Alone

It was a day I had built in my head for months. In my mind, I retraced steps through the halls, of the students gathered outside of classrooms or scurrying to get to another building. I could see my secretary in the Korean teacher's office: a teacher on break, reading a newspaper, another catching a nap between classes.

Across the hall, a much bigger room, for the foreign teachers. A lounge area, with sofas and a television, which almost always was tuned to either CNN or Star TV. We either captured news or a British drama. During FIFA World Cup 1998, the TV showed every game, or at least the highlights.

Beyond the teachers lounge, occupying the remaining two-thirds of this room, was the teachers' office. We each had our own desk, and rows of lockers held our supplies and personal belongings.

When we weren't teaching, this was our sanctuary.

I took the bus on Paltal-ro, two blocks from my Hanok Village Airbnb, just north of Jeondong Catholic Church and the south gate, Pungnammun. According to Google Maps, the trip would take 33 minutes but in truth, took less time than that.

As we got further from the old part of the city, which has barely changed in the past 20 years (save for the revamped old village), I could see that some development had gone on in neighbourhoods near where I lived when I worked at Jeonju University, but only slightly. The ice rink in Hyoja-dong, which used to house a Dairy Queen, was gone, replaced a new towering apartment complex that dwarfed its neighbouring apartment buildings, where my former student, Mr. Lee, lived.

Or used to live. I don't know. I haven't been able to reach out to anyone.

In 1998, where the southern fork of the Chŏnju river flowed, a field of rice patties stretched for kilometres, interrupted only by the hills that lifted up and were home to a high school and Jeonju University. Today, there is no evidence of those fields. A new neighbourhood, Morning City, houses skyscrapers and European-design-influenced houses. As I wrote a few months ago, the main entrance to Jeonju University has been relocated. Had I not studied it on Google Maps before coming, I may not have found it.

This is what I had been looking forward to. To returning to the last place I taught in Korea. I had no illusions about finding any foreign teachers, though two of the people I worked with had been at the university for 10 years before I arrived and at the time, they had no intention of leaving. Korea was now their home.

I worked with a Korean, who also taught English and shared the same office space. Chung Chul-hwan, who also acted as liaison for the foreign teachers, translating for us when needed.

I needed him, badly, one week, but that's another story.

As I walked up the main road on campus, I saw a new building that seemed to dwarf all other buildings on campus. I didn't have my bearings, but knew that if I followed this road, I would surely find a building that I recognized.

It didn't take long. Beyond the massive building was a long, sleek building that was only five stories tall. A name was placed on its end and, while it wasn't there 20 years ago, all of the teachers knew the name of our foreign languages building.

Truth Building.

Though I was recording my walk with my 360-degree camera, I now turned it off. I didn't want to seem intrusive, didn't want to risk capturing any student's face.

So much had changed on campus. Was this still the foreign languages building? I saw a group of students heading to the central doors, and I approached them: "Excuse me," I said in Hangul, "do you speak English?"

One young man turned to me and said, "No, not much," in English. He turned to one of his friends and introduced me. His friend was more fluent.

I asked if this was the foreign languages department. "Ah," he said, "English Education?"

"English languages," was my response.

"This is Education building," he said. "Are you looking for English Education?"

I pointed to the central doors and then indicated a left turn. "At the end of that hall?"

"Yes, education administration," he said.

"Are you free? Can you show me?"

He and his companions conversed quickly in Hangul. I got the sense that some had to go to class, and as we entered the building, my hunch was correct as half the group split off and went upstairs. The English-speaking student and a young woman escorted me down the hall with which I was familiar. The hallway hadn't changed. I had taught two classes in rooms between the middle foyer and the far end, where my old office lay. We passed one open door, and the partitioned desks remained. I had gone back in time.

But that feeling ended when we came to two doors: in '98, the one on the left was a small study room, in which students could use equipment to play audio recordings in various languages. The door on the right, which was once solid but now had a window, led into the area of the teachers' office, where our desks were. In my time, that door was always locked because we preferred to have students enter our space through the lounge area, where a door was opposite the Korean teacher's lounge.

Looking through the door, I could see several Korean students, socializing or checking their smartphones.

"That used to be my office," I told my escorts.

"That is now student lounge," the English-speaking student said.

We went through the door on the left. Inside, a vast space extended into where the Korean teachers' lounge had been. A long counter ran the length, behind which sat several Korean women who were answering phones, working at computer terminals (in 1998, we had two computers in our office, which were shared among all of the English teachers), or talking to one another. Over their heads, small signs hung to indicate the disciplines for which they were experts: Engineering Education, Teaching Education, Culinary Education, English Education.

My English-speaking friend approached the counter in front of the English Education sign and explained, in Korean, what I was looking for. I pulled my old employee card from my pocket, and showed it to her as I heard what I understood was that I used to teach here.

"Yes, I can help," the receptionist said in perfect English. My escorts bowed to me, I thanked them, and they left.

"I'm looking for where the English teachers are situated," I said.

"English Education?"

"No, English Language."

"This is the Education department."

"Yes, I understand," I replied. "Does the university teach English-language classes? Do you have foreigners teaching here?"

"I'm not sure."

"You don't teach students how to speak English?" I thought of the students who I had approached. There had been six of them and only one spoke some English. In 1998, the opposite would have been said: maybe only one student in the group wouldn't have spoken English. In all disciplines that the university offered, English was a mandatory course for nearly all of them. Most of my classes were a mix of disciplines.

Chul-hwan taught English grammar in our department. He was only a couple of years older than me: if he still taught here, he would likely be well-known.

I gave his name. The woman shook her head. "No, sorry. Twenty years is a long time."

"It is, I admit." How many jobs have I had in the past 20 years? Nothing is forever, these days. Not even in Chonju.

The woman was still holding my ID card and looked at it again, paying closer attention. "Wow," she said, "you were handsome."

Were. Ouch.

"I used to also teach in the library building," I said, pointing in its direction, "up on the hill."

"That's not a library anymore," she said. "Our new library is that way." She indicated the opposite direction, toward the giant building that I passed on my way in from the entrance.

"Aye go," I said, the Korean equivalent to oh my gosh.

"What is it you would like to do?" she asked.

"I was hoping to explore the campus, to see the places where I used to teach."

"You can go in the library building," she said.

"I think I will. Thanks." I gestured across the hall. "That room used to be the foreign teachers' office."

"It's now the students' lounge."

"I know. Thank you for your help."

She handed back my ID card and I bowed, bidding her a good day.

I didn't need to see the rest of the Truth Building. My office was gone, and a classroom is a classroom. I have memories of particular students and of a couple of lessons, but I didn't need to see the actual rooms. There was a stairwell beyond my former office and a doorway out of the building. I would always exit this way to get to the library building.

The road climbed upwards from the Truth Building until it got to the base of another hill upon which the former library building stood. The roadway up to the top was incredibly steep and on this hot, sunny day, I was panting as I reached the top.

I dreaded ascending it even back then, though I didn't break the same sweat.

The building, a massive slab of concrete shaped like an ancient Greek structure, with towering columns and a peaked roof, hadn't changed a bit from the outside. But inside, the foyer seemed brighter, with glass walls that opened it up. Large video screens added to the illumination.

I walked through the foyer and climbed the set of stairs at the back. The large windows in the stairwell still showed the rest of the hill as it continued to climb. I made it to the second floor, where there is another foyer that leads out to where the columns start and where open, concrete balconies give a commanding view of the campus and the city in the distance.

The cityscape, with the skyscrapers that are closer, is not the view that I remember.

I left the building and made my way off the campus, taking the route that used to be the old main entrance. Apart for more campus buildings and a modern gate over the entrance, the roadway hadn't changed.

I caught a bus that would take me to the Gaeksa, the ancient guest house, and later to the off-campus area of Chŏnbuk National University.

Again, buildings had changed, roads had been widened, and when I looked for all of my old ex-pat haunts, nothing remained.

The building that housed Urban Bar was still there, but was now called Have a Good Table.

The sloped windows of the former Urban Bar.

I made my way to Kim's Hair, which looked the same from the outside and little-changed on the inside. But the staff was completely new and I felt awkward walking in, looking around, apologizing for the interruption, and walking out.

It was at this moment that I realized I was alone. Not just by myself, but on my own, a person in Chŏnju from another time. A time that is gone.

I realized that I hadn't seen any other foreigners in the entire time that I have been in this city. Where were all the other waeguks? I felt as though I didn't belong here anymore. And, for an hour or so, I felt incredibly sad.

But, in fact, that was a good thing. I thought about my main character, Roland, and how he must have felt when he returned to this city for a second year of teaching. He was coming back to a city where he knew the streets, knew where he could find a good meal. But the people that he knew in the first year were gone. He was back to square one.

Throughout my past time in Chŏnju, I had DW. I was never alone. Roland was. And now, having experienced this city, alone, I can now get into his headspace as he begins teaching at the university.

My mission in South Korea is accomplished.