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.
Sunday, May 12, 2019
I had dozed off on the express bus, shortly after leaving the outer limits of Seoul, and was waking up as I felt the bus slow. I was sitting toward the back, on the driver’s side, and could see a vast apartment complex to the east. We must be passing Taejŏn, about an hour north of Chŏnju. But when the bus turned off the highway and passed through a familiar toll booth, I realized that this was, indeed, my old city. Where I had once been able to see my original apartment in Dongsan-Dong was now its own city of tall, thin apartment buildings. Somewhere, buried in the towering growth, was the old neighbourhood.
We turned at an intersection that I thought I recognized but it appeared as though I was dreaming and hadn’t remembered it correctly. An LG gas station that had been there in 1998 remained but was larger and the intersection had widened, with an underpass that kept main traffic flowing. Near the intersection lay the soccer stadium that had been built for the 2002 FIFA World Cup tournament. Chŏnju had been vying for a venue in 1997, with banners across the city that read World Cup MUST be held in Chŏnju!
The layout of Dongsan-Dong had changed, including streets, and I soon was unable to recognize where I was. It wasn’t until we reached the industrial district, along Paltal-ro, where I gained some familiarity. But there were more buildings along the route that I only recognized some of the factories. When we turned right, onto a street that was much further north than I was used to turning, the city fell foreign to me. We were travelling in a new development. I no longer felt that we were in Chŏnju. I began to fear that perhaps the bus terminal had moved to a newer part of town, that perhaps Google Maps was out of date.
My fears were alleviated when I caught a glimpse of the old sports stadium and the towering building of Jeonbuk Bank, but I still couldn’t recognize the street on which the express bus travelled. There were new buildings that hid the familiar skyline, but I was sure we were near the bus terminal.
We turned onto another street and then took an immediate right into a large parking area that was full of similar buses, and I knew I was at the bus station, but the circular building had been replaced with a long, rectangular building. I exited the bus, grabbed my suitcase from the storage area, and walked into the terminal. Inside, it seemed like a shopping mall, with various stores and food venues. I saw a Dunkin Donuts logo and several Korean businesses, and wondered which way to go to get out onto the street. There was no exit on this floor so I went upstairs where I saw a small doorway that seemed to lead outside. A ramp led me to the sidewalk, where I felt a strong, hot breeze on my face. Several taxis lined up on the street and I walked to the car at the front of the line.
“Chŏnju hanok suh-pah, ka, chuseyo,” I told the driver in very rusty Hangul. He immediately nodded his head and helped me place my suitcase in his trunk. Had he hesitated before acknowledging my destination, I would have known that he didn’t know where we were going. We could have been in for a long and costly ride.
I chose a landmark in the Hanok Village, the Chŏnju Hanock Spa. It was across the street from my rental apartment. I had found the location through Google Maps: the street view showed a large building with lots of cars in its parking lot, and I guessed that it was a popular place. Even as the taxi driver let me out, plenty of cars filled the lot and many people were coming and going on this Sunday afternoon.
The driver had taken me straight down Paltal-ro from the bus terminal, and I was relieved to find that this part of town hadn’t changed. We passed the building where Kwon’s hagwon had once been. The Youngchin Building had been purple brick when I lived in Chŏnju but had been resurfaced and was now a bland grey. I read a sign over the fifth floor, where our office had once been. There was a new hagwon in its place, under a different name. Perhaps I would give it a visit?
My HanokStay, as the apartment sign read, was on the northernmost part of the Hanok Village and by the looks of this block, the houses hadn’t undergone the reformation that the core of this ancient neighbourhood had. The traditional Korean house of wood and plaster, with a sloped, black-tiled roof, was tucked in a narrow alcove and showed the aging that this thousand-year-old neighbourhood had displayed in 1998.
I rang the bell on the gate and entered. A narrow, gardened path took me along the side of the house and into a courtyard, where countless flowers, fountains, and ornaments filled the space. It was obvious that the owner took pride in her garden.
A woman stepped out into the courtyard from a doorway on the opposite end of the yard. She was about my age, and I took a slight intake of breath as I realized the time that had elapsed since I was last in Korea. I would have addressed such a woman as ajuma—aunt—but now I was a contemporary.
“Annyong hasseyo,” I said, bowing slightly. I was fairly certain that my hostess spoke no English. We had corresponded through Airbnb messages, and she always responded to me in Hangul, which I had to translate through Google. She had told me, in these correspondences, that her name was Choon-ju, and that she was looking forward to my visit. She had also wished peace and happiness upon me.
“Oso-oshipshiyo,” she replied, welcoming me. She was petite, with a smiling face and hair cut short, just above her shoulders. In 1998, the typical hairstyle for a woman her age was a tight curl, but either that trend had faded or she didn’t follow it. Instead, her hair showed faint highlights of auburn, possibly used to hide some strands of grey. She appeared very stately and it was obvious that in her youth she had been very pretty. She was dressed in a bold pink blouse and black polyester slacks. On her feet were white socks inside black sandals.
“Jeh illuhm-eun Lollanduh ibnida,” I said, introducing myself. I then extended my open hand outward, gesturing toward the garden. “Areum-dapda.” Beautiful.
The room itself was fairly simple. Rectangular, with papered plaster walls, the wooden frame of the house showed through the ceiling. A simple yo was laid on the floor and occupied most of the space. An end table on the far wall held a medium-sized flat-screen TV and a basket filled with towels of various sizes, each embroidered with the HanokStay name and logo. There was a small stand to hold coats and hats, and wooden pegs jutted from the walls to hold other items. It was clear that my clothes were going to stay in my suitcase, to be removed as required.
Choon-ju explained the room to me as she showed me around, and even though I couldn’t understand most of what she said, her gestures were clear and I was able to nod my understanding to her. At the end of the short tour, she drew my attention to a mini-fridge in the corner, near the entrance, and opened it to reveal various bottles of water, juice, and energy drinks. She retrieved a small energy drink bottle and handed it to me. Her words indicated that she felt I must be tired from my journey, and encouraged me to drink it immediately. It was sweet, with a mild flavour of herbs and fruit. I was able to finish it in one mouthful, and Choon-ju smiled as she took the empty bottle from me. “Mashisseyo,” I said, “kamsa-habnida.” Delicious, thank you.
Our tour over, Choon-ju led me back into the garden and over to a wooden stand where several maps and brochures were displayed. She pulled out a map that showed the entire Hanok Village and, producing a Sharpie marker, circled where we were. She then began pointing out nearby attractions—the palace, Jeondong Church, and P’ungnammun, the old city gate. She also traced the main street through the village, Taejo-ro, named after the first king of the Choson Dynasty. Choon-ju seemed to indicate that there were lots of places to eat.
On the northernmost part of the map, a few blocks away from us, she circled a spot and pointed to it a couple of times. I recognized a couple of words: kongnamul-gukbap, a popular soup made mostly with bean sprouts, which was thought to cure hangovers; and dee-shee, a Korean term for discount, seemingly taken from some English bastardization. I quickly discerned that Choon-ju was explaining that if I dined there and mentioned that I was staying at her HanokStay, I would receive a discount. I nodded and said, “Ahruh-suh,” stating that I got it.
Choon-ju produced a registry and opened it to a page that was held with a pen. I could see mostly Korean guests in the list but one British couple had written that they had a lovely stay, and that they loved Choon-ju’s hospitality and kindness. I wrote my name and indicated that I was coming from North Berwick, Scotland. Though it was too soon for me to provide a review of any sort, I added that the garden was beautiful and that I had received a warm welcome.
No doubt, I was going to find peace and happiness here.
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