What a beautiful night.
I took the subway with my friend a few hours ago; a little boy on the train pointed to me, and said to his mother “waegookinida!” “A foreigner!” My friend and I laughed. I replied with a smile, “ne, waegookinimnida.” “Yes, I am a foreigner.” His mother turned to me, seemingly amazed that I understood what her son had said. All I could do was laugh. We got off the subway and walked down the street. A group of kids, still in their school uniforms, walked into a Korean karaoke bar called a noraebang (literally song room). An old woman cleaned the front of her shop with the help of her husband, tossing buckets of water onto their sidewalk. A little girl played with her dog in the parking lot of a small apartment building, shouting to the dog “anja!” “Sit!” All it did was stare back at her, tongue dangling out of its mouth. We walked into a small chicken restaurant. I had a healthy serving of Kim chi followed by some of the best fried chicken I’d ever had. My friend and I talked for a while, waiting until the sun was below the horizon before leaving. I walked my friend to his apartment, a small little place near my university, and there we parted ways. The back street that leads to my dormitory was quiet with a small exception, a group of kids kicked a soccer ball against the old university wall, laughing, shrieking at times. On the front steps of an old stone house nearby two small girls watched, waiting for their turn to play with the soccer ball.
Another day my roommate and I went out to grab some food. Cruising down Seoul’s highway at 120 kilometers per hour was only slightly nerve racking, dodging cars and zipping in and out of traffic fluidly. Slowly, my death grip on the car door loosened as I grew accustomed to the maniacal pace of Seoul traffic. We couldn’t decide where to go, so we drove and drove. My roommate had an idea, we would go to a small Japanese ramen place in Gangnam (one of the more expensive sections of Seoul), after which we would go to one of the prettiest locations in Seoul, a mountain road called Bukak Skyway situated close to the Blue House, the seat of South Korea’s president. I agreed, of course. We had dinner, smooth Japanese soup a refreshing break from the vibrant flavor of Korean dishes, and meandered around Seoul before reaching our destination. We swerved around twisting Cliffside roads. Military police patrolled the lengthy skyway, wary of any suspicious activity. They were no doubt haunted by the memory of the assassination of another South Korean president earlier in the century, when North Korean commandos used the shelter the mountain provided to hide before they struck. We reached the summit and climbed up a deserted staircase to a viewing deck, modeled after a traditional South Korean guard tower. The view was worth the drive. Seoul’s lights twinkled all around us as far as the eye could see. Seoul tower pierced the sky in the distance, the red light on its tip blinking somewhere above the clouds. It was the first moment in Korea where I could relax, where I could just look into the distance and admire the city as it was without worrying about food, going to class or anything of the sort.
I could tell a million stories just like these, because this is what I take from Seoul. I could write an epic tale of my travels, detailing every last place I’d visited and critiquing them on whether they lived up to their reputation, but that’s not what I remember. I remember the little boy on the subway, and the girl shouting “anja” to her dog, and the view from Bukak Skyway.
I couldn’t have asked for anything more from Korea. ※
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