It was almost exactly 20 years ago that DW and I were packing up the last of our belongings and shipping them back to Canada. The only things we had left in our Chŏnju apartment were the clothes that we needed and would fit into our suitcases, and the items that we were not taking with us.
Our bed, or yo (요), which DW and I had had custom-made and was twice as thick as a traditional mattress that lay on our heated floor, was in excellent condition and had been sold to a fellow teacher. Other teachers who were remaining helped lighten us of our many other comforts—chairs, a toaster oven, coffee press, kettle, TV, washing machine, and more.
Though we hadn't accumulated a lot in our nearly two years in South Korea, we did amass enough to make life more bearable.
Our friends who were remaining took us out to say goodbye. They were work colleagues, students, and Korean friends that we had met during our stay. They were the people who made it hard to say goodbye.
A few of my students and Korean friends asked me if DW and I would ever return. At the time, I was anxious to leave, to get back to Canada. I was fatigued by the job, by the misadventures, by growing anti-Western sentiment that some Koreans felt by the economic crisis and the International Monetary Fund bailout. None of my students or friends shared that sentiment but there were enough people who made living in Korea uncomfortable.
And, of course, there was the stress of living in a society whose culture and traditions were so different and at times contradicted your own beliefs and values.
So when I was asked the question, I had to pause and think: would I really return?
I looked at the bright, smiling faces of those who mattered to me. And it made me remember the other Koreans, the total strangers who showed DW and me such kindness and generosity.
There was the man in Seoul, who, seeing DW and me standing on a street corner, having just arrived in the city for the first time since we flew in and were met at the airport, saw us now trying to decipher a map and gather our bearings, asked us in broken English where we were headed.
We wanted to find the nearest subway line that would take us to Hannam-Dong, a neighbourhood on the north side of the Han River, where our friend from the Canadian embassy would be living, later that summer. She had asked if we could find the house, take photos, and report on the neighbourhood.
The kind, middle-aged man led us down the street, past the bus terminal, and into an underground shopping mall. We walked for what seemed like several street blocks, turning corners and taking escalators further underground. At each turn, he was careful to point out stores and other indicators, to show us what to look for on our return to the bus station.
Commercial bread crumbs, as it were.
We reached the entrance to the subway and the man showed us where we could purchase our tickets from a machine. On an affixed map, he pointed out our station, the Express Bus Terminal, and then pointed to another station, Oksu. "Get off here," he said, then pointed to another rail line. "Go here." He pointed to the first station on the second line, Hannam.
We thanked him, but without so much as a pause, he inserted coin into the machine, producing two tickets. I tried to offer him money of my own but he was having none of it.
"Kamsa-habnida," I said, bowing, thank you very much.
He bowed in return and then headed back toward the surface. He had taken us perhaps 15 minutes out of his way. But with his help, he got us exactly where we needed to be.
There was the Good Samaritan in Cheju, who saw two Westerners stranded on the side of a road, where their bus had broken down. DW and I were heading to the trailhead of the semi-tropical island's mountain. He offered a ride to me, my wife, and another Korean passenger, who could speak English and acted as our translator.
Our Samaritan not only drove us to the entrance of the park but also paid for our admission.
I saw these kind people, and many more, as I offered my response to my Korean friends. "Yes," I said, "I'll come back. But not for 20 years." By then, I figured, my animosity toward this country will have subsided.
DW never made the promise and when I asked her to come back with me, she said, "No, I have no need to return. Why do you want to go back? Surely, it's not just to fulfill a promise."
My "yes" was never really a promise. I was entitled to change my mind. I haven't seen most of these people since we left Chŏnju, had only kept in touch with a handful. One group of our friends, a family by the name of Cho, took a cross-Canada tour with a busload of Koreans, and contacted us when they were approaching Ottawa. We spent one evening with them at our home, where they were able to meet our new first-born.
I exchanged letters with one of my students for the first couple of years, and then he stopped writing. I would like to try to find him, if I can.
One of DW's and my dear Korean friends, Kyung-hee, still keeps in touch with us. She visited us for a few weeks in 2000, and periodically pops up on Facebook. I've let her know that I'm returning but so far have had no response.
So, if there's no one to meet with me when I arrive, why am I going?
The answer is simple: I'm returning because I need to go back. I'm convinced that if I don't return to Korea, my future as a novelist is over.
It took me more than 10 years to write Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. In late 1999, as DW and I were establishing ourselves with new careers and were buying our first home, I started thinking of chronicling our adventures in Korea. The economic turmoil, our failing hagwon (learning institute), my abduction, our travels through East Asia, could write itself, I thought.
Of course, with a new career, new home, and babies on the way, writing the novel always took a back seat. It wasn't until the kids got a bit older that I found more time to work, but it took going to Scotland, in 2010, to really get me motivated.
In my pursuit to make Roland Axam as believable a character as I could, I found his North Berwick home, his routines, his sister's Edinburgh home, and the places that he knew so well. Not only did my Scottish trip help me finish Songsaengnim, it gave me loads of material for the sequel, Gyeosunim.
Last year, I told myself that I was going to focus a lot of my free time to writing this much-delayed continuation of my first novel. (Maybe, in retrospect, I should have taken a bit more time and combined both parts of Roland Axam's story into one book.) But like the first novel, the second novel has had a few restarts, taking it in different directions.
Last summer, I started writing new material but would rewrite and then rewrite it again. By the fall, writing stopped altogether.
If going to Scotland could get me to finish the first novel, I'm hoping that a trip to Korea will recharge my creative batteries and get me to finish the second novel.
When DW asked me why I felt the need to return to Chŏnju, I told her it was the same reason why I felt a strong desire to go back to Scotland (I had first been there in 1988, when I first created Roland and needed to see where he came from—apart from my imagination).
After I answered her, I started thinking. Korea has changed a lot in the past 20 years. Even wandering the streets of Chŏnju, virtually, with Google Maps street view, I got lost a couple of times. I was still able to find my old hagwon, the palace, city hall, and the Gaeksa (an ancient government building that is a central meeting landmark), but some streets eluded me.
Thinking from a different perspective, I asked DW, "Why do you think Roland Axam would want to return to Korea?"
"He wouldn't," was her answer. Even though she has only ever read some rough drafts of chapters, but never the full, published version of Songsaengnim, DW feels she knows my fictional character. "He has no reason to return. Did he marry a Korean?"
"No," I said, though the end of my sequel has never even been drafted. To date, not even I know how the story ends.
"Is he looking for someone?"
"After 20 years? No."
"Then Roland Axam never returns to Korea." Her statement sounded so final, I could almost hear a heavy wooden door slamming shut in a large, empty room.
"What if Roland is the author of the book? I've written it in first person, after all." Indeed, Roland tells the story in Songsaengnim. In my latest iteration of Gyeosunim, I have changed the voice to third-person prose, but I haven't yet sold myself on this approach.
I began thinking aloud, using DW as a sounding board: "Roland, after realizing that it's been 20 years since he was in Korea, decides he's going to write a novel about his experience, about how it helped him get through a very dark chapter in his life. But he's forgotten so much about the specifics of his time there that he has to go back."
"Would he be writing about the Korea of 2019 as well or is he only narrating his time from 1997 to 1999?"
"Good question." I could see the prologue start to take shape, anticipating my own return in May:
It's late at night. Roland stands at his hotel window, high above Seoul's downtown streets, looking toward the south. Other tall buildings, ones that weren't there two decades before, try to obstruct his view but he can easily see Namsan Tower, blinking on a nearby hillside. It was the first landmark he ever saw, first arriving in Seoul, in early 1997. Below and much closer to him, in a traffic convergence that he could just make out between two buildings, was the brightly illuminated Sungnyemun, also known as Namdaemun Gate.I've started writing notes, started planning. While I'll be the one making the physical journey, it just may be Roland Axam returning to South Korea.
This wasn't exactly the same ancient city gate that Roland saw on his last night in Seoul, in 1999, before he caught his flight to Vancouver, and then on to Ottawa. In 2008, a fire, caused by an arsonist, devastated the wooden superstructure. This restored version was only six years old and was already showing signs of aging.
He would have to see the gate up close, tomorrow, he told himself. But for now, the nearly 24-hour journey that started in North Berwick was starting to weigh heavily on his 54-year-old body, and the nearby bed was his irresistible Siren...
Either way, a story will be written.
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