the city of angel numbers.
the city of angel numbers. By Kamea Macusi, a second-year ETA The first syllable of this city’s name still catches in my American born‑and‑raised throat, unable to determine just how much space should be made, how slack my jaw should be, the placement of my too‑large tongue and grinded teeth. It’s as though every time its name slips past my lips, I’ve come across every iteration possible, except the true one. A year ago, over the course of just six weeks, time spent in sudden close proximity with strangers led to even closer friendships, nights of drunken laughter, days of endless banter, moments of quiet understanding. It’s amazing how the workings of the human heart can transcend the arbitrary rules of time and space—the rules of language and culture. I found myself in an unfamiliar space soon after, suddenly ejected into the corner of a car filled with overpacked luggage, school superiors, and a colleague‑turned‑friend. There, I learned how the city we were driving to was home to her. I only hoped that it would become the same for me. If the city was anything like her, I knew only beauty awaited me. I met a family that helped heal wounds of my own that I hadn’t realized were so deep. They showed me that a healthy dynamic could exist in spite of pain and trauma—that this was just something they would work through as best they could, time and time again. They saw my shortcomings and met me with a love that celebrated both our differences and our shared life experiences. They taught me that spoken language is secondary, for as long as you wish to understand the person before you, then understand you will—the building of bonds despite the brokenness of language. I met peers who made my everyday life so vibrant, like the red spider lilies that grew in our school’s garden, like the wisteria that hung above us on our way up the hills. People brilliant like the blinding reflection of light from the ocean below, well‑seen from the vantage of the cable cars warmed by the sun of a Saturday afternoon. Moments of warmth shared over cups of yuja tea, sweet compliments in the form of ripened watermelon, kind consideration in the opening of an umbrella over an already rain‑soaked head. I met students who gave me reason to keep going. Children who still hold such wonder for life, who are still trying to determine what it means to thrive in a system that barely hopes for them to get by. Children who still see the world in the full array of color before the beginnings of adulthood come and push them into the dreariness of black and white. But perhaps the shades and hues found in this city’s street corners and shorelines could keep them searching beyond the extremes. This place could show the children that between the ebb and the flow, there will be moments where the waves settle. When they can take the time to savor some 딸기모찌1 as tourists filter in and out of the turtle ship nearby, to race down blocks illuminated only by the streetlights leading to 낭만포차거리2, to ride the city buses labeled with angel numbers to guide their paths both home and away, to sit at any of the seaside cafes and watch the glistening water. I hope that when they see the waves catch the crystals of the sun, they realize that the beautiful sight before them can only occur when the sun and sea and moon work in tandem. Always together, never alone. They are my sun and I am their moon, reflecting the light that they shine. A mere push and pull is all I can offer, small movements to create rolling waves. But they are life‑giving, fiery and brilliant. And even when they become an echo of a memory, when time has long since clouded the clarity of once was, I will try to carry this light they’ve allowed me to witness, never forgetting what it meant to bask in their warmth. Farewell to this romantic city of mine. Farewell to the sand‑riddled socks discarded near beachside picnic spots. Farewell to the art‑filled walls of hidden gems. Farewell to the delicious foods that draw envy from all corners of this country. Farewell to the kindness of strangers, to the offering of snacks and of seats. Farewell to my beloved friends, colleagues, and students. Fare well.
Ode to Ochang Lake Park
Ode to Ochang Lake Park By Maya Nylund, a first-year ETA PSA traveling at the speed of pixels spelling balloons of trash, chemical spillage, I don’t look today. I know. It says: meters and meters of rain The runoff gushes into the ground, vortical— I walk here everyday. Old ladies flap walking sticks and fishermen’s hats, crinkle-faced as the apple dolls out of Amish country graceful sweeping in the Jinro‑bottle green. A family of ducks lives behind that bush, there, dinosaur nostrils and yellow enamel breathing— remember when the world was liquid swamp? This place was scooped from the dry earth, manicured marsh, an artificial lake; once there were lotuses, but now there are none. The benches are marked for lovers. They walk the LED moonlight while we talk at the pace of pixels, always orbiting, never nearing, and I remember—that everything is expanding and dissolving, the whole world tending towards entropy. The mold spores splattered across my gym’s ceiling, reeds mangling water, the home address I don’t know by heart— Remember? That to prune is to give attention to, but to disentangle is to love. A man shelters under a pagoda, head shaking, rueful with delay, knowing that to expand is also to evolve. The lake swells, roiling, swallowing the flood. The horizon may unsettle you, the neat and numbered apartments, but this place reminds. We must unravel to grow. My cuticles constantly fraying, the dampness always in the bathroom, the laundry in the corner and the dust bunnies at the doctor’s, spinning toward the dark…
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