Going Out – Korean Style

On Friday night I had to teach. Bleh. I left Ida at 4:00, told her I’d be home by 9:30, and to be ready to go out. At 9:30, she, Chanta, and I went to our favorite sushi restaurant. The husband and wife who own the establishment greeted us warmly; Chanta and I eat there almost once a week, if not more. We sat down and watched the World Cup game that was on tv. We had a normal dinner. I felt like myself again. Having dinner with two girlfriends, talking about what’s going on with my friends in San Francisco, who’s doing what, who’s gone where. I could have been anywhere. I talked, and was understood. I listened, and could understand. It felt good.

Towards the end of dinner, my phone rang. It was Sang Jae and his friends. They were downtown. They wanted us to come out and meet them. Are you up for going out? I asked across the table. Ida gave me a look to say, “Please. When am I *not* up for going out?” Chanta politely declined. Ida and I caught a taxi downtown. We met Sang Jae and Young Kwon and decided to go dancing. We went first to Elvis, the local dance club where mostly foreigners frequent. As we walked in, we all looked at each other. The music was bad. And not in a good way. The dj just wasn’t spinnin’. We all shook our heads and walked out.

Sang Jae suggested a Korean nightclub, Basque. We walked back to the center of town, then headed up the stairs. We walked into a dark, swanky nightclub. There were sofas and tables positioned just so, ensuring the most privacy for the patrons. We selected our sofas near the dance floor. Ida and I settled in, then checked out the action on the dance floor. And both turned to each other at the same time with quizzical looks. There were two Soul Train-esque lines on the dance floor, but no Soul Train moves. The lines were segregated, males on one side, females on the other. About 5 feet apart. Each person barely shuffling in their spot. We turned to the boys. What’s going on? we asked. They responded, “A fad. Of the younger generation.” We looked at each other again and giggled. Those words, coming from someone 27 years old, just sounded funny. I think we both assumed that the lines would last for that particular song, then everyone would bust out with some serious DDR moves. But no, the next song, and the next, and the next, people just stood in their spots, shuffling a little to the front, a little to the back.

Ida, my partner in crime since I turned single in San Francisco, turned to me. “Girl, we have got to do something about this. Follow me.” In our 3 inch heels, we easily towered over everyone on the dance floor. Our v-necked dresses contrasted to the buttoned up button-downs so popular with young Korean women these days. We sashayed through the opening in the line, found our own bit of space on the dance floor, and started dancing. Down and dirty, hoochie-coochie mamma dancing. We laughed and giggled the whole time. Very shortly thereafter the boys joined us. We spun and swung, twisted and turned. Then the melody slowed, the lights dimmed even more, and the floor cleared quicker than a junior high post-football game dance. It stunned us. We literally were the only two who had not bolted off the floor. Our partners were already on the sofas. We considered dancing with each other, but decided we had created enough of a stir already.

We sauntered back to the sofas. Waiting for us were our cocktails and a what appeared to be a huge punch bowl filled with milk. What is this? we both wondered. “So good. Try.” But what is it? A Korean word was said, I couldn’t discern the syllables. The thought of drinking milk with a spoon with my gin and tonic just didn’t seem appealing. But I tried it. To their credit, it wasn’t straight milk. It was a milk and 7-Up mixture, with what appeared to be canned fruit cocktail mixed in. And surprisingly, it wasn’t bad. Not the typical bar food, but not bad.

I never was a “double dipper” in the States. Even with friends. I wasn’t obsessive about it, but generally didn’t make it a practice. Here, I’ve gotten over that. When you order soup, one bowl comes to the table. With enough spoons for everyone. At the food stalls on the street everyone dips their fish on a stick into the same sauce. Takes a bite, dips again. Okay, to their credit, the sauce is hot, maybe even sort of close to boiling, so maybe all the random germs are dead. Anyway, same with this concoction. One big bowl, four spoons. When in Rome….

We danced for a couple of hours then Sang Jae announced he wanted to meet one of his other friends, a university colleague. We met him at his friend’s newly opened restaurant. It had to have been at least 3 in the morning, maybe 4, but there were several other patrons in the restaurant. That’s one of the things I do like about living here – Koreans seem to be night people. There is always something open. We sat down on the floor and Sang Jae ordered. The endless supply of small dishes began arriving. Then a big cauldron was placed on the burner in the center of the table. Sang Jae and his friend chatted, Ida and I eyed the contents of the pot. We poked with our chopsticks. What is this? Sang Jae thought for a minute, searching for just the right word. “Pig neck soup.” Ohhhhhh. Not exactly Pizza Orgasmica, but it will do. It really wasn’t bad. After eating our fill, and chatting to his friend, we wearily said “annyong hee gay say-yo” and headed home.