Last year, I returned to Chŏnju, South Korea, for several reasons. One of the weakest reasons was that, in February of 1999, when I said goodbye to my Korean students and friends, some of them had asked me if I would ever return to Korea. I told them, "Maybe, but not for at least 20 years."
A few of them made me promise that I'd return to the city where DW and I lived and taught English, from 1997 to 1999. I said, "I promise."
I also wanted to return because I needed to have a fire lit under my ass to get my novel finished. When I wrote the first book, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, I was also faced with a bit of a writer's block towards finishing it. To give myself a kick, I went to Edinburgh and North Berwick, in Scotland. Not only did recharge myself to finish Songsaengnim, I had supercharged myself with some material for the sequel, Gyeosunim.
For the sequel, I also had an idea for a second timeline, but to accomplish it, I really needed to go back to Korea.
On one of the days that I spent in Chŏnju, I had returned to the university where I taught in 1998 and I also wandered the streets where I and fellow ex-pats went on Friday nights to let our hair down.
That day left me full of emotion that I knew I had to capture for my novel. The following passage is a small excerpt from a chapter that covers that day. For those of you following along on Google Maps (seriously, is anyone really doing that??), Roland is wandering the streets in the Deokjindong neighbourhood of Jeonju-si, between Girin-daero and Gwonsamdeok-ro, and Myeongnyum 4-gil and Myeongnyum 2-gil (added bonus: if you go to Google Maps streetview, you'll see Café Charles' B on the tight corner—that's where TwoBeOne used to be; halfway between Myeongnyum 4-gil and Myeongnyum 3-gil, on the west side, you can see sloped windows on the second floor of a building—that used to be Urban Bar).
***
The street looked the same. Narrow, with room for only one car to pass through, making the pedestrians stand aside, lest they be run over. Above, telephone and electrical wires stretched down the road, the poles on each corner so overrun with thick, black wires that they threatened to topple. Multi-coloured signs advertised everything from food to billiards, to barbers, to beauty salons, to bars. All within a short walking distance of a university campus.
As much as the neighbourhood streets looked the same, many facades had changed. I walked a few more blocks, down to where TwoBeOne had resided, and the outside of the building was so unrecognizable that I wasn’t sure that this was the same building. Where there was once a dimly lit entrance that led straight down a flight of stairs to an underground bar, large, bright windows extended around the entire corner of a café and down the other side. A large door was right in the corner, to which the sharp angle had been cut. This business was in its final stages of construction and was not yet open to the public.
Walking down the main roadway that connected Girin-daero to the old gate of Chŏnbuk National University, many transformations had occurred over the past twenty years. Traffic-calming measures had been put in place such that the road now meandered around extended curbs and parking slots. SE was no longer around; in fact, the building itself had been demolished and a much larger, six-storey building had been put in place of several. But even this building looked like it was undergoing a transformation, as the first floor and others seemed vacant. The dirtied outline of a KFC sign showed that the main level had been a fast-food restaurant, but it was now long-gone. I only recognized two shops along this strip. A stationery store, kitty-corner to where SE had once stood, seemed to defy the changes of time. The sign above its doors had been updated but when I saw customers enter and leave the store, I could see inside and notice that the layout hadn’t changed much.
Closer to the university gates, the Baskin-Robbins still stood. Only the ice-cream company’s logo had kept up with the times. I tried to find the building that used to house the Internet café where Brad and I would often meet, but that entire block was gone. All of the buildings along that strip used to back onto a narrow alleyway, which bordered on the wall of the university. With that strip of buildings gone, the alley was expanded into a major roadway.
I walked down to Girin-daero and was impressed to see one familiar business, still open. I was reminded of my first visit to Kim’s Hair, a salon that one of my hagwon students, Mi-gyoung, had taken me to. It was about a month or so into my contract with Kwon, when I was still getting to know Chŏnju. Mi-gyoung had met with me, for lunch, to ask me if I would teach one of her friend’s sons, privately. After lunch, Mi-gyoung took me to Kim’s Hair, where the stylist gave me a flawless Korean hair style. I learned at the appointment that one of the stylists, one who had assisted my stylist, was related to Su-ah. An evening out on the town was arranged later that week.
I crossed Girin-daero through the underground passageway and entered the building to Kim’s Hair, which was on the second floor. Was it possible that anyone would remember me? Climbing the stairs, I was reminded again of that first hair cut. As we headed down the stairs, Mi-gyoung had stopped me on the landing and kissed me. As beautiful as she was, I resisted for many reasons: she was my student; she was married; and I was still feeling the recovery of the loss of Kristen. Though she had been gone for nearly two years, I hadn’t even thought about being with another woman.
As I neared the top of the stairs, I could hear a hair dryer running and lots of animated chatter. My heart began to beat faster, both from the excitement and fear of reacquainting myself with my old hair stylist. At my first appointment, Mi-gyoung had acted as a translator. At subsequent appointments, I could only greet my stylist, sit in the chair, let him do his work, and then thank him as I paid him. He spoke no English, nor did any of the other staff. If he was still managing this shop, would we be able to communicate?
I walked in and all heads turned toward me. The hair dryer switched off and all conversations came to an abrupt end. The stylist who had been operating the dryer was in her forties. She was possibly old enough to have been one of the employees from twenty years ago but I didn’t recognize her. The other employees, all in their twenties, were obviously not around when I last had my hair cut.
"Oso-oshipshiyo,” the woman, possibly the manager said. Welcome.
"Annyong-haseyo, je ileum-eun Rolan-duh ibnida.” I paused, wondering if the woman would recognize me or my name. She didn’t seem to, so I added, “Hwan Tae-Pyung Yang Wae Guk-ah Hagwon?” I hoped that the name of my old hagwon would ring a bell.
Nothing.
"Mian-habnida,” I said, and backed out. I’m sorry.
The faint glimmer that I would be remembered had been fully extinguished. I was sorry, indeed, but I was only sorry for myself.
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