The heat is here and it’s real. It’s an ominous, oppressive sauna outside, steaming your flesh and slapping you down. I’m almost always out of Korea in early August, so I’ve forgotten just how goddamn hot it can be. We’re talking Mississippi, Burma... Sierra Leone. Just the slightest exertion causes my shirt to become soaked with perspiration. I’m constantly thirsty. When I sit outdoors, I can feel the sweat pool up around my thighs. It’s disgusting, come to think of it. It’s really fucking hot.
I’m not complaining, really, but moreover noting the seemingly extreme temperatures of the Korean summer. They’re right. They really do have “four distinct seasons.” This one is distinctly Hell-like. I can endure, though. I actually like the heat, for a while, at least. I like sitting out at night after it’s cooled down slightly. I like the feeling of super cold ice water pouring down my throat and into the furnace of my insides. I like laying on my bed in the middle of the night with my big ol’ fan blowing over my body (Naked! Or just in ma drawers…). And no, I don’t turn the thing off. I sleep right under the electric specter nightly , undaunted by haunting legends of deadly fans. If I am weak enough to be slain by a vicious appliance, then I deserve not one more breath and God can take me right here and now.
(Was that thunder I just heard? Aiiiigo!)
Today is August 4th, which is my Korean anniversary. Six years ago today I stumbled onto The Peninsula, bleary eyed and hungover from a very drunken trans-Pacific flight (I had generously helped myself to the duty free bottle of Scotch picked up in Seattle, a luxury unavailable in these days of draconian liquid restrictions on flights with transfers...). I remember riding from the airport across this snake of a city, being fooled into the thinking that my first glance at the apartment buildings of Sasang and Gupo somehow comprised a downtown, only to be amazed as the metropolis went on and on and on. I remember the red neon crosses, the “limousine bus” careening through the streets to the soundtrack of trot music. I remember being shocked at the multitude of dog grooming shops, as I was somehow under the misapprehension that dogs were only eaten in Korea and never loved. I remember seeing the street markets for the first time, smelling the sea air as I disembarked at Haeundae beach and walked straight into Korea’s biggest summer party, which happened to be taking place in my new front yard. I remember that first meal of samgyeopsal and tasting kimchee, sitting outside at night and sipping beer, lighting a cigarette for the first time in months because it was “too cheap NOT to smoke.” I remember shaking Scott’s hand and sensing in my gut that this was a man I could trust with my life. I remember taking a crammed cab across Gwangali Bridge (which ripped the air from my lungs, I’m still impressed every time I lay eyes on the thing) to party at Vinyl underground, shocked to see a rock band entirely composed of foreigners (“That’s possible here?” I thought). I remember chatting up a Korean girl in Spanish, and borrowing 20 bucks from Sam the first night we met, knowing instantly that he would be my partner in crime for years to come. I remember the old Saturday Korean class, practicing “Heungbu and Nolbu” with a brooding bespectacled dude named Steve before he was even Angry, drawn to his raw intelligence and dark wit. I remember wandering into random restaurants and playing “dinner-roulette,” in which I’d simply point to an item written in Korean and see what I got. I remember being blown away and in a state of near-bliss, having finally escaped the strange fetters of America and feeling absolutely free, far far away from “The Land of The Free.” I would literally have nightmares about going home. This went on for months. Is it any wonder I’m still here?
Fast forward to now, six years later… I guess you could call me firmly entrenched, a “lifer.” Korea is now just where I am. It’s still strange, but only in fleeting touches. Otherwise it’s my home, where I work, eat, sleep, and play. I have a decent job with a good boss, two very adorable cats, a great group of friends and a new girl who I’m simply ga-ga for. I’ve managed to get a grasp on the language and make some strides in my writing and am probably the most comfortable in my own skin that I’ve been in my whole life. That’s one of the nice things about getting old: You just stop giving a fuck what others think about you, which, it turns out, was the key all along. Who woulda thunk it?
There’s a hippy-ish slogan that I’ll cite here, for despite its vagueness, it really fits how I feel:
“Wherever you go, there you are.”
Well, here I am. I am here. Happy Anniversary, Korea. You’ve been damned good to me, and that’s something I’ll never forget.
I’m not complaining, really, but moreover noting the seemingly extreme temperatures of the Korean summer. They’re right. They really do have “four distinct seasons.” This one is distinctly Hell-like. I can endure, though. I actually like the heat, for a while, at least. I like sitting out at night after it’s cooled down slightly. I like the feeling of super cold ice water pouring down my throat and into the furnace of my insides. I like laying on my bed in the middle of the night with my big ol’ fan blowing over my body (Naked! Or just in ma drawers…). And no, I don’t turn the thing off. I sleep right under the electric specter nightly , undaunted by haunting legends of deadly fans. If I am weak enough to be slain by a vicious appliance, then I deserve not one more breath and God can take me right here and now.
(Was that thunder I just heard? Aiiiigo!)
Today is August 4th, which is my Korean anniversary. Six years ago today I stumbled onto The Peninsula, bleary eyed and hungover from a very drunken trans-Pacific flight (I had generously helped myself to the duty free bottle of Scotch picked up in Seattle, a luxury unavailable in these days of draconian liquid restrictions on flights with transfers...). I remember riding from the airport across this snake of a city, being fooled into the thinking that my first glance at the apartment buildings of Sasang and Gupo somehow comprised a downtown, only to be amazed as the metropolis went on and on and on. I remember the red neon crosses, the “limousine bus” careening through the streets to the soundtrack of trot music. I remember being shocked at the multitude of dog grooming shops, as I was somehow under the misapprehension that dogs were only eaten in Korea and never loved. I remember seeing the street markets for the first time, smelling the sea air as I disembarked at Haeundae beach and walked straight into Korea’s biggest summer party, which happened to be taking place in my new front yard. I remember that first meal of samgyeopsal and tasting kimchee, sitting outside at night and sipping beer, lighting a cigarette for the first time in months because it was “too cheap NOT to smoke.” I remember shaking Scott’s hand and sensing in my gut that this was a man I could trust with my life. I remember taking a crammed cab across Gwangali Bridge (which ripped the air from my lungs, I’m still impressed every time I lay eyes on the thing) to party at Vinyl underground, shocked to see a rock band entirely composed of foreigners (“That’s possible here?” I thought). I remember chatting up a Korean girl in Spanish, and borrowing 20 bucks from Sam the first night we met, knowing instantly that he would be my partner in crime for years to come. I remember the old Saturday Korean class, practicing “Heungbu and Nolbu” with a brooding bespectacled dude named Steve before he was even Angry, drawn to his raw intelligence and dark wit. I remember wandering into random restaurants and playing “dinner-roulette,” in which I’d simply point to an item written in Korean and see what I got. I remember being blown away and in a state of near-bliss, having finally escaped the strange fetters of America and feeling absolutely free, far far away from “The Land of The Free.” I would literally have nightmares about going home. This went on for months. Is it any wonder I’m still here?
Fast forward to now, six years later… I guess you could call me firmly entrenched, a “lifer.” Korea is now just where I am. It’s still strange, but only in fleeting touches. Otherwise it’s my home, where I work, eat, sleep, and play. I have a decent job with a good boss, two very adorable cats, a great group of friends and a new girl who I’m simply ga-ga for. I’ve managed to get a grasp on the language and make some strides in my writing and am probably the most comfortable in my own skin that I’ve been in my whole life. That’s one of the nice things about getting old: You just stop giving a fuck what others think about you, which, it turns out, was the key all along. Who woulda thunk it?
There’s a hippy-ish slogan that I’ll cite here, for despite its vagueness, it really fits how I feel:
“Wherever you go, there you are.”
Well, here I am. I am here. Happy Anniversary, Korea. You’ve been damned good to me, and that’s something I’ll never forget.
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