Friday Fiction: First Day

The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that there are spoilers in this post.

Wednesday, March 4, 1998

Raymond and Ashley had filled in for me over my two-day absence, though they admitted that there wasn’t much for them to do. It took almost all of the time to take attendance and then explain that they weren’t my students’ teachers. They practiced some exercises at the beginning of the students’ exercise books, which were, to my disappointment, the Side by Side books that I had fought to replace at the hagwon. Lots of repetition, lots of narrow fill-in-the-blank responses, and little room for expansion. When I was promoted at the hagwon to lead the other teachers, and with the help of Tanya, we procured better books that drew in our students’ interests.

There was little chance that I could persuade the university to update its choice of books.

Raymond and Ashley also had assigned a seating order to the students that corresponded to the attendance list. They said it was easier to keep track of the students and to also force them to pay attention, rather than sitting beside friends and becoming distracted.

My first class was a short walk down the hall from my office and faced south, letting so much sunshine come through the windows that the overhead lights were not necessary. The students were seated in rows at tables that accommodated five students each. An aisle ran down the centre of the room. A Plexiglas partition separated each student and I could see headphone jacks and volume controls built into the surface in front of each seat. This room was used for listening to languages but we wouldn’t be using any equipment in this course.

My desk, at the head of the room, was situated on a stage that was about a foot above the floor, giving me a clear view of everyone.

“Annyong-haseyo,” I said as I entered the room and stepped onto the stage, for which I received a round of oohs and ahs.

One student, a young man in a white button-up shirt and grey slacks, stood up and said, “Teacher, Hangul excellent,” and several other students echoed, “excellent.”

“Gomap-subnida,” I said, just to stir them up further. I knew that over the past year, my pronunciation was getting better. Some of my private students would help me sharpen my tongue during some breaks of me teaching them English.

I took off my jacket and set it over the chair at my desk. I then walked to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote my name in large letters. “My name is Roland Axam. You can call me ‘Roland’ or ‘Songsaengnim.’”

“Gyeosunim,” said a young woman in the front row, though she said it timidly and as soon as I looked at her, she put her hands over her face. Her yellow t-shirt was emblazoned with Mademoiselle S. Tomboy.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

The timid woman lowered her head but the student who had praised my pronunciation stood again and spoke up. “She said ‘Gyeosunim,’ not Songsaengnim. You are professor.”

“Gyeosunim means professor?”

“Yes.” The student sat down.

“Okay, thank you. Please call me Gyeosunim Roland.” I received a round of giggles from the whole class, and I joined them. It seemed to make them more comfortable at seeing me smile. “Let’s continue,” I said, trying to bring the room back in control. I wanted to let them know that I could smile but that I was also serious about teaching them. “My name is Roland and I am 34 years old.” My birthday was tomorrow, but close enough. “I was born in Scotland but I live in Canada. I have one sister but no brothers.” To illustrate what I said, I wrote ‘34’ beside my name on the blackboard. Underneath, I wrote ‘Scotland,’ drew an arrow, next to which I wrote ‘Canada.’ Under this, I wrote ‘sister = 1’ and ‘brother = 0.’

“I know all of you live in Chŏnju, yes?” I received resounding nods from the room. “I want you to tell me your names, how old you are, and if you have any brothers or sisters, okay?” I picked up the attendance list and pointed to the first student, who stood up to be heard over the Plexiglas.

“I am Bak Hae-sung,” she said, “I am nineteen years old. I have one brother and one sister.” She sat down and I marked her on my list. I then pointed to the student next to her. She looked identical to Hae-sung and I immediately recognized her as a twin. I had never seen twin Koreans before.

“I am Bak Su-hee. I am nineteen years old. I have one sister and one brother.”

“Surprise surprise,” I said, placing a check mark next to her name. We went through the whole list and I was impressed with the clear pronunciation of each student. Ashley had told me that some of my students were in the English programme and were very keen, and I realized that this was one of those classes. When every student had introduced themselves, we still had about fifteen minutes left, so I picked up my copy of the Side by Side book and asked the class which page they had last looked at. Again, it was my eager student, who I now knew as Kim Jung-eun, who spoke up.

“Gyeosunim Lolan-duh, we only practiced pages 1 and 2. We are ready for page 3.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” I said, consulting the attendance list, “Can I call you Jung-eun?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.” He sat back down.

I turned to page 3 and saw it was an exercise in adjectives. I quickly deemed that this exercise was too easy for this class, but most of my classes were using this book—no doubt, following the same exercise at the same time. I had the feeling that the book was chosen to challenge some of my students, but clearly it was not going to be a challenge for this class. It would be up to me to provide the challenge by deviating from the book or by calling on the students to provide examples outside of what was printed in the book.

The adjectives on the page were accompanied by illustrations, to which the students had to apply the correct adjective. The first example showed two vehicles: a small red car and a large blue truck. The prompts read The car is _____ and ___. The truck is _____ and ____.

Disappointing.

I called on one of the students at the back of the room. He answered without hesitation. “The car is small and red. The truck is large and blue.”

“Excellent,” I said.

I saw the next example. It depicted an aged woman and a young woman. I looked around the room and I spied a beautiful young woman staring at me. I noted her location and then found her name on the attendance record. “Yi Shin-hye, can you read the next one, please?”

She smiled and stood up. She was wearing a floral-patterned dress that complemented her slim, curved figure. The dress was cut above the knees. It was then that I noticed that the young woman in the illustration was similarly dressed. Not identically, of course, but the patterned dress was also short, revealing slim, shapely legs. Like Shin-hye, the woman had long brown hair.

“The woman is old and ugly,” said Shin-hye, “the girl is young and pretty.”

“Look,” I said, “that girl is you.” The other students saw the similarity and began to laugh.

Shin-hye blushed. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Of course,” I said, “you’re beautiful.” More laughter came from the other students, but Shin-hye just stared at me, smiled, and sat back down. I immediately regretted my words. I didn’t want to appear to play favourites and I certainly didn’t want to seem like the creepy old teacher, hitting on his students. I quickly moved on to the next example and another student. I didn’t want to look over to Shin-hye. I could see, in my peripheral view, that she was still looking at me.

***

I had six classes each day. Two of my classes were with advanced students and we went through the exercises in the Side by Side book easily. I did not make the same mistake of choosing a pretty young woman to use those adjectives; instead, I chose a male student to work through that example. Two of my other classes held students of average to slightly below-average English abilities. One of my classes—the last class of the day—included students of a widely mixed level of proficiency. These were students that were taking night classes because they either held day jobs, had failed this course before and had to pass it in order to graduate, or were here simply for interest. Some of these students wanted to be in this class, and paid attention: others didn’t want to be here but had no choice. I found myself battling some to keep off their mobile phones and others from talking to one another, rather than focusing on the lesson.

One of my favourite classes, held late in the afternoon, before dinner, and in the third floor of the library building was an adult class that used a different book, one with which I was familiar: Let’s Talk. It was the same book that I had used in my early morning class at the hagwon. Together, we would read an article that covered a controversial topic, such as trades versus professions, or about capital punishment, or mixed marriages. The class comprised older students and adults and was an ungraded class. No attendance was required, other than to determine that the student was registered for the course, and there would be no exams. An added treat was that a student from my old hagwon, Pak Jae-hyun, was in this class. When we saw each other, we greeted one another like old friends, even though, as a previous student, we had kept our relationship at the hagwon professional.

“I’m sorry about what happened at the hagwon,” said Jae-hyun.

“Me too,” I said, “The drop in the value of the won hurt a lot of businesses.” This became our topic of discussion for the first class: how the economic collapse had affected the students. One of my adult students, Choi Ji-woo, lost her job at the Core Department Store. I learned that the store was closing. Already, the Pizza Hut on the top floor had pulled out.

“I’m sorry about your job loss,” I said. “Are you looking for another job?”

“No,” said Ji-woo, “my husband says I should stay home. He has a good job.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a doctor. He has a clinic near Chŏnju yuk.”

“You mean the train station,” I said, trying to keep the conversation in English only. I thought of the private student that I would soon be taking over from Jamie. His student was a doctor and owned a clinic across the street from the speed-skating arena, just a few blocks from my apartment. The four-story building held a pharmacy on the first floor, doctor’s offices and small surgery rooms on the second and third floors, and a lavash apartment on the top floor. It was convenient and wouldn’t draw attention as I entered from the pharmacy and made my way to the stairs at the back. Standing and waiting for the elevator would draw onlookers to the foreigner: I would only take the elevator down from the apartment. It also took a special key to gain elevator access to the fourth floor, so taking the stairs up avoided me carrying anything that could tie me to the doctor and his family.

The first day went quickly but by the end, I was exhausted. It was only 8:00 but all I wanted to do, after locking up the office, was to get back to the apartment. There was a bus, just outside the university campus, that would get me to my new neighbourhood within half an hour but I didn’t want to wait for one to come. Instead, I hailed a taxi and was in my unit within ten minutes.

In my apartment and changed into jeans and a t-shirt, I felt more like myself. A suit was mandatory attire for teachers but I found that, even with my custom-tailored suits, the ones that Brad and I had had made a few months ago, I felt too stuffy. Even in March, where the temperature still dipped to single digits on the Celsius scale.

I grabbed a bottle of Hite from my refrigerator and sat on my yo, which was folded like a frameless sofa. The room was too big for my scant furniture, even when I unfolded the yo for bed. I had a small table that had folding legs, which was leaning against the far wall, next to my makeshift music stand. I would have to buy a TV, I told myself. It was the best way to improve my Korean. I took a swig of my beer and surveyed the rest of the apartment, determining what else I needed.

A washing machine, for one, could fit on my balcony. In fact, both Ashley and Raymond had their own washers and the balconies were rigged with hot and cold water faucets. There was a communal washer on the top floor, but it was old and seemed to always be running with other tenants' laundry. I would have to make a trip to Nambu Market on the weekend.

“You’ll have this place looking like home in no time.” The voice belonged to Kristen. She was sitting on the opposite end of the yo.

“This apartment will never be home,” I said. “Korea will never be home.”

“Home is where you make it, my love.”

“Home was with you and Laura Elizabeth. I haven’t had a home in years.”

Kristen rose from the yo and made her way to where the framed photos of her and our daughter stood. The small stoppered vial of their ashes, resting on its side, lay in front of the photos. “We’re here,” she said.

“And here,” I said, placing my hand on my heart. “Why do I only see you? Why do I not see Laura or Da’?”

“You see Laura Elizabeth in me. Though you don’t see her the same way. But think about it: when you talk to me, do you not also feel our daughter’s presence?”

“I do,” I admitted, though what I wouldn't give to have come back to the apartment, opened the door, and heard the pitter-patter of little feet and the gleeful cheer of ‘Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!’ “And what about Dad?”

“You might not see him, but you hear him every time you make a decision for which your father had advice. Iain’s lessons are what make you who you are, Roland.”

She was right. They were all there with me, even though I could only visualize Kristen.

The sound of soft guitar drifted in from somewhere the hallway. The small window near my kitchenette was open, as was the balcony door, allowing for a cool crossbreeze. Someone in one of the other units was playing the guitar. I didn’t recognize the tune but it was relaxing.

“Why don’t you go and see who that is,” said Kristen, still crouched by the photographs.

“I’d rather stay here with you.”

“I’ll be there, too. Remember, I’m not really here. I’m wherever you are and are thinking of me.”

I got up from the yo and went to the door. I opened it and peered out to the hall. The sound was coming from Russell’s unit. His kitchen window was also slightly open. He stopped playing and I could hear him speak, a woman’s voice joining him in conversation. Quietly, I closed my door and returned to the yo, where Kristen was now sitting.

“He has company,” I explained. “I’ll visit him another time.” I finished my beer and lay across the yo, resting my head in Kristen’s lap. I swore that I could feel her tender fingers running through my hair as I drifted off to sleep.

New Autumn Venues

Typically, when the autumn leaves glow their gold, red, and orange, I grab my camera gear and head up to the Gatineau Hills to try to do justice to the beauty that beams in the woods, around the lakes, and below the lookouts.

This year, with COVID-19 still going strong, I've opted to stay in my own province. Gatineau, this season, is in a pandemic red zone, and despite this classification thousands are still flocking to the trails to take in the colourful leaves.

No thanks.

Actually, I haven't gotten out much, but when I have taken my cameras out to photograph fall, I've headed to where I have plenty of private space. A friend, who has a farm out toward Plantagenet, has several acres of colourful woodland to capture with a lens. If you follow me on Instagram, you've seen many images that I've captured over the months and, lately, with the changing leaves.

But DW and I have also wanted to take in nature like we're used to in the Gatineau Hills, so a few weeks ago we ventured an hour northwest of Ottawa, just past the village of Calabogie, and hit the Manitou Mountain Trail and the Eagle's Nest Lookout.

When we first arrived, we were a bit nervous, as dozens of cars filled the small parking lots and along Calabogie Road. We feared that the trail and lookout would be overrun with like-minded hikers. I was ready to turn our vehicle around and head back to the city.

There are two paths that lead to the Eagle's Nest Lookout. An abandoned logging road offers an easy walk up a gentle slope before you hike a steeper slope up to the lookout. A second path, which seems to follow the cliff that is the lookout, starts steep for a couple of hundred metres, until you're along the cliff. You then follow the cliff, weaving around trees, until you come to the open lookout.

When DW and I arrived, there were only a few people on the steep path, so we took it as we headed into the trail. We were both huffing and puffing when we reached the clifftop, but an easier walk allowed us to catch our breaths as we periodically stopped to take photos.

By the time we reached the lookout, there were several people but not so many that we were unable to maintain a safe distance. We spent about 10 minutes or so, taking in the view, before we headed out.

Going out, we took the old logging road. We saw more people than we had on our ascent but the roadway is wide enough that you can pass people without getting close.

We loved this trail and will visit it again some day.

But these are not the only spots that DW and I have visited to enjoy the changing colours of autumn. Right in the city, along the Ottawa River, is a lake that is home to various species of ducks, birds, and other wildlife. Mud Lake is in the village of Britannia, between the yacht club and the water treatment facility. Several trails circle the lake, and while some of the pathways are too narrow for social distancing, we rarely encountered people coming from the opposite direction. And when we did encounter them, we could step off the path and allow them to pass.

Though it wasn't my first time to Mud Lake, it was my first time walking the trails. It won't be my last time.

This pandemic may have kept me from visiting Gatineau Park this autumn, but the silver lining led me to find equally beautiful venues on my side of the Ottawa River.

Wordless Wednesday: Autumn at Mud Lake

Kitty Shenanigans

For more than a week, now, we've been keeping our new kittens separated from our two cats, to get our older housemates used to the smell of new residents and, more importantly, ensure that the kittens don't bring any health issues into the house. And while the older cats seem okay, knowing they aren't the only felines in our home, we're still maintaining a safe distance between them.

Still, we couldn't help but show the kittens another part of the house.

The other day, we brought the kittens, Finn and Cece, into our home office, with the door closed and watching them closely, to make sure that they didn't crawl into crevices in which it would be hard to retrieve them, and to ensure that they didn't chew or become entangled in the cables for our computers, which we still haven't tied up and out of the way.

As they played, I thought it would be fun to set up one of my 360-degree cameras to record the action. I made three very short videos (less than 20 seconds, each), experimenting with freeze-frame and slow-motion time lapses. I was shooting at 50 frames per second, which was really too slow for the freeze-frame effect, but the blur, I think, accentuates the speed at which these quick-footed creatures move.

Here's the freeze-frame video:

For the next two videos, I simply slowed the speed to one-quarter, without using the freeze-frame mode, and I think they look better. The next video shows Cece attacking a toy mouse.

Finally, in the heat of their play, Cece attacked the camera, tackling it to the ground. Because she got so close to the camera and move to the side of it, part of her face disappears from the video footage. (No kitten was hurt in the making of this video.)

These kittens are a lot of fun and I'm going to capture more of their shenanigans in the future.

The Other Side

Many of us were outraged, last week, when we learned of the judges decision in the case of the wrongful death of Abdirahman Abdi against Ottawa Police Services Constable Daniel Montsion. It was a long and heart-wrenching trial, and the pain of Abdi's family was exacerbated when Ontario Court Justice Robert Kelly delivered his verdict and acquitted Montsion of all charges.

Like so many people, I saw the video footage of Montsion striking Abdi as he lay on the ground outside his apartment building. I learned of the reinforced gloves that Montsion wore as he dealt his forceful blow. And like those who saw this evidence, I was outraged and delivered my angered verdict of guilty.

Yet another cop getting away with killing a person of colour.

And then, over the weekend, DW showed me an opinion piece that a friend of hers shared over Facebook. The person who wrote the opinion urged readers to do their own research, and so I did.

There's another side to the story.

By looking at previously published stories in various news sites, here's what I gleaned as facts in the overall case.

• Abdirahman Abdi was a man with mental health issues.
• Abdi had a pre-existing heart condition that could prove fatal with extreme exertion.
• Abdi had been given medication to help deal with his issues but he had stopped taking them.
• Abdi sexually assaulted at least two women.
• Police were called and were informed that a man had assaulted these women, and the police sent an officer to investigate.
• A police officer arrived on the scene and tried to place Abdi under arrest.
• Abdi resisted the arrest, assaulted the police officer, and attempted to escape. (It was noted that Abdi was a large man and exhibited strength: the police officer deemed that he would not be able to apprehend Abdi alone, and he requested backup.)
• Abdi, in his flight from the police officer, obtained a 30-pound object from a construction site and wielded it at the officer. Abdi now had a weapon.
• As Abdi neared an apartment building, the police officer had closed on Abdi and was able to push him, which resulted in Abdi dropping the weapon and falling to the ground. It was around this time that Constable Montsion arrived on the scene as the backup.
• Abdi continued to resist. A baton was used and video shows Montsion striking Abdi, who was now standing. The blows landed on the muscular part of Abdi's legs as an attempt to get Abdi on the ground (the police repeatedly ordered him to get down).
• Abdi continued to resist and was struck by Montsion, who was wearing reinforced gloves as part of his uniform.
• As soon as Abdi was subdued and handcuffed, neither officer struck Abdi again.
• When Abdi became unresponsive, the officers called for paramedics and began to perform CPR on Abdi until medical help arrived.
• Abdi died and the coroner ruled that the cause was heart failure. The blows inflicted by Montsion were not a direct cause of Abdi's death.

As the author of the opinion piece that I read suggested, do your own research.

Public opinion immediately condemned Montsion, based largely on the short video that was shared through multiple media outlets, plus with reports of the protective gear that was worn. I am among those who jumped to conclusions: another person of colour dies at the hands of police.

But we seem to dismiss the actions that Abdi's took that day:

• If Abdi had taken his prescribed medication that day, he might still be alive today.
• If Abdi hadn't assaulted those women—who were the victims that day—he might still be alive.
• If Abdi hadn't resisted the police officer, he might still be alive.
• If Abdi hadn't assaulted the police officer, he might still be alive.
• If Abdi hadn't wielded a heavy object as a weapon, he might still be alive.
• If Abdi hadn't resisted again, after the second officer arrived, he might still be alive.

These are his actions. Did he deserve to die? Of course not.

But Abdi also had a bad heart—apparently, with an 80-percent blockage. The exertion of this day, of the actions that he took, likely led to his heart giving out.

It should also be noted that according to witness accounts, when the police were called, they were responding to calls of a man sexually assaulting women. When the police arrived, the officer was responding to a sexual assault allegation and was faced with a combative suspect who was attempting to flee.

This weekend, I was presented with the other side to the story of the Abdirahman Abdi case. On further examination of the facts, I see a bigger picture. And as someone who has seen more gruesome abuses of police against people of colour, as a supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement, I found it hard to curb my anger towards the injustices that are carried out by those who are supposed to protect all lives, regardless of the colour of one's skin.

When I saw one side of this story, I was angry at Constable Montsion. I still feel that the gloves he wore that day are inappropriate. When Justice Kelly presented his verdict, I was outraged. I felt that justice was not served—no justice, no peace.

But now that I've looked into the other side of the story, read witness accounts and followed the chronicle of events leading up to Abdi's apprehension, I have to give pause.

Am I missing something? Was Abdi faultless in his apprehension?

I welcome your comments.

Friday Fiction: The Fat Suit

The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that while there are no spoilers, you may be missing some context.

“Bollocks,” said Charles, as we walked along Kurfürstendamm, past the Europa-Centre and the remains of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, the ruined spire of a once-massive cathedral and all that remained after the bombing and attacks at the end of the Second World War. At mid-afternoon, the sun shone along the shopping centres and expensive shops, while well-dressed citizens went about their business along the wide sidewalks. “Bollocks,” he said again, as though I hadn’t heard him the first time.

“What can we do?” I said, immediately regretting my words. Charles wanted to do something and didn’t need my comments.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he said, “we’re going to be there at Alexanderplatz.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “They want you on the western side of the tunnel to meet with Gunther. It was quite clear that I was forbidden from crossing over to the east.”

“You aren’t an employee of the FIO, you don’t take orders from them. You take orders from me. There’s nothing to prevent you from crossing through Checkpoint Charlie as a tourist, roaming Unter den Linden, and snapping photographs of that blasted radio tower. You brought your camera?”

“As instructed.”

“Good. In three days, I want you to play the tourist. Walk through the allied crossing. Make your way to the rendezvous point. Take lots of photographs. Have lunch and then return the way you came. I doubt that Moore has even thought to put a man on you.” Charles snorted as though remembering an old joke. He stared at me while we walked and I stopped, forcing him to pull up.

“What is it, sir?”

“I want you to wear a disguise.”

“A disguise?”

“Damn it, Axam, pay attention. You’re not my echo.” He started walking again and we crossed the massive, double-boulevards of the Ku’damm and Joachimsthaler Strasse. The crowds on the pedestrian crosswalks made it feel that I was in New York City, minus the highrise buildings. It was a cosmopolitan neighbourhood but still screamed that it was European. Charles remained silent as we crossed the intersection. When we were across the street, he reached into his pocket and produced a UK passport, which he placed in my hands. “Can you make yourself look like this?”

I opened the passport and turned to the page with a photograph. It was me, but doctored. The photograph showed my face but it had a thin beard and moustache covering it. My hair was longer and was a shaggy mess. A pair of glasses sat in front of my eyes, though my vision was perfect. “How did you… ”

“We have people who can do this, Axam. I had this made up as soon as Sir Harold summoned me here. Right away I wanted you to come with me, but as a precaution, in case you and I crossed into East Berlin, I wanted your true identity kept a secret.” He held out his hand and I passed the passport back to him. “There’s more to the disguise than glasses and facial hair.”

“I can’t grow a beard in three days.”

“You’ve already begun to grow it,” he said. “Let’s see how you do with four-days growth, shall we?”

“And what was that about there being more to the disguise?”

“Ah! I’ve had a package delivered to your hotel. Keep it safe.”

We stopped in front of a hotel, and Charles stepped toward the curb, where a black limousine was waiting for him. The driver, leaning against the rear of the car, nodded to Charles and then moved around to the driver’s door and got behind the wheel. I looked at the name of the hotel across from us: Hotel California. “You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave?”

“Right,” said Charles, getting the reference but failing to respond to my joke. “I’ll leave you here, Roland.” He leaned into me and with a much lower voice said, “Remember, no shaving. I want you looking as close to your passport photo as possible.”

“Alexander James Carson,” I said, quoting the name on the false passport.

“I look forward to meeting him,” said Charles, opening the rear door to the idling Mercedes and getting in, without so much as a look back. The car pulled out onto the Ku’damm and headed west. The street to my own hotel was only a few more blocks further down.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said to myself. I started walking toward my hotel, leaving the Hotel California behind, thinking about my venture into East Berlin, under disguise. Would I be able to cross over, and once in the east, would I ever be able to leave?

***

The package was behind the front desk. It was a large box of about the same size and dimensions of two cases of wine, stacked upon one another. I carried it up to my room but didn’t open it right away. Charles’ instructions to me were to keep it safe, but there were few places that I could stash such a large box.

I placed a call to a secure CSIS operator, who patched me through to Kristen, who worked in the office of the Privy Council of Canada. Though it was only mid-morning in Ottawa, I took the chance that she would be at her desk, and I was in luck. She knew that I worked for CSIS but didn’t know exactly what I did within the organization. But she knew that my job periodically involved travel, which meant that I could go several days without speaking to her. I wanted to hear her voice and let her know that I was safe. She knew that I was in Germany but not much else. Hearing her voice, I was beginning to wish that Charles hadn’t ordered me to join him on this excursion. His constant arguing with Nigel Moore, his hissy fits whenever Moore and Sir Harold Kent declined to provide him certain bits of information, citing need-to-know privileges. In particular, Charles was perturbed that the precise location of the tunnel between East Berlin and West Berlin was being withheld. “How am I kept in the dark if I am to be there when Gunther comes through?” he shouted in frustration.

“You’ll know the whereabouts when we take you,” Sir Harold had said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I miss you, Roland,” Kristen said over the phone. “I keep thinking about our last night together.”

“That was wonderful,” I said. On these secured lines, I never knew if someone was monitoring the call or not, but I didn’t care. “I can’t wait until I get back. I want you, naked, in bed, when I come through the door.”

“Only if you’re stripped down and naked by the time you reach the bedroom door. When will you be back?”

“I should expect no more than a week.”

“You’ve already been gone a week. And that seemed like an eternity.” Though I had travelled outside Ottawa a couple of times, on business, I had usually gone no further than Montreal or Toronto. On those trips, I had been away for no more than a week. This was the first time that I had travelled overseas without her, and that had been when we took a trip to Scotland, when Siobhan and Kristen had met for the first time.

We chatted for about twenty minutes before she told me that she had to get back to work. “I love you, Roland.”

“I love you too, Kristen. I’ll be home soon.” Home. Though we had only been together for just under a year, we had already moved into a small apartment near Hog’s Back, the waterfalls along a fault line on the Rideau River, just upstream from Carleton University. At Hog’s Back, the Rideau Canal split from the river and led to the heart of the capital. Our balcony on the twenty-second floor looked south, down to the start of the canal and to the falls. We had moved into the apartment, together, last September, just before the autumn leaves turned colours. Even though we had only been dating for six months before we decided to live together, we had already realized that we were meant for one another. I couldn’t wait for this mission to be over so that I could be back in Kristen’s arms.

I rang off and decided to open Charles’ package. What I found took me completely by surprise. Inside, I found a pair of circular glasses that matched those from the doctored photograph. There was also a latex abdomen built into a tank top and buttocks built into a pair of underwear. I held it up against me and saw that, when worn, it would produce the effect of a beer belly, giving me a paunch for the very first time in my life. A pair of white running shoes had a sole that would add about two inches to my height. A wig gave my hair more body and length up top, and I found a small container of hair gel. Finally, there were faded black jeans and a grey hoodie, large-sized, to accommodate for the added fat that the body suit would provide.

I tried on the fat packs, which, when worn together, easily added about twenty pounds to my appearance. I pulled on the jeans and hoodie, and used the provided clips to attach the wig to the top of my existing hair. It matched the sides and back of my natural colour perfectly, and was made to be an extension to my own hair. I didn’t use the hair gel but knew that when I was ready to, it would make the wig look even more real.

I placed the glasses on my face and looked in the mirror. The pieces of glass were plain and were the riskiest part of my disguise. Anyone who looked at them closely enough would know that there was no magnification to the lenses, in which case I would not have been allowed to wear them as an accessory for a passport photo. Anyone scrutinizing over my paperwork would raise a red flag. It was a risk, apparently, that Charles was willing to take. But I saw myself and remembered the passport photo. With four days of facial growth, I just might make myself look like an Alexander James Carson.

I removed all of the disguise and placed it in my backpack, which I had finally unpacked earlier this morning. I paid special care with the glasses and wig, putting them safely in their own compartments. I moved the platform running shoes to the closet, with my suit, and added the hair gel to my toiletries in the bathroom. I then broke down the box and placed it beside the wastepaper basket, noticing that the pizza box from last night had been removed. I changed into my own jeans and t-shirt, and headed out into the city streets. Tonight, I was going to try to find a bar with good German food and beer, and, with any luck, local, live music.

Tonight, I didn’t want to be Alexander James Carson or even field agent Roland Axam. Tonight, I just wanted to be me, the man that Kristen Caan had fallen in love with.

***

Even in the cool, Berlin spring air, the fat suit under the hoodie and jeans felt hot. I hoped that I wouldn’t sweat too much or worse, that I would chafe in sensitive areas. I had started my morning at Hotel Kurfürst’s dining room, where I had a continental breakfast with lots of coffee. I was dressed in my own jeans and t-shirt, not wanting to draw the attention and curiosity of the hotel morning staff, who had become accustomed to seeing my normal self.

After breakfast, I returned to my room, where I picked up the backpack, filled with all of the disguise items and the Minolta camera that I had brought to Berlin with me, and headed out, down Bleibtreustrasse to the Kurfürstendamm, and east, to the Bahnhof Zoo Station. Yesterday, Charles had had me visit the station and find the men’s restrooms so that I could go, this morning, without delay.

The main area of the train station was spacious, with no benches to sit upon, no trash bins in which to throw waste. It also meant that I could see Charles, watching the large schedule board that announced coming and going trains, and their destinations. He was in a light blue windbreaker and casual black trousers, with a driving cap upon his head. A few Berlin police officers patrolled the vast space, keeping vagrants from sitting on the polished-marble floor. I cut across Charles’ path without a word and neither of us looked at one another. I entered the washroom and headed straight into a vacant toilet cubicle. Other travellers were in the washroom, shaving at one of the sinks or pissing against a concrete wall, where urine collected in a trough on the floor, below, and ran down a drain.

As quickly as I could, without falling into the toilet, I changed out of my own clothes and into the disguise. I had practiced putting on the wig without a mirror several times over the past couple of days and had mastered it. Emerging from the stall, all I had to do was apply the gel to the false hair, making it fashionably messy. While I busied myself at one of the rows of sinks, my peripheral vision detected Charles approach the sink to my right, where he began washing his hands. The backpack was between us and after I had returned the jar of hair gel to the pack, I washed my own hands and examined my work. I nearly convinced myself that I was Alexander James Carson.

When it looked like no one was paying any attention to us, I turned to the hand dryers, leaving my backpack next to Charles. When my hands were dried, I found Charles behind me, awaiting his turn. The backpack was over his shoulder, making him look like a fellow traveller, ready to find his train. We bumped into one another as I passed, and it was at this moment that Charles expertly placed the fake passport into the large pocket on the front of my hoodie. I left the station without looking back.

I headed east, along Budapesterstrasse, until I came to the Landwehr Canal, not far from the British Foreign Intelligence Office safe house, where Charles and I had been all week for the mission briefing. Not wanting to push my luck, I crossed to the opposite side of the canal and continued until I reached Potsdamer Platz and the infamous, graffiti-covered Berlin Wall. From this point, the wall ran straight eastward, and I followed along its length. Within a few vacant blocks, the wall came close to the Martin-Gropius-Bau building, a nineteenth-century museum of cultural arts that had been heavily damaged at the end of World War II. Boards covered the windows and graffiti covered the walls and what was left of sculptures that flanked the main entrance, which now faced a few feet from the foreboding wall. There was less than ten feet between this derelict building and the Berlin Wall, and bushes coming out from the broken sidewalk made the corridor even tighter. No sooner had I entered this passageway when three young men, only a couple of years younger than me, came from the opposite end of the building, moving toward me. With the Minolta around my neck, I immediately worried that I might be mugged in this secluded spot. I couldn’t afford to get involved in a skirmish, as they would soon discover that I was in a disguise. I contemplated turning around but such action would appear obvious that I was looking to flee, and that might make matters worse.

I kept my pace and maintained eye contact, switching my gaze to each person. When we were close, I said, “Guten morgen.”

“Tag,” said two of the youths, in unison, greeting me in kind. We passed one another without incident and my ears became sensitive as I listened for their footfalls, moving further from me.

Past the former art museum, I spied a wooden structure against the wall. A set of stairs led to a platform near the top of the wall. Knowing that I might not get an opportunity again, I climbed the structure and gazed over. I could see a vast, empty space that must have been the length of a football field. Spaced every few hundred feet and in the centre of this expanse were tall street lamps, meant to light up this no-man’s land at night. No doubt, I told myself, this chasm was set with landmines and trip wires that would trigger automatic machine guns. Directly across from where I stood, a sentry tower looked out to West Berlin. I could see men inside the hut at the top of their tower, so I used the zoom lens on my camera to gain a better look. I was met with a soldier, looking straight back at me through a pair of binoculars. With my free, left hand, I waved to this East German guard. Or was he Russian? He didn’t wave back; instead, he continued to watch me through his binoculars, so I snapped a photo of him before descending from my lookout platform.

After another block, I came to a street that was cut off by the wall, and another building that was close to the barrier made me decide to head south and seek the next intersection, where I turned onto Kochstrasse and continued for one more block before I came upon Friedrichstrasse. Looking north, I could see a small hut that read Checkpoint Charlie on a sign above it with large lettering. Beyond it, the DDR checkpoint, which had advanced with the time and looked like a customs stop between Canada and the United States. Checkpoint Charlie, by comparison, looked like it hadn’t changed since the end of the war, after the city was carved up by allies.

This was it.

“Don’t bother interacting with the soldiers at Checkpoint Charlie,” Charles had briefed me the other day, “they’re more for the tourists than anything. They won’t stop you from going over, but if you approach them, they may want to register you on a list, with your passport, and we don’t want that. Head straight to the pedestrian entrance to the East German customs station. Those blighters like to make people sweat and will scrutinize your passport, but don’t worry. Our folks did a marvellous job on your credentials. Just hang tight, and you’ll get through. I expect that they’ll be easier on your return crossing, as long as you don’t buy anything that you bring back. Level head, Axam.”

I didn’t want to have the DDR guards make me sweat: I was already doing a good job of it in the fat suit.

To my surprise, there was a lineup to cross into the east. A couple who were backpacking, carrying all of their possessions over their shoulders; a middle-aged man in a rumbled, brown suit, his round face in need of a shave; two men, about my age, who looked like they were out-of-uniform American soldiers; a slim woman, in her mid-thirties, in a blue blazer and matching skirt, carrying an equally slim, black briefcase. Everyone seemed solemn, not wanting to draw undue attention to themselves. Even the two soldiers in civilian attire and the backpacking couple kept their conversations to low murmurs, refusing to break out into smiles. Everywhere around us, warning signs told us to remain in line, to approach the border guards one at a time and only when summoned. The large border station was between the vast expanse, with fences preventing anyone from straying into the no-man's land. The bleakness, compounded by the warnings, made me feel more anxious than I already felt.

Eventually, I was called forward by a young man who was no older than I was, dressed in a plain green khaki uniform. His short, blonde hair was missing the cap that I had seen other border guards wearing. He was standing behind plexiglass with a small basin, large enough for documents and he spoke through a small microphone that amplified his voice just above a whisper. I passed him my passport and he spoke English.

“What is the purpose of your visit to the Deutschland Democratic Republic?”

“Tourist. Sightseeing.” I held up my camera for emphasis.

“For how long will you be sightseeing?”

“A few hours,” I said, not elaborating.

He stared at my photograph for a long time, making me wonder whether he was trying to determine that the photograph was real or whether I was able to successfully match the image. After what seemed like several minutes, he produced a slip of paper, wrote something on it, and then stamped it. He placed the slip inside my passport. “You will not lose this paper, yes?”

“I’ll keep it in my passport.”

“You must present it when you pass through the border again.” He requested twenty-five deutschmarks, which he exchanged for East German currency--miniature notes on thin paper. Charles had told me that this was a requirement for passing into East Berlin, and had given me the money. The East German border guard handed me the notes, which were of no value outside of the DDR, along with my passport, and directed me out a set of doors that led me out onto Friedrichstrasse.

I followed this narrow street northward, noting the bleak, post-war buildings, whose grey, concrete facades lacked any character. These cold structures were mixed with other buildings that had been bombed during the war, with the open cavities that had been devastated sealed up with bare, concrete walls, like fillings in damaged teeth. I noticed few people walking the street, save for the off-duty American soldiers and the backpacking couple. The soldiers walked in sync, as though they were marching, but at a slow pace. The backpackers were consulting a map, but we all seemed to know that we had to get all the way to Unter den Linden before we could begin to see anything that looked like a tourist attraction. Though I couldn’t see anyone in any of the windows in the buildings that I passed, I couldn’t help but feel that I was being watched.

Throwback Thursday: Cycling Selfies

I really neglected my bicycle this year.

DW and I got outdoors quite a bit, this summer, as 2020 has been the year to make an effort to get out into the fresh air and keep our distance from those outside our social bubble. And while DW and I got in a lot of walking and kayaking, with the occasional hike outside of our city, we didn't go for many bike rides.

It seems as though, when we did get on our bicycles, we didn't go far. On the occasional Sunday, we would ride from our house to Morning Owl Coffee House, in Manotick, where we would enjoy a coffee and snack before riding home again. Round-trip, the journey would be just shy of 20 kilometres and would be less than an hour.

It's a far cry from last fall, when we would pack up our bikes and head out to the Eastern Townships of Québec, where we would ride the trails and roads through this beautiful part of the country. It's a farther cry from the time before my reconstructive foot surgery, when we were members of the Ottawa Bike Club, and would join groups a couple of times a week for rides that would run anywhere from 40 to 90 kilometres along the backroads to the outlying towns and villages around our city.

Looking back, I miss those rides.

I was looking at old photos of some of the solo rides that I used to do before DW and I joined the OBC. There was one year that I cycled, on my old hybrid bike, from Barrhaven to the Champlain Lookout, in Gatineau Park, and back. On a subsequent ride, a few years later and with my road bike, I worked out a longer route that would take me 100 kilometres to get to the lookout and back, but at the 86th kilometre, I blew a tire and had to call for a pickup (from that day, I made sure to always check my repair kit for spare tubes before venturing out).

One particularly enjoyable solo ride, that I made in October of 2011, had me cycle from Barrhaven, across the Vimy Memorial Bridge, where I made my way, following the Rideau River, all the way to Rideau Falls. On the return trip, I cut through the ByWard Market and followed the Ottawa River Parkway to Lincoln Heights, then to Baseline Station, and down Woodroofe Avenue to Barrhaven.

The trip was just over 50 kilometres. Normally, I would only make one stop on such a ride but I decided to stop every once and a while to snap some photographs before I continued. I seem to recall shooting some video as well, and I think I was planning to make a short YouTube video that would document the trek, but I can't find any of that footage.

But, as I looked through the old photos, I sure seemed to snap a lot of selfies. Here are a couple from that ride.

Happy Thursday!

Wordless Wednesday: Autumn Nights

 

Anger Management

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you may have noticed that I had taken some time away from writing. Last week and yesterday, I took a break from both here at The Brown Knowser and from my fiction. I couldn't concentrate, mostly because I found that my head and heart were full of rage.

I was angry at the seemingly growing number of COVidiots, the anti-maskers and the throngs of assholes who are disregarding physical distancing. I've grown irritated with the waffling of the provincial government, which lacks any consistency in rules for the pandemic. Doug Ford, the premier of Ontario, is more interested in saving businesses than in saving lives: livelihoods are at risk? how about lives??

I went to a take-out restaurant to find a customer, standing in the small waiting space, without a mask. The staff, behind plexiglass, also maskless, said nothing, despite big notices on the door that state no entry without a mask. I called the feckless customer a "maskless dick" and I've vowed to not order from the restaurant until the pandemic is over, if at all.

I've torn strips off supermarket shoppers who go the wrong way down a clearly marked aisle, who don't turn around when I've pointed out their error and continue to approach me.

I hate these people.

Indeed, DW is increasingly worried about me as my hatred heads toward a hatred of all strangers. She's reluctant to let me out in public—though I resist being outside more and more.

But there seems to be a new diffuser of my rage against society at large: kittens.

Earlier this summer, a good friend of ours bought a farm in Eastern Ontario. He has an old farmhouse, massive barn, granary, ice house, and sugar shack, among other structures. His large property borders along the South Nation River and is an ideal pastoral area, where we can meet and easily maintain ample distances from one another.

Our friend's farm also has an abundance of cats, and over the summer we learned that many of the cats are female, and many of them were pregnant. Since he moved in, he's seen seven litters. He's managed to trap the mama cats, after the kittens have been weaned, and had them fixed. He's given the kittens to animal rescues, and the cat population has come under control.

His favourite cat, aptly named Mama, had babies just over eight weeks ago. Our friend prepared a safe area for her, in the granary, and when the kittens came along—two girls and two boys—Mama was great at protecting and providing for them. Mama was so good-natured that she would purr and let you stroke her, even when she was feeding her wee ones.

DW and DD17 saw one kitten that they immediately fell in love with. We decided that as soon as we could determine the kitten's gender, and if it was a male, we would adopt him. (We have two female cats and had heard that it's best to introduce a male if we were to have a third.)

His name is Finn.

We helped our friend secure homes for the other kittens. We had two other takers for the remaining three kittens, and when we discovered that one kitten, a female calico, was still looking for a home, DW and DD17 decided that they wanted Finn to stick with his energetic sister.

Both kittens are isolated in DW's and my master bathroom. We've set up two beds, a litter box, food and water bowls, and toys. We've taken a few logs from our friends woodpile because they were among the ones where Mama and her babies played, when they grew big enough. And DW has moved our cats' tree into this space to allow the kittens a way of getting some height (I'm not sure our cats are happy about that).

Within hours of moving Finn and his sister into our home, DW noticed a marked calm come over me. Apparently, my voice has softened and I'm smiling again. I've always been a sucker for cats, and though I was reluctant to adopt Finn and resistant to taking his sister, my heart has melted now that we have them.

Cats, it seems, are my best way to manage my anger.

DW still feels I need to stay away from strangers, for the time being. She's probably right.

Wordless Wednesday: Down in Barron Canyon

 

Giving Thanks

The down-side is that we couldn't sit down together, at the same table, passing the stuffing and mashed potatoes, and clinking glasses together. We weren't able to go around the room, each of us sharing what we were thankful for on this Canadian Thanksgiving.

Instead, we were all in our own homes, eating our own dinners, drinking our own wines, savouring our own holiday desserts.

The up-side is that we're all healthy: my mother, sisters, brother. My wife and two daughters.

I'm thankful that my eldest, who is living in the GTA, in residence, is practicing social distancing, keeping to her room, studying online. When she does go outside, to take solitary walks or to get groceries and other essentials, she wears a mask and keeps her distance from others. And so, she was able to come home for the holidays.

I'm thankful that I was able to connect with my parents and siblings, over video conferencing, so that we could assure one another that we were safe and healthy. Though we couldn't be face-to-face, we were able to see one another and share some laughs.

This pandemic has been hard on us all. But there are some things for which we can give thanks. And hopefully, we can all get together for the next Thanksgiving.

Be safe, all.

Friday Fiction: For a Taste of Whisky

The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that while there are no spoilers, you may be missing some context.

The following passage is pure fiction and never really happened, though some places and people are real.

Friday, March 6, 1998

It was the third day in a row that I had asked one of my evening students, Kim Kyu-jong, to put away his mobile phone. It was my most-rambunctious class, with more than half of the students not wanting to be there. And of those students who didn’t want to be there, Kim Kyu-jong was the leader of that pack. Always striking up conversations with others, always seeking attention. In some ways, he reminded me of one of my hagwon kids, Steven, who loved to mutter, loved to try to get the other students to laugh, and who always copped an attitude. Only, Steven was seven years old.

Kyu-jong was texting on his phone, a small, slim yellow device that had a cover that slid down to expose the dial pad. A retractable antenna allowed the phone to easily slip into a breast pocket. It looked more like a toy than a working communication device. He didn’t see me as I walked down the centre aisle, toward him. Even his colleagues didn’t warn him of my approach. But when he looked up, I was standing over him, reading the English words on the t-shirt that showed through his opened blazer: This is Never That.

“Phone, please.” I extended my hand, palm outward. Kyu-jong seemed surprised and confused, and without thinking he placed the phone into my hand. It weighed almost nothing. If I blew on it, the phone would have travelled across the room. I carried it to my desk and placed it on top. “When class is over,” I said, slowly, “you can have it back. But if I see you use it in class again, it’s mine.” I pointed at my chest to illustrate the point. A woman who sat in front of Kyu-jong translated my warning to him and I could see his eyes widen.

It was a gruelling class and I wanted to leave as much as many of the students, but I kept the lesson on track. I had to keep this class on the same page as my other classes, even though they needed the most help. An elderly gentleman, in his late sixties or early seventies, Hong Sang-woo, who sat at the front of the class, seemed to have trouble understanding me. A woman, in her thirties, Lee Ha-nui, leaned over to help him, both with translating what I said and in understanding the exercises. Whenever I called upon him to try one of the exercises, he spoke slowly or sometimes not at all. His companion would prompt him and he would repeat what she said. I didn’t like her holding his hand through everything but I expected that this was the only way he could keep up. I couldn’t understand why he was in this course: he was of retirement age. Why would he need to learn English now?

Today’s lesson was opposites: happy and sad, cold and hot, good and bad. Mr. Hong seemed to be responding better to these exercises, and I had hope for him. At least he wanted to be in the class and was making an effort. He always had a smile when something made sense.

If I could focus on the students like Mr. Hong and Lee Ha-nui, and less on those like Kim Kyu-jong, my final class of the day would be more bearable. It would be nice if my last class could be more like my morning class, with the Bak sisters and Jung-eun. They were always upbeat, always attentive, always wanting to participate. Even Shin-hye, the beautiful girl in my class, was eager, though the way her eyes transfixed on me was sometimes unnerving.

Maybe I should show her the clause in my contract.

***

The workday over, I was eager to see if my colleagues were interested in going out. Though I only taught for three days, this week, the trip to Japan had made the week seem longer. I was ready to relax at Urban Bar, my old hangout. I hadn’t been there since early in January, and with all of my travelling over the past six weeks, it seemed like longer.

I was looking forward to a glass of Laphroaig single-malt whisky. Last year, I had ordered a case through my mother, who had it shipped from Islay, Scotland. My grandfather had been a distiller with Laphroaig for many years but was now retired. He still tended a small farm, where he sold peat to the distillery. I kept the case with the owner of Urban Bar, Shin Hoon, who promised to keep the bottles safe for me. In exchange, I paid him a small fee and gave him one of the bottles to keep for himself. Over the months, Brad and I had put a substantial dent in the case, and in the time between when Tanya left me and I returned to Canada, I had finished a couple of bottles more. But I still calculated that I had about four bottles left.

“We’re going to TwoBeOne,” said Nelson when I was back at the apartment. He and Cathy were finishing a late dinner, as their last classes had finished an hour before mine. TwoBeOne was a bar that had opened at the beginning of the year. It was only a couple of blocks away from Urban Bar, near Chŏnbuk National University, and this new venue offered live music. On Fridays, members of the ex-pat community were invited to perform. “Ashley and Raymond are performing.”

Jody and Jamie had once told me that they were going to a resto-bar near their neighbourhood, where Raymond was playing bass guitar in a band. I had missed the performance and never heard of more afterward.

“What does Ashley play?” I asked.

“Piano,” said Cathy. “They have a drummer and the three of them are going to perform. Jazz, I think.”

“They’ve already gone ahead,” said Nelson. “We’ve invited Russell but he and his girlfriend are going to stay in and rent a movie.”

“Russell has a girlfriend?”

“I think he said her name was Soo-young,” said Cathy.

“I see. I’d like to pay my respects at Urban Bar,” I said, “but maybe I’ll join you afterwards.” The more I thought of my Laphroaig, the more I wanted some. It had only been little more than a week since I had a good malt, in my Ottawa home, but once I had a craving, I needed to satisfy it.

***

Urban Bar was exactly as I remembered it. Low lights, comfortable sofas, and a large, angled window that looked onto the narrow street below. Normally, soft jazz would play from the speakers that were recessed into the ceiling, but when I walked in I saw a stool in the far corner, next to the bar, upon which an ex-pat was seated. An acoustic guitar rested on his lap and a microphone was attached to a small amplifier that rested at the end of the bar. I recognized the fellow but his name didn’t immediately come to mind. Scott? Matt? He was tuning his guitar, ready for a performance.

The table and sofas in front of the window were occupied by two men and two women. It could have been me, Brad, Wilma, and Tanya, though their looks were nothing like ours and they didn’t look like anyone was involved with another. I chose a small table near the wall, opposite the entrance, and sat facing the bar, close to the upcoming performer, whatever his name was.

Shin Hoon, the bar owner, saw me and his eyes went wide. Was he not expecting to see me again? He had been standing on the opposite end of the bar from the guitarist, smoking a cigarette and filling serving bowls with popcorn. As soon as his initial reaction had subsided, he picked up one of the bowls and came to my table, where he set the popcorn in front of me.

“Mr. Shin, so nice to see you again.”

“Rolan-duh, welcome back.” He was able to pronounce the R in my name but no word, not even a non-Korean word, could end in a hard consonant. “I almost didn’t expect you to come back.” He was smiling but seemed disturbed, as though my presence was unwelcome. In truth, the last few weeks that I had been in Chŏnju, before returning home, I had been drinking hard, would drown my sorrow at the loss of Tanya in a bottle of whisky. It was a habit that I knew I had to break.

“I have far too much Laphroaig left to leave it all behind,” I said. Hoon laughed nervously and I became worried. “What is it? What’s happened?” My eyes shifted toward the bar and the shelves of various bottles against the glass backdrop. In the centre of the middle shelf, with lights shining down upon it, was one of my bottles, about one-third full.

Our entertainment started. Scott or Matt, or whatever his name was, started into a rendition of David Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust.” He wasn’t bad but I was suddenly not in the mood to hear him.

“What the fuck, Shin?” My Scottish brogue came through. “Surely you’re not selling glasses of my whisky.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost whining, “I didn’t know you were coming back.”

“Of course you did. The last time I was in here I told you to take good care of my bottles. If I wasn’t coming back, don’t you think I would have taken them with me?”

“I’m sorry, Rolan-duh. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’ll take them now. How much is left?”

“One.”

“One? One what? One bottle, in addition to the almost-empty bottle above the bar?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, Hoon. I left you four bottles. In six weeks, you sold nearly three bottles? How much did you charge per glass?”

It looked like Shin Hoon was going to cry. “Iman won.” He was no longer able to speak English.

“Twenty thousand? Per glass?” I knew that Hoon charged ten-thousand won for a glass of Johnny Walker Blue Label whisky, which would net him about a quarter of a million won for the bottle, giving him a tidy profit. Charging double for the Laphroaig, he had helped himself to a large sum, considering he hadn’t paid for the bottles in the first place.

“I will pay you back,” he said, on the verge of tears.

“You’re damned right you’ll pay me back. I’ll take…” I had to remember the numbers in Korean. I hadn’t said them often. “Baekman-osib-man won. You can keep what’s left in that bottle. Give me the remaining, full bottle.”

“I don’t have that money on me.”

“Of course you do, Shin. I know you have a safe under the bar. I saw it when we first put my case behind it.”

Hoon bowed his head in shame, and nodded. “I’m sorry. Right away.” He walked behind the bar and then disappeared under the counter.

The song continued. “Ziggy played for time, jiving us that we were voodoo, the kid was just crass, he was the nazz, with God-given ass...” I wondered what nazz meant, or was it just a made-up word that Bowie threw in to make his lyrics rhyme.

Hoon stood up after a few seconds. He had a filled bottle of Laphroaig in one hand and a thick envelope in the other. One-and-a-half-million won, in ten-thousand won notes, is pretty thick. I was used to seeing a bundle that size in my monthly payments from Kwon, before the hagwon went belly-up. I remembered that the safe opened with a keypad code, and inside, he must have had stacks of a half-million won. He only needed enough time to open the door and grab three stacks. He must have had envelopes either in the safe or nearby. It appeared that my last bottle of whisky was also nearby.

Nazz… Nazareth. Jesus. Son of God. King of the Jews. Did nazz mean holy? King?

“Ziggy played… guitaaar.” The song ended as Hoon returned to my table. The bar had fewer than a dozen patrons, and our performer received only a smattering of applause. I was in no mood to cheer.

“Here you go, Rolan-duh. Again, I’m sorry.” He placed the envelope and bottle in front of me.

I stood and picked them up. “I’m sorry, too, Hoon.”

He reached out to shake my hand. “Are we okay?”

“No, Hoon, we are not. Goodbye.”

Another song started as I made my way to the door. It was a Smith’s song: “I Know It’s Over.”

“Yes, it certainly is,” I said under my breath, without looking back.

***

I wanted to see Ashley and Raymond perform at TwoBeOne. I knew that Jamie and Jody, as well as some of my colleagues, would likely be there, as Raymond was a long-time friend and they would soon be leaving Korea. But with an unsealed bottle of whisky and an envelope that was too thick to put in my pockets, I would raise too many questions. I would contact Jamie and Jody tomorrow and arrange to get together with them. I would take them out for a meal as a small token of my appreciation, for having them put Tanya and me up, and then to put up with me after Tanya left. I would treat them to whatever they wanted.

I walked to Paltal-ro, where I was easily able to hail a taxi back to the apartment. In the hallway, I could see a faint glow of light coming from Russell’s apartment but heard no sound. I wasn’t about to disturb him and his girlfriend. I went straight into my unit, unsealed the whisky bottle, and poured myself a double measure.

One way or another, I was going to have my malt.

Last of the Holdouts?

There's an old photograph that was taken from Parliament Hill, back around the turn of the previous century, from the top of the tower of the center block (before it was the Peace Tower), looking toward Wellington Street. I wish I could remember the exact date of this photo—if I ever saw it in the first place, that is.

I love this photo for many reasons. The elegant buildings on the south side of Wellington Street, most of which are long-gone. I love how the cityscape lacks skyscrapers of glass and steel. The tallest structures are the Office of the Prime Minister and Privy Council (left-side building) and a few church spires in the distance. It's still too early for the Blackburn building and way, way too early for the Darcy McGee Building and World Exchange Plaza.

But what I love the most about this photo is the collection of little shacks, directly across from the Parliament Buildings, in between the stately structures along Wellington Street. Was it a single home with neighbouring sheds? Was it a collective of shacks or some sort of business? Does anyone know who owned the land?

I like to think that before the grand edifices along Wellington Street were constructed, there was a sort of shanty town that occupied this neighbourhood. That, over the course of time, tenants from these homes were bought out to make way for progress. All that is left is this one patch of land, held by someone who didn't want to move, who stuck to their property until the right price came along.

They were the last of the holdouts.

Sadly, the land was likely expropriated.

Today, neither building to either side this collection of shacks remains. This corner of Wellington and Metcalfe is an open space. In fact, all of these buildings along Wellington, save the Privy Council building, are lost to history.

Another reason why I love this photo: only here is history preserved.

The Voyage Home

When DW and I first bought our flights to Rome, I booked on points. We were able to get a good deal for DW and the kids, and by using Aeroplan points for my flight, we further reduced the overall cost of flying four people, round-trip, to Italy.

Especially since we also bought four round-trip tickets from Rome to Venice.

While I was able to book the same flight to Rome as the rest of the family, I was not able to take the full flight back to Ottawa with them. The girls were flying from Rome to Frankfurt, Germany, and then on to Ottawa; I had to fly from Rome to Munich, change flights, and fly to Frankfurt, where I would join my family for the final leg.

When I bought my tickets, though, I noticed that there was only a one-hour layover in Munich. I called the airline to confirm this connection and was told, curtly, that if it wasn't possible, they wouldn't have offered it.

If, for any reason, my Rome flight was delayed and I missed my connection, the airline would get me home as soon as they could. Likely within 24 hours. Fourty-eight hours at the most.

Fourty-eight hours in Munich, during Oktoberfest, didn't sound so bad to me.

Though my family didn't have to leave Rome as early as I did, we arrived at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport together. As soon as I checked in and got my boarding pass, we took the kids to get breakfast: muffins and juice for them; muffins and coffee for DW and me.

When it was time for me to head through security and make my way to my gate, the kids held onto me, not wanting me to go. "I'll see you soon, in Germany," I assured them. To DW, I said, "No matter what, get on the plane in Frankfurt. Don't wait for me. If you miss your flight, you won't get compensated."

We all hugged, and I headed on.

Once on the plane, I kept checking my watch. We sat at the gate, even as our departure time came and went. I'm not going to make it, I convinced myself. I'll be spending my time in Munich. While it didn't sound so bad, I worried about how the kids would respond when they discovered their dad wasn't joining them in Frankfurt.

Thirty minutes after our scheduled departure time, we finally took off. The entire flight took place under clear skies, and I marvelled as we flew over the Swiss Alps, seeing the small roads and houses up in the mountains. But I was still worried, constantly checking my watch, wondering if I would see my connecting flight take off as we were in our final approach.

When a flight attendant offered me a drink, I showed her my boarding pass for my next flight, and asked her if there was any way for her to determine the gate where we were arriving. I had to get to gate 13, and would like to know how far we would be. She gave me a drink and told me that she'd get and answer for me after she finished service.

We were arriving at gate 13. "We will depart our plane on the tarmac and take a shuttle bus to the gate. You just need to go through the doors, but where most people will go straight, you'll go up a flight of stairs and turn right. The gate will be right there."

I was relieved, but still didn't think I'd arrive in time. I grabbed the in-flight magazine and flipped through the pages, looking to see if there was any information about the Munich airport. Instead, I found something different: an article listed the top 10 airports in the world, and the number one airport was bestowed upon Munich. Its efficiency, cleanliness, and ease of navigating made it the airport to be.

I was starting to relax.

As we approached the Munich airport, the plane banked and I could look straight down, onto a festival ground. It was, most likely, the Oktoberfest grounds. I looked at my watch and saw that we were 10 minutes late in arriving, and we hadn't yet landed. It was going to be tight.

While I just might make my flight, I thought, one thing was certain: my luggage wouldn't.

We landed and came to a stop. For what seemed like ages, we waited before anybody started heading forward. As I moved up the aisles, I could see ground crew furiously unloading the plane. "There's no way," I muttered to myself.

On the bus, we stayed still for five minutes after the doors were closed. Once again, I convinced myself that I had missed my flight. But as we finally rolled up to gate 13, I could see a plane still in place, the gangway still attached. I was going to make it.

I had stood near the doors of the shuttle bus, and as soon as the doors opened, I sprung out and made a dash for the doors. I ran up the stairs, turned right, and joined the end of a dwindling line that was still passing through the gate.

I made it.

Our plane left the terminal at precisely the schedule time of departure. It seemed as though I had enough time to put my camera bag in the overhead compartment, sit down, and buckle up before we started moving.

My family was going to be relieved.

While the Munich airport was efficient, Frankfurt seemed less so. I passed through throngs of people, passing through two sets of security, and seemed to walk forever, before I made it to my gate. The woman who let me through complained that I seemed to have left getting there to the last minute. "Are you kidding?" I replied. "I got here as quickly as I could!"

Already, people were boarding the flight to Ottawa. I couldn't see my family. Had they already boarded? My section had already been called for boarding but I hung back. I knew I'd have to get on this plane, but not seeing my family made me want to keep an eye out for them.

It wasn't until there was only a handful of people left to board, and the crew at the gate were beckoning for me to come forward, that I saw my girls running toward the gate. As with my flight out of Rome, their flight had also been delayed. The smile on the faces of my kids, as they saw that I had made it to Frankfurt, made the earlier prospect of staying in Munich through Oktoberfest seem ridiculous.

Back in Ottawa, we stood at the luggage turnstile, waiting for my family's luggage to arrive. I was amazed to see my own suitcase come down the conveyor belt. Not only had I caught my connecting flight in Munich and Frankfurt, so had my baggage. All of us and everything was home, safe and sound.

My family and I have done a lot of travelling since our 2009 trip to Italy, but this vacation still goes down as my all-time favourite. With my eldest daughter now away at college and my youngest one in her final year of high school, I often wonder if we'll ever take such a vacation together again. Indeed, with the pandemic still a threat and this year's European vacation cancelled, what are vacations going to be like in the future?

There's so much more of the world that I want to see, so I'm not going to give up.