It’s Thursday; a day I have been anticipating for months. I feel sluggish and swollen, yet positively light on my feet. I am singing and smiling. Work feels a little farther away than it did just hours ago. I sit in front of the TV to consume my last intake of American programming. I sit through ESPN experts' prognostication of tonight's Lakers-Celtics Game 4 Finals match up. I hope that Korean Air offers live satellite TV with American channels. I am doing a lot of thinking about the flight and not actually packing. Time ticks away until I've left myself no time to consider my packing choices. In a frenzied state, I rummage through drawers and closets, tossing every clean article of clothing into my suitcase. And as always, I have packed too much. Perhaps my subconscious acted on my behalf, directing me to pack for a month away from home...I have that many articles of clothing in my suitcase.
I am off to the airport. My excitement is slowly starting to shift from being solely content with not being at work to being more present and aware of our pending trip. It turns out that my cab driver is a Korean immigrant (I’ve never had a Korean cab driver in San Francisco). We discuss the World Cup and Korea’s absolute need to beat Greece in the first match. I make a mental note that he is the first of many Korean cab drivers I would encounter on this trip. Emmelle’s parents escort her to the airport from San Jose, and she arrives a few minutes after me. We meet near the Korean Airlines check-in counter and have few words to express our eagerness to get on the plane. This is the best part. It's the farthest time period from when our trip will be over in nine short days. Shoot, I wish I hadn't thought of that. I start to panic. I feel like our vacation is already over...It's tough to be me sometimes.
We immediately make our way to the duty free shop after zipping through check-in and security (always a pleasant surprise) and load up on bottles of scotch for our respective families. Many people seem to love duty free shopping; to me there is something terribly off-putting about it that I can’t quite put my finger on. I need more experience with it to conclude a more informed opinion. Nevertheless, duty free saves us from the embarrassment of showing up empty-handed to homes and dinners.
Time passes quickly; boarding commences almost as soon as we reach our gate. Much like the rest of the morning, the gate procedure is smooth, and we find ourselves in our seats fairly quickly. I immediately acclimate myself with my personal entertainment console, scrolling through a lengthy list of mediocre films to keep me distracted during the flight. As expected, no satellite to watch the game. It's ok, we are having fun.
What’s even more enjoyable than the entertainment console is the first in-flight meal, a selection of either the eastern course (bibimbap) or the western course (egg noodles and beef cubes). We elect to have one of each for variety’s sake. I am intrigued by the bibimbap entrée, particularly the Korean condiments packaged tightly into individualized portions. For instance, the Korean chili paste that arrives in basically a small tub of toothpaste. I could use this in my daily life! This is all very novel to me, and I enjoy it immensely more than the jaded travelers around me. I even convince myself to appreciate the odd, synthetic flavors of the individually packaged condiments. All put together though, it makes for a harmless meal. I'll take it over honey roasted peanuts every time.
There must be at least a dozen (or so it seems) flight attendants serving our portion of the cabin. They are all similar in appearance - taller than the average Korean female, slender, long hair tied neatly into a bun, similar pleasant expressions on their faces. Their collective appearance does not diverge too much from Korean actresses. It seems as though all of these women strive to achieve a universal appearance. I would assume most people would find this attractive, but this is nothing to be proud of. Diversity isn't really embedded in the culture. I haven't been to Korea in over 20 years, so I am half expecting all women we encounter to look similarly. We'll see; I am hoping this assumption is incorrect.
The flight is pretty smooth and uneventful. I'm able to dose off for about two hours (Emmelle probably slept less than that), and that will need to suffice for an abrupt transition from Thursday morning to Friday evening.
We've arrived in Korea. Land of...well, me. Land of me. My birth country, the origin of my name. We've exchanged our American dollars into won, had our passports stamped, rented a temporary cell phone and purchased shuttle bus tickets that will take us directly to our hotel (Lotte City Hotel in Mapo). We are ready to party! I am very conscious of my first steps out of the airport.
One step forward, second step forward. We're outside of the airport and firmly on Korean land (Well, I guess we were inside the airport too, but just go with it). The sky is grey and overcast. The air is warm, thick and dense. I can't tell if I'm sweating or it's just the humidity enveloping every inch of our skin. I'm surprised at how many non-Koreans we are surrounded by - Caucasians both American and European as well as many other Asians from across this continent. Seoul is a major international city that I have under-appreciated (or just never thought about). Immediately, I notice that there are many more smokers here than in San Francisco. This will be irritating for me for the duration of our trip, particularly in this dank still air. The cigarette stench lingers and lingers, until you concede and inhale it into your own lungs. I won't miss this.
The bus ride to our hotel is comfortable. The check-in process is less pleasant. They have my name in their system with the correct dates for our stay (two nights) but all of my other information is incorrect. The front desk employee politely tries to convince me that I'm a 45 year old from Los Angeles, with a passport number that isn't my own. I try to explain, futilely, that those records belong to someone else. She is not convinced, she tells me that they have the right reservation and they simply require updating of the user profile. I don't know how to be sarcastic in Korean, so I go with it. Yes, let's change my age from 45 to 29, my city address from Los Angeles to San Francisco - obviously the cause of human key stroke error.
We go up to our hotel room; I silently pray that a surly middle-aged man who shares my name doesn't bang on our door during the middle of the night.
One more thing to do before heading out to find something to eat: Call relatives. I am dreading this but do it to avoid shame on my parents. I intend to call my dad's younger brother first, and when he picks up, it doesn't really sound like him. I tell myself that it's been a few years and I blabber on and on about how I'd like to see him if there was time and that I'd do my best to see his daughter living in Seoul. He is confused. So of course, I become confused. Confusion renders my Korean completely ineffective. Inaudible gargling sounds have replaced words and sentences. I sound drunk. I can't even understand what I'm saying. I wish I was drunk. After some awkward pauses, he tells me that I should coordinate with my aunt (his sister) so we can have dinner on Wednesday like we had originally discussed with my mom beforehand. I am speaking with my mom's brother! I am a moron. He must think I am (1) an idiot, or (2) crazy. Chances are it's both. This is not the auspicious first impression I had envisioned during my phone call rehearsals. I wipe the sweat from my brow; I can't wait to do this in person come Wednesday.
Time to eat.
We walk around the streets for a bit but cannot find a satisfactory eatery for our inaugural meal. Fortunately, Emmelle’s aunt calls her and recommends a nearby part of the city that would surely have some interesting food options and night-time sight seeing. We take a taxi near City Hall and walk around. We find an empty restaurant that specializes in live octopus and have a heavenly meal of sahn nak ji bokum - fresh octopus sauteed with vegetables and Korean spices. I'm not sure a heavy hand of sodium and garlic, accompanied by an ice cold Cass is ideal just hours before a wedding, but I can't help myself. Emmelle is barely eating so I end up scarfing down the bulk of the dish. One thing we learn - this dish is consumed with steamed bean sprouts rather than rice to cut the heavy salt intake. I think this is brilliant and make a mental note to try this when we get back home.
There are fewer street dwellers now, and disappointingly, we are not in an area geared for night time activity. Restaurants and bars are either closed or waiting for the last patrons to leave. But there is something more exciting taking place than your typical summer night. We walk the streets for a few minutes to settle our satiated stomachs and stumble onto what will be a hot bed of Korean pride the following evening. Preparations are nearly complete for public outdoor viewing of Korea's first World Cup match on these grounds here at City Hall. Roadies are conducting final sound checks for the pre-game festivities. Kids are already sitting on the lawn to secure an ideal vantage point for the large screens that will broadcast the match. This calm part of the city will be a frenzied spectacle of red in just a few hours.
It's a quiet night, but already, one can feel the swell of emotional outpour brewing within the city. It's palpable, unnerving in the best way - or maybe it's the jet lag and constipation. We need to get some sleep.
We take another taxi back to the hotel. Emmelle is very adept at communicating our destination points to our temporary chauffeurs. We are back in the hotel room. I catch a delayed telecast of Boston's Game 4 victory and wonder if I'll be able to catch any of these games live. I flip through all of the channels, there is an ESPN-affiliated sports station in Korea, but it's focused on Korean sports. I am surprised (and annoyed) there is no channel dedicated to American sports (It's the NBA Finals!!) My inherent American-centric view startles and embarrasses me. I passively watch South Africa's first World Cup match until my eyes become tired...heavy...sealed...
One overwhelming thought from this short first day: I don’t feel like a stranger. Surely I have more difficulty than natives communicating simple thoughts and questions, but I don’t feel foreign. There are plenty of obvious reasons: familiar language, appearance, food. When I combine all of these elements into one, it's a fresh place to explore. But it's almost an internal discovery as much as an external exploration. I'm piecing together and deconstructing, all at once, fundamental influences of my upbringing. Thus, it's new but not unfamiliar.
Day one is complete, and I lie in bed contemplating the present. I am hours, and in some instances, minutes away from relatives. I am an ocean apart from all responsibility; I'm spending less time computing the time back in California. Similar to the physical adjustment our bodies are making to the time difference, my mind and soul are settling into this new place. We've arrived.
