they are surprised if any foreigner has even minimal knowledge of the Korean language.
Siam showed up. He was full of his usual energy and conviviality, but he is weighed down these days. He has to decide whether to accept another IT job here in Korea, or to return to India and pursue life there. Recently his hopes of marrying our mutual friend Eun-Min were dashed by her father who refused to allow her to marry anyone other than a Korean. Now Siam and Eun-Min cannot ever see or talk to each other again. Siam came to Korea, a Brahmin and devout Hindu. He brought two idols, Shiva and Ganeesha, with him to Korea. He was a faithful Brahmin, but has been won to Christ through the work of the Korean Church here. Eun-Min was a big part of his maturing in the faith which makes their break-up doubly difficult. Her father is a Christian pastor, but her family threatened Siam with violence if he married their daughter. When Siam armed with my words told her father about Moses marrying a black woman Zipporah, Miriam and Aaron despising Moses for his interracial marriage, and God cursing Miriam with white leprosy for her racism, Eun Min’s dad simply laughed at Siam.
Siam has lived in Korea for three years, same as me, but he speaks Korean fluently. Then again he already speaks four Indian languages(Kannada, Urdu ...?) and English, so I guess he has some aptitude I don’t possess. Siam led me from money changer to money changer shopping for the best rate on dollars. He needs to take dollars not won to India if he is going to exchange his money once he arrives in India.
We walked up the hill again, past more prostitutes, Arabs and Africans. Siam asked me if I had ever been up to the Mosque, and I told him that I hadn’t. We went up to the Mosque, and were eyed keenly by the groups of robed Muslims outside. One man in his white robes and white circular hat drove by in a huge new SUV. The Mosque has two minarets and looks out over Hannam-dong where I live. We went up and took our shoes off to enter. Immediately a Muslim gentleman came up and began to explain the Mosque to us. He explained that now was the time for men to pray, and that later the men and women would pray together. As he was talking two Korean women came up to take a look. They were going to go in, but he called out to them to stay outside. They looked at him with uncomprehending uncertainty and retreated from this unknown place. The man focused on me, perhaps assuming that Siam was a Muslim. He explained that Islam was the only religion that believed in one God, Allah. Christians believe in a “Son of God”, Jesus, and Jews talk about various “Messengers from God.” But only Islam is truly monotheistic. As he explained the Arabic inscriptions on the outside of the Mosque, the time of prayer came, and the men moved up to the Mosque to pray. The call to prayer was evocative. I saw a deep intelligence in this Arab man’s eyes. For a moment it seemed as if I was not in the homogeneous streets of Korea, but that I was somewhere else. I listened politely and thanked him without arguing. As we left Siam commented to me that when he had come with some Sarang Church friends, they had tried to debate the Muslims there. They had been arguing and fighting for a long time outside the Mosque. Siam was surprised that I had simply listened. He told me that Christians have to be wise and see when it is not possible to persuade by arguing. I agreed with Siam, and I shared with him the Bible verse, “Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.” Siam replied that he didn’t want them to become Christians because if they became Christians then they would be competition for him in the business world. It was a very Indian, caste-conscious sentiment. I told him that he needs to win their souls to Christ, and that maybe he should stay longer in Korea so that his faith can become stronger before he returns to his Hindu family in India. Siam agreed with me, but he is not sure he can stay in Korea after having his heart broken.
We went down into one of the seedier streets of this city to find a good and cheap Pakistani restaurant where we could have some nan and curry. It was an unassuming place with a young looking, slightly langurous, Pakistani waiter. There were only about four tables in a small space with little attention paid to decor or atmosphere. There was no sign of a Kitchen, or even a door to one, but there was a row of covered trays along the back wall. We sat down, and the man brought us menus. "No! No menus. I don't need a menu! I memorized everything," declared Siam with his usual elan. There was a fleeting smile from the waiter, followed by a forceful interchange in Urdu with Siam as Siam chose our meal. "Chicken or Lamb?" asked Siam. "Lamb," I replied. Siam and I began discussing our meeting with the Muslim apologist. I pointed out to Siam that the man had completely ignored Siam focusing almost entirely on persuading me to be a Muslim. Siam replied, “That is because he knows that noone can change a Hindu’s mind. We don’t listen to anyone.” The waiter went to the front desk, and turned on some Middle Eastern pop music. I found it strange that he waited until he had his first customers before turning on any music in his restaurant. He was a one-man show. The curry and nan arrived which we ate readily, but Siam had chosen a curry too lacking spiciness, so we ordered another. More curry meant more nan. Halfway through our meal who shows up at the restaurant, but our Muslim acquaintance a friend in tow. "We've been talking about you for the last 30 minutes," Siam calls over. "Thanks, bro" says the man. He had a funny habit of saying "bro" all the time which makes me wonder if he learned his English from U.S. G.I.'s. Two big black men show up. One of them is a seedy looking fellow who I feel sure is the same as a man I saw driving a car down that same street earlier in the afternoon. He had stopped his car in front of me and yelled out something to a prostitute. She had replied, "Bali osayo" which means "Come quickly!". Then the man had continued driving while the prostitute disappeared into her bar. This man looked carefully at Siam and I, eyeing us up and down. He had an ugly pock-marked face and a grasping mouth with a weak chin. He soon left before the food arrived on some urgent mission leaving his companion, a big muscular round-faced man to sit there in silence. This other man never said anything. He only seemed to listen to and follow the other man. I guessed the first man to be a pimp. Most of the Africans(usually from Ghana) in Itaewon are involved somehow in organized crime. They cannot go anywhere else in Seoul easily, so this neighborhood is a sort of ghetto for these guys. It is virtually impossible for them to get legitimate work in Korea, unless it is menial or dirty work due to the racism and homogeneity of Korean society.
Siam and I stuffed ourselves proper with a thoroughly satisfying meal. The second curry was spicy and delicious, and the nan was to die for. I envied Siam's skill at eating with his hands. He could scoop up curry on his nan deftly, while I struggled to pick up chunks of lamb with my pieces of bread. Still this is food that I could get used to.
The African man returns, scolding his companion, "Why didn't you order something to eat? You didn't have to wait for me!" There is no response from the other side of the table. His cellphone rings. "Huh? Where are you? Is there a problem?" "Gangnam? Where in Gangnam?" This is repeated over and over. "I be around later." Finished with the phone he turns his head to eye Siam and I and listen in on our conversation. He is sitting behind Siam, so Siam didn't notice when he got up to leave. Accidentially the man bumped into Siam. "I am sorry. I have a fat ass. So sorry," he says to Siam. The pimp shakes hands with Siam, smiling like a lizard enjoying a summer's joke. I shake hands and offer a bright smile of my own. We exchange a bright glance, and I feel some friendliness in the man's eyes. It is the kind of friendliness that is a little too sunny. The friendliness of a salesmen, or that of my manager in Incheon before he was about to try to deceive me. It was a bit like a noon-day sun with no visible shadows but about to turn the clock. The man paid for his companion's meals and made his way back out onto the street.
Siam and I finally picked up to leave. As we left we exchanged a friendly leave taking at the Muslim man's dinner table. "Next time come again Mosque, bro! Okay? Have a good day, bro!" He said a few other things, but all I could register was how often he said, "bro".
Siam and I decided to go see a movie at the CGV Multiplex in Space 9. Space 9 is a new massive shopping center/concert hall/meeting space/theater built on the biggest train station in Seoul. It also houses the new Korean bullet train, which is a disappointing budget French version of the awe-inspiring shinkansen that I have traveled in while in Japan. It has a 9 floor electronics mall. Already Yongsan was the largest electronics market in Asia before they built Space 9, but now it is out of sight. There was no convenient way to get there by bus or subway, and we were in no hurry so we decided to walk there, about an hour’s walk. On our way out of Itaewon Siam took me up a hill which I usually went around. There was a Turkish restaurant, an Indian restaurant, and a Greek restaurant that I had never noticed before all stuck together. An Indian man was standing in the street chatting up a Caucasian man and some Koreans. As we went by the Indian man called out a greeting to Siam, but we didn’t interrupt their group. Siam stopped at the Greek restaurant, and a young Indian man came out. This man looked at Siam with great affection, and they proceeded to speak in Urdu with the warmth of good friends. Siam introduced me, and I shook hands with this young man. He greeted me warmly as a friend of Siam’s.
We said goodbye. As we walked Siam told me the story of these restaurants and people. Siam had been asked by a friend to manage an Indian restaurant in Seoul for a couple months while the owner was gone to India. One day Siam had seen an Indian man sitting on the street selling jewelry, beads and necklaces. He asked the man where he was from. The man replied that he was a Canadian citizen. Somehow this man had ridden a bicycle to Greece from India where he had been able to secure a way to Canada to receive landed immigrant status, or so he said. Siam asked if he could cook, and the man said he could. Siam hired him as a cook for the restaurant after some negotiation. Unfortunately this man cooked like a Canadian, not an Indian, and the food was terrible. Siam had to pay him for his first month, and later the restaurant ended up closing after many customer complaints about the change in quality. Anyway this same man was the man we had seen talking to the foreigners. He had brought some Turks to Korea to cook, and he had opened a Turkish restaurant, followed by an Indian one, and followed by the Greek one. Siam told me that the man was actually here illegally now as his visa had run out, but whenever the Korean government asked questions he simply spoke English and told them he was Canadian, so they left him alone. Meanwhile the young man was another person whom Siam had given a start to, who was a good cook and never charged Siam for his food.
We walked the dark streets going past the Korean War Memorial, now closed and empty. The T-34 tanks and Sikorsky helicopters were huddled around the imposing Nuremberg-like edifice. “Inside are the names of American soldiers who died in the Korean War,” I told Siam. Siam was unaware. “Koreans always complain that Americans know nothing about Korea. But when I see those names of boys from Idaho where I lived before I came here I always think; that’s right, they knew nothing about you, but they gave their lives for you anyway.” “That’s the difference between Koreans and Indians, “ replied Siam, “Koreans hate the U.S.A. even though the U.S. protects them, but we know how to be grateful. We respect the British. Indians love the British. That’s why we always go to London, not the U.S.A., not anywhere else.”
Siam is a great apologist for India, the same way I am a great defender of the U.S. and the same way every Korean is a defender of their country’s superiority. Living in Korea you find that every expat has their tales to spin, selling the superiority of their country. Every Canadian will tell you how Canadians aren’t patriotic and nationalistic like Americans. They will tell you that fact so much in between explaining every detail of how Canada isn’t the U.S. that you come to realize that they are the most proud unpatriotic unnationalistic chestbeaters you’ll ever meet.
“India is too peaceful. We never fight anyone. That is why noone in any country in the world hates Indians. We treat everything and everyone with respect,” says Siam.
“India needs a strong leader. If we had a leader then maybe we could be a great country. We need a Hitler or a Bush. We need an Indian leader who will fight.”
Living overseas you discover that there isn’t a country too small or too big that doesn’t sing its own tune.
A man walked by in a hurry carrying something. He stared at me the way Koreans always do when they see a white face. After we passed him, he called out something. I looked back briefly, but then moved on into the night. Siam was taking us through the back of Yongsan, but I began to wonder if he had any idea what way he was going. Sure enough before the train station we came to a Korean-style red light district. Here were rows of pink windows with girls in two-piece outfits sitting on stools looking bored. I had come on this place before by accident when looking for a bus that would take me a more direct route to my home. That time I had crossed the street when an old lady came up to me and asked me to come with her. Immediately I recognized her for a “mammasan” and gave her a stern look which sent her away. A little further up the street, and I could see the girls sitting like merchandise in the shop windows, the glow of pink filling the street. These areas don’t serve foreigners(talk about AIDS, but really just a desire to keep foreigners, especially G.I.’s out) which is what made it so surprising that she tried to sell to me. The Bush administration has decided that the days of U.S. military police standing by watching U.S. G.I.’s frequent establishments that participate in human trafficking must end. I was shocked the first time I saw the way our soldiers acted in Itaewon with the aid and abetting of U.S. military police who tested and registered the prostitutes and broke up the bar fights. I guess some Congressman back home got wind and raised a stink. Now the Korean government has been forced to crackdown on prostitution. The new police commissioner is a Christian woman who has refused to continue accepting the police kickbacks from the brothels. Hundreds of masked prostitutes have been holding protests at City Hall demanding an end to the crackdown, and now arrests of customers have driven many prostitutes away from the red-light districts. Still the Koreans seem content to wait for a new U.S. president and new police commissioner so that they can return to their old ways. A Korean men’s group have petitioned under international law for their “human right” to see prostitutes. Why not? Human rights are so changeable and poorly justified as it is. It points out how laughable the notions of international law really are.
As we crossed from the brothels to the main entrance to Korea’s shining new train hub, a prostitute called out to me. Siam said to me, “She is calling to you because they think you have money. When they see an Indian man, they think I am a beggar. I can go sit on the street, and people will give me money.”
We ascended by a long escalator up the sci-fi landscape of this shopping complex/transportation hub. Young couples were everywhere shopping, eating and enjoying their shiny materialism. As usual in Korea, the place was packed with humanity, although as it was late, there were fewer of the children and families left around. We went to the movie multiplex and took a number to wait for our chance at the wall of ticket booths. Groups of people milled around the waiting area. Others lined up to buy overpriced popcorn and soda. The only English language film’s were “Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith,” “Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” and “11:14". As Siam and I had both seen Star Wars, and I didn’t feel much like a horror flick, we decided to see “11:14". When our number came up on the board we went up to the ticket booth. The girl working there looked apprehensive at first, but she relaxed once we both started speaking to her in Korean. The conversation went something like this: “Which movie?” “11:14" ”Two tickets?” she stated. “No, three tickets,” Siam replied with emphasis.
There was a moment of confusion on the part of the girl. I saw that I would have to put a leash on Siam’s mischief.
“Three?” “Yes, one for me, one for him, and one for you. You come with us, okay?” “I am sorry,” I said to her, and to Siam, “Don’t say that!”(in the rudest form of Korean as if Siam were a child).
A weary smile crossed her lips, and she ducked her face as she showed us our seat choices.
“Front Left”
The movie theater was modern and comfortable with stadium seating. The movie was an uncomfortable film filled with gratuitous violence that arrived loudly and suddenly in a way that was compounding my headache. The movie was about white trash in rural America(It could be where I grew up in Pennsylvania), and I found myself wondering what the Koreans made of this unfamiliar world they were seeing on screen. I felt distant from the America of the movie, knowing the reality and losing interest in the fiction. The values of the film seemed out of place with the Asian reality outside the cineplex.
We left the movie after midnight, and Siam rushed to the train level. I should have taken a taxi, but I followed Siam thinking I could still catch the subway. After entering the platform I noticed that there were no more trains on my line. Siam shouted goodbye as he ran down to catch his train. On a whim I conceived a way to go to downtown Seoul and catch a late bus back home from there. I caught the subway and headed north. I decided to avoid getting out at Seoul Station because it was dangerous these days, filled with homeless and beggars who had begun accosting and robbing people late at night. These beggars had even fought successfully with the police when the police tried to evict them, but then everyone in Korea feels free to fight with or drive away from the Korean police when it suits them.
I ended up getting out at City Hall subway stop. As I walked underground I came upon an area filled with homeless guys sleeping in the station. A moment of concern flashed, but no one stirred and I walked on by. As a young white man I am usually the last person they would think of accosting. Koreans usually regard me with some curiosity and stay away. The City Hall was lit up across from the Deoksugong Palace. I walked around the Seoul Plaza Hotel where a doorman was helping a couple whose minivan had been rearended. With the businesses closed orange tents called “pojang matchas” has sprung up on the sidewalks. Inside Koreans drank alcohol and enjoyed anju(food eaten with alcohol) while enjoying the cooler air of the nighttime. I walked a couple blocks and arrived at the shopping district of Myeongdong in Central Seoul. This is one of the busiest areas in Seoul, about a quarter of a million people walk its streets on a typical weekday. Here it was at the end of a busy Saturday with streets virtually empty, except for the drunken and the stragglers making their way home. As I entered Myeongdong I saw a man in a wheelchair moving around outside a pojang matcha. He had no legs and no bottom half to his body. He seemed to be cut off at the waist. The most interesting thing about this man was his nose. It was long and sharp, the kind of nose that belonged to a Frenchman, not a Korean. He had scraggly hair which coupled with his incongruous nose made him look like a sort of Korean Cyrano de Bergerac. In any case he paid me no mind, and he seemed intent on some purpose as he wheeled around.
Further on I noticed the ATM lobby at the bank had groups of young Korean women hanging around while they waited for something. Perhaps they were there to stay warm, unlikely since the cool air was a relief after the hot day, or perhaps they felt safer in there so late in Myeongdong. Further I saw the neo-gothic Myeongdong Cathedral. On its spire glowed a clock face. I reflected that merely forty years ago this spire had been the only tall building in Seoul. Now it nestled amongst the office buildings of the downtown. I was mesmerized by the soft glow of the clock face and the shrouded dreaminess of the church. A woman from across the street, perhaps a nun leaving the church offices mumbled something at me like “chogi obsayo” pointing to the church. Perhaps she thought I was interested in going there and wanted to prevent me. Candles burned in front of a grotto for the Virgin Mary.
I made it to the bus stop in time to see my bus leaving. I had no way of knowing if this was the last bus. As I waited at the bus stop a man kept looking at me. Living in Seoul you begin to get used to strangers wanting to talk to you as a foreigner. He asked me where I was going and what bus I was waiting for.
“Are you going to Bundang?”
He wanted to help me find the right bus. I told him that I lived in Hannam-dong, one stop after this one, right through on the other side of the South Mountain tunnel. I answered curtly, not wanting to talk to him. Despite my indifference and evident disinterest the man pressed on with the usual litany.
“What country are you from?” “American, U.S.A.” “Where America?” “Pennsylvania” “How long Korea?” “3 years” “Oh! You must speak Korean” “Chogumiay-yo”(a little)
I read a bus that showed up aloud. He said, “You can read Korean!” I tried to curb his excitement. “It’s easy. Anyone can learn to read hangul(Korean alphabet) in 45 minutes if they tried. Most foreigners just don’t even try.” He found it hard to believe. It is embarassing how easy it is to impress and amaze Koreans with even the minimum of basic knowledge of their country. They expect that no foreigner will know any detail about their culture or country. Probably that is not a bad assumption, but it gets old getting the same praise for knowing things about Korea after 3 years that I got after 1 month in Korea . “I used to live Canada. I have question. In Canada there are many beers. I asked everyone which the best beer. Some, Mexico beer. Some this beer, some other beer. I traveled in Europe too and too many beers. Which is the best beer?”
I gave up on not talking with him, and I gave him my attention.
“In Korea, every town makes its own kimchi. If you ask anyone whose kimchi is best, they will say the kimchi that their grandmother makes from their hometown. If you ask which kimchi is the best kimchi, you will never get a good answer because they are all different.”
He looked at me in astonishment. “You know that about Korea?” he said surprised.
I said, “Beer is our kimchi.” “Oh.”
The express bus arrived, and he said, “I’m sorry” and ran off to it. I said goodbye and went back to reading the bus schedule. Five minutes later the man returned.
“Didn’t you take the bus?” I asked.
“I think that bus goes to Bundang, but maybe it is too slow.” “There might be a faster bus,” he said.
“Yeah, that is the 1005-1. That bus stops too many times. You need the 9111 bus if you are going to Bundang.” “It’ll take you straight to Bundang,” I continued. “You know about it?” He said, shocked again.
Bundang is a satellite city of Seoul where many of the rich are moving out to. As someone who has lived in Gangnam for three years I actually know the city better than someone from a neighborhood outside the city. But they always assume I don’t know anything because I am a foreigner.
Finally the 9111 bus came, and he disappeared into the night.
On the way home from the bus stop near my apartment I stopped in a convenience store. There was an old man and an old woman inside. The man was leaning against the drink case doing nothing. Despite my attempts to look in, he was obviously unwilling to move out of the way. I went back to the milk display, and I selected a bottle of sweet potato flavored milk.
I got home around 1 a.m. Mr. Chae the security guard woke briefly from his sleep, acknowledging me briefly before passing out again. I pressed the button for the 18th floor, and let the elevator carry me back to the comfort of my apartment. From the apartment I could see the lights of cars crossing the bridge, a belt of light over the Han River.
I returned to my room and turned on my computer. I stayed up writing about my day. The most interesting parts of life in Korea are those unexpected details that living overseas brings to bear upon your experience. Living in a city of ten million people is a new experience for me, but the energy of this city is not something I will ever forget, long after I leave this place.
Tomorrow I wake for church, Sunday and fellowship. Sleep overtook me.