By Eugene Lee, ETA ’16-’18 I glance at the time on my phone’s lock screen—6:52 p.m.—and sigh. My plate is bare, freckled with crumbs from the pineapple tart I devoured an hour ago to stave off my hunger. I glance around and see a tall, pretty girl smiling, her grin half-nestled into her palm as she watches what could be a variety show on her phone. Gold headphones complement her sky blue coat and black stockings, and the scene feels almost like a phone commercial, a sight you just don’t see in the countryside. Sitting in the corner of the café, I can see everything. I notice that it isn’t just this girl but several people sitting alone, reading or browsing on their phones. I wonder if this is common in the city, in that odd, hanging space between shopping and waiting for a dinner rendezvous. After all, it was tiring just walking through Gangnam, as not only the buildings but the people themselves conducted a sort of electricity that pulsated through you, a rush of intimate chatters, honking horns and wafts of street foods like fishcake, all funneled into streets only about three people wide. I lazily flick through a New Yorker article on my phone, trying to force myself to make use of my newfound free time. I planned to meet a college friend at around 6:30 p.m., but he was never punctual. I glance out the window down at the street below. Everyone seems to be in a rush, a happy one at that: it’s finally time to unwind and meet friends, celebrate the weekend. A trio of girls walk by in laughter, covering their mouths with the pastel-colored sleeves of their sweaters. A man who was standing restlessly at the corner is pleasantly surprised by a woman who tackles his back. By the look of her polished business outfit, she must have come straight from work. The street has a reddish glow about it, one of the many passages in the maze of restaurants, bars and cafés that sprawl beyond the posh, blue lights of the main road. I readjust myself in my chair, envious of life in the city. Among other things, living in the city would mean living in a realm of possibility. The city is a dark sea of atoms pulsating at night, always on the precipice of collision with another, newer element—a far cry from the insipid countryside. Even if I don’t meet anyone new in this ocean of entropy, the very prospect generates within me anticipatory warmth, a premature satisfaction. “실례지만, 면접 시간이 있나요?” It takes me a second to register that he is talking to me. I look up to see a young man around my age leaning over my table, presumably to look less assuming. He has slightly messy curly hair, circular wire frames and a jumper that hangs loose around his thin frame—all in all, a typical young Korean man. “아, 사실 전 미국에서 왔어요.” “Oh, well my English is not so good, but we can switch between English and Korean,” he says with a near-perfect American accent. “Do you have time?” I glance at my phone again: 7:01 p.m. When I last checked my messages, my friend was just leaving his home for the subway. “Sure, have a seat. So what’s the question?” “I’m currently a college student and I research at a Mind Institute nearby. In my spare time I like to survey people and see what they think about their religion and their opinion of…” he pauses to find the right words in English, “meditation and looking for calmness of mind.” “Sounds interesting and I’ve got some time—the person I’m waiting for is running really late.” The words jump out more enthusiastically than I expect. I had spent the past couple of weeks holed up in my countryside town. I consider myself sociable, but I had grown rusty in simple everyday conversation. I place my phone facedown on the table. “Oh, but first, you said you were from America? Why are you here in Seoul?” “Actually, I’m not from Seoul, I teach down in Jeollabuk-do, near Jeonju. Have you heard of Jeongeup?” He pauses for a moment, mouthing the words to himself. Jeongeup, Jeongeup, Jeongeup. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of it… but Jeollabuk-do! That’s very far!” He smiles to assure me he is not trying to be condescending. “Yeah, I actually took a bus this morning. I’m only here for tonight so I can meet my friend before he goes back to America.” “Only one night?” he asks, eyes wide in surprise. “Yeah, but sometimes I come up to Seoul for longer periods of time. I just need to go back to teach.” “Ah, that makes sense.” He drinks some of his tea and picks up a black pocket notebook I didn’t notice before. “So what is your religion?” he asks, wasting no time. “Hmmm…Christian, but I would say I’m in a weird place right now.” I hate that question these days, because words seal abstract thoughts into declarations. It doesn’t help that words sometimes prematurely leap forth, eager to fit snugly into social context. “Why would you say that?” He takes out a pen in anticipation. “Well… when I first came to Korea I was a pretty strong Christian, but it’s been hard living down in the countryside and well, you know, a lot of the churches in Korea are a little suspicious.” I hope the last part won’t offend him. He laughs. “Definitely. No, I understand.” He scribbles a few messy notes in Korean and reads them over. Satisfied, he looks up again. “And how are you doing?” The question catches me completely off-guard. “What do you mean ‘how am I doing?’ Like, in general? Or in my religion?” “In general. Like, life in general.” “I would say these past few weeks have been hard, teaching and whatnot. Actually, I haven’t seen many friends these past couple of weeks so … Continue reading Eastern Medicine at a Gangnam Café