Pizza Shop Iced Americano
Pizza Shop Iced Americano By Andrew Ramirez, a first-year ETA I couldn’t tell what had woken me up. Had it been the damp heat that had made the blanket stick to my skin? Or was it the blinding sun that had managed to perfectly slip through the window and land directly in my eyes? It was 8:47 a.m. Before living in Korea, I could have never imagined getting up so early on a Saturday morning without a commitment in place. Here, distant from so many things, I was also distant from my typical sleep habits. I was playing by different rules—rules I could try to read but would never fully understand. So I decided to quit fighting them and just start my day. “It’s just part of the experience of being here, part of growing up,” I half‑heartedly reminded myself once again. Going through the motions of my morning routine, I now searched my cabinets for coffee only to find my usual can empty. Feeling at a loss, I rummaged around my kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding at least one stray packet of KANU instant coffee. I had developed a habit at work of grabbing an afternoon packet just to procrastinate a never‑to‑be‑brewed second cup—only to remember my intentions upon finding it in my pocket at home. Today, however, my habits had failed me. Not one packet showed up. In a bout of desperation, I suddenly found myself atop my kitchen counter, peering into my cabinets. From this vantage point, I could see something different in these cabinets I had been routinely opening and closing at roughly the same times every day. Here were new parts, new angles of these familiar roommates I had learned to ignore. It may well have been the delirium of a caffeine‑less morning, but there was something forming in my heart as I examined these cabinets from several unusual angles. Since moving here, I had so quickly fallen into a routine that I had failed to peer outward into my neighborhood with the same scrutiny that I had for my cabinets. Just as I had always regarded my cabinets in the same way, I always went to the same convenience store, sat at the same cafe, took the same route to school, shopped at the same grocery store, waited for the bus at the same stop. If even these cabinets were filled with new sights, what was waiting for me just two stories below, in this industrial town just south of the river? *** Stepping out from under the overhang of my apartment building, I was reminded that the heat inside was nothing; the swelter of the morning sun humidly clung to me as I walked in the suffocating air. It was a wet burning: a sensation that quickly had me sympathizing with the boiled fate of the rice I had made last night. But, I braved this heat to chase away the banality of my routine—and, of course, to find some coffee. I made the conscious effort to take in all my surroundings—all the businesses and structures which constitute this place I’m calling home for now. I was looking for coffee, yes, but I was also searching for a fuller sense of understanding. I passed by raw fish restaurants, salons, a bicycle shop I had never seen open before, billiards clubs, PC rooms, study cafes and both dine‑in and delivery‑only chicken shops. So many places for people to work in, meet in, round out their existences in—and I had never really bothered to take proper note of them until now. After two hours of roaming about, I still had not found any coffee to drink. As I was taking in all the signs of the shops I had previously ignored on this path, my eyes landed on the storefront of a chain pizza shop. I had probably seen its name before on some (shamefully) overused delivery app, but its storefront stood unfamiliar. Just as I was about to look at the next shop, a small yellow and blue sign in the corner of the glass door stopped me: “Iced Americano: ₩1,500.” Remarkably cheap, I thought. Might as well give it a shot. The notion of drinking such an Americano, the sole coffee product of this pizza shop, was ridiculous. But, such ridiculousness perfectly fit my day’s goal of breaking my numbing habits. I walked over to the store’s glass door. The pleasant chime of the bell hanging above the door alerted the owner to my presence. With an apologetic and confused look, he quickly told me that no pizzas were ready for pickup yet and that I should come back sometime later. With some nervous laughter, I tried explaining to him that I hadn’t ordered anything and didn’t want a pizza. I gestured over to the sign on the corner of the door and asked for one cup of coffee. “Iced Americano?” he repeated back to me with a perplexed look. He tried telling me that, if I would like a pizza later, he could put the order in for me and I could pick it up around lunchtime. It was a kind gesture that could have quickly recovered our interaction from the awkward, bitter pit I had pushed it into. I thanked him but insisted on just the coffee. He obliged my request with only a higher degree of confusion and went to the back. Quickly, he returned with a paper cup with ice and walked over to the water dispenser next to the cash register. The cup now full, he reached under the counter and pulled out a packet of KANU instant coffee. As he mixed it, we exchanged the usual conversation between a foreigner and business owner. I told him where I was from and what I was doing in this town where surely I was the only American. Both of us seemed more at ease having engaged in these pleasantries. I awkwardly tried asking about how business was in
a pocketful of ( )
a pocketful of ( ) By Amrita Adak, a first-year ETA backdoor, backyard, last year brown skin littered with little flowers pockets so dauntingly heavy they press me into the pavement a rap on the door then two then _______ questions partner with questions but find no answer i let my phone ring out into the honey‑dew summer air a pocketful of missed calls ones that feed a starved hope while humoring some uncertain regret and Rekha mashi1 reaches out sometime in the fall two tickets sit on the table next to an empty fruit bowl a cabinet full of medicine the crisp sound of leaves under feet like stitches coming loose at the seams sometime between today and tomorrow, Change will come knocking at the door and a distant echo will rattle resolve, questioning ever so quietly whether i’m prepared a pocketful of yesterday’s earphones ones that you could still tangle and rip to pieces and an email sits patiently wondering when it’ll be opened it’s already been a few weeks in a foreign land but the chill in the air feels like a factory reset words that had become easy now make doubt linger in all the liminal spaces a longing that would take a thirty three hour ferry to cross did you know? i now say hello to the sun and moon before you a pocketful of lost time and polaroids ones with smudging little love letters scrawled across the back and in the suffocating heat of summer a misguided nose weeps sweat forms a perfect silhouette of a body in bed, unmoving vulnerability picks at my nails just as it does my conscience reminiscing about a soft touch on the forehead, a cool cloth’s kiss a pocketful of yesterday’s missing puzzle pieces ones that somehow click into place with today’s unrest and i miss you i miss you i miss you, i think.
Good News
Good News By Laura Evans I miss groggy steam rising my coffee maker, growling over grounds begrudgingly distilling joy‑scented promise I miss tracing cracked leather lines my steering wheel, sliding through my hands relinquished for two tense grips: bus pole and handphone I miss unripened shades of green my weekly cluster of bananas, awaiting consumption now I wait, resigned, for fruit in its season Miss understanding conversations in passing solving crosswords with my mother each morning testing the bounds of my physicality Craving such small comforts like knowing how green lights cycle at neighborhood intersections which chocolate milk tastes most like my childhood what unbothered street offers space to dance unobserved But twice daily, commute between harbor and hills painted in sunlight, I am overwhelmed sitting witness, stenographer of this serendipity The good news is: These days I distill my own joy dance in the morning suppress a smile, work myself awake The good news is: A bowl of soup needs no translation love, placed on the table before me its grammar, conjugations of compassion The good news is: I can call home miles of distance, hours of time mere ellipsis when I hear “Hello?” The good news is: I reinhabit my neglected body as I sweat and I breathe blue belt on black gi1 The good news is: I am content in this Life: collection of iterations on old habits. I’m rebuilding Connection: the kindness of humanity, my anchor Gratitude: embodied, the sun rising over my skin and the sea.