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 broken sentence, but he was patient with me while I stumbled with the words.
He handed the cup to me and took my card in turn. Swirling the cup around and watching the ice spin in a circle along the rim of the cup, I did it. I took my first sip.
To my still‑groggy mind, the flavor felt oddly comforting. Prior to living in Korea, I had never really been fond of black coffee, habitually needing it with some kind of milk. But, here, I’d come to be quite fond of this bitter—yet refreshing—taste.
I had forgotten that the owner was there until he suddenly asked me if the coffee was alright. I turned around and told him that it was better than I thought. Taking my final sip, the ice in the cup pushed against my lips, stinging. In its aftertaste, a dissatisfaction lingered. I had enjoyed this anything‑but‑habitual experience. I was even sure that the smiling store owner, too, must have enjoyed part of this. Yet, I had expected something more from this. There was no liberation awaiting me.
I crumpled up the cup and threw it away. Wanting to laugh at myself, I turned to leave. The owner wished me well. I then wanted to ask him if he knew what he was doing was ridiculous—selling this instant coffee out of a chain pizza shop. But, if I did, I knew he’d stare at me blankly and ask the same of me.
Leaving the store, I turned around to see the owner removing the yellow‑and‑blue Iced Americano sign from the door.
***
The paper cup now long behind me in the trash can of the pizza shop, I searched for a satisfying ending. In the ever‑relentless heat, I walked to the shadeless river just north of my neighborhood. Hyeongsangang was something of a friend to me at this point. I made a habit of coming to see her to clear my mind, to reorient myself. Here, there were no signs or storefronts to shamefully neglect. Here, I stood distant from my un‑caffeinated anxieties.
Whenever I came to this river, I would only look toward the west, toward her source. Looking downstream, I would be met with the giant steel factory looming over the scene as an unanalyzed symbol of importance to this place I hadn’t been able to grasp yet. Walking west, I felt my heart come to an ease as I looked at the river’s unfolding. I saw a flock of ducks in the water diving for lunch, just where I had seen some the week before. Across on the other bank, I saw kids playing with their parents along the riverside trail, just where I had seen some the week before. Just beyond them, I saw some couples taking photos in the rose garden, just where I had seen some the week before.
Habit was all around me. These ducks and happy people across the bank were not failing themselves by embracing habit or routine. They were doing what they could for themselves because this life can be hard. Discovering what makes it easier is important. Life here, as an inexperienced foreigner, is hard. Habit is not failure. It is a strategy for survival.
Breaking habit, though, can be lovely in itself. Seeing new things, feeling new ways about the familiar, challenging oneself—these are beautiful things that can spruce up a life that is survived by habit. I decided then that I should make a habit of breaking habit. To go out and try to reexamine what has faded into familiarity—all, too, without shunning that familiarity.
Shameless and content, I walked over to my usual coffee shop for a second coffee: an iced latte. At the cafe window, I sipped my coffee and looked out and onto the river below. In the water was a fish jumping upstream. In a uniform direction, with a haphazard rhythm, it chased the setting sun among verdant, overlapping hills, struggling against the steel‑bound flow.