Let’s Do Lunch

Generally, when someone says this to me, I allot one, maybe two, in special circumstances three, hours in my schedule.

Mr. Ju called this morning at 10. He wanted to meet for lunch. Seeing I was looking forward to a day of cleaning my apartment and packing, it would be a nice change of pace. We met at 1 in front of the so-yae lecture hall. It is now 9 pm.

When we met at 1, he greeted me with these words, “Let’s eat at the East Sea.” The East Sea? Well, um, okay. “Do you mind my friend come too?” No, not at all. Sounds good. We got in the car and began our journey to the East Sea, approximately 100 km east (d’oh) of Daegu. We picked up his friend along the way. I was never told his name, only what he does – a commercial English teacher at the Business and Intelligence High School.

Mr. Ju’s friend was master of the obvious. As we entered the highway, he announced, “North Daegu Interchange,” just as it was written, in English, on the highway sign. As we came to a rest area, he announced, “Slow,” also written in English on a road sign. When we got out of the car, he pointed to the women’s rest room and said, “Women. Bathroom.” As I always do, I smiled and thanked him.

Mr. Ju said the trip would take about 2 hours. Three hours later, we were still winding through the narrow mountain roads, bordered by lush greenness. “Almost there. Almost there,” he kept saying. Suddenly, we began our descent over a hill, and sure enough, the East Sea greeted us. We rolled down the windows. “Fressshhhhhhh. The air is so good. Mmmmmm.” I breathed in the air, at once feeling the salt collect upon the hairs on my arm.

We parked the car. I got out. I squealed. There is something about the ocean that excites me. I clapped my hands in joy. My two companions laughed and laughed.

We walked to a makeshift shelter by the ocean. A platform, covered with linoleum, small tables scattered here and there. A group of old men slapping down cards, collecting money. A couple, enjoying a romantic dinner by the sea. And us. Two Korean grandfathers and a tall American woman. As usual, activity stopped, eyes stared when I walked in. I smiled and bowed, then continued to our tiny table.

We sat down. Laughing, Mr. Ju introduced me as his daughter to the proprietor, an old friend of his. Soon the platters arrived. First, the snails. With eggs. And a squirmish red thing.

Then the small side dishes for soy sauce and the red vinegar-y, pepper-y sauce.

Then, the soju and beck sae ju. Beck sae ju. The alcohol that allows you to live for 100 years if you drink it regularly. Amen.

The platter of sliced raw fish big enough to feed a small nation. The bowls of chopped cabbage salad, swimming in ginger-y, tart sauce. The small plates of garlic. The platters of fresh leaves.

We began eating. We toasted each other. We ate raw fish. We watched children play in the ocean.

Mr. Ju spoke. “We thought you stay here one, maybe two, maybe three years. We so sad you leaving. Promise you will visit Korea once a year.” Welllll, I will try to visit again. I will miss you. I really will. You have been so kind to me. “We hope you marry Korean man and stay Korea forever. We have 2 weeks to find you husband. We want you marry.” Maybe one day I will marry. But for now, no. He smiled, shook his head, looked down and said, “I miss you already.”

We continued to eat. The owner brought us bowls of rice (it’s not a meal if you don’t eat rice) and a soup that was delightfully salty and fishy. Afterwards, we drank hot instant coffee.

We walked on the beach, the sun now setting. We watched a group set up camp on the beach. They had brought coolers filled with watermelons, and beer, and soju. Grills (yes, plural), meat, bags of vegetables, boxes of the unknown. We took pictures. Then got back in the car.

As we drove, I marvelled at the scenery. Silvery lakes, lavender mountains in the background, slivers of pink clouds, against a faint baby blue sky. What a beautiful world.

I was lost in my praise of creation when I heard a voice from the back seat. “Miss Lori? Miss Lori?” Yes? “What do you think of the love affair?” Excuse me? “What do you think of the love affair?” I have a bad habit of picking, no tearing, at my fingernails when I’m nervous. Or bored. “The love affair? What you think?” Well. Hmm. I looked up. The road sign said Daegu – 82 km. I looked down. Blood was just barely trickling from two of my fingers. Well. I think. I think that if two people share the same interests and values, and share passion, then maybe they will share love. That they often go on to get married and have a love affair. When they are married. To each other. “But you, what about YOU?” I turned around. I knew what he was getting at. I also knew that I had to ride in the car with him for at least another 80 km. In bumper to bumper traffic that could translate to 2 hours. I was married. At this point, Mr. Ju interjected. “I have not told him about you.I have not told him you married.” Well, tell him now. Tell him I was married. I was loving someone. But I’m not now. A lot of Korean transpired. A voice from the back seat. “But what about the love affair? You – having the love affair?” and he smiled a lecherous smile as he nodded to himself. Are you married? “Of course!” Do you have children? “Of course! A son.” Oh. That’s very good. I think, hmmm, I think, if you are married, you don’t be loving any other woman other than your wife. That’s what I think about the love affair.

I couldn’t believe I was using such atrocious English. But sometimes, I have to weigh the advantages of proper English usage vs. communication. In this case, communication was more important. He understood.

We rode in silence for a long time. “Miss Lori? Miss Lori?” I turned around. Yes? “Miss Lori, what you think of the Korean man?” Without realizing it, I began picking at my nails again. This was very uncomfortable. Mr. Ju has been nothing but kind to me over the past 6 months. This was a friend of his. I didn’t want to offend him, yet I wanted in no uncertain terms to let him know I was not going to be loving him. Well. Some Korean men have been very kind to me. Mr. Ju has been very nice to me. “Would you be loving a Korean man?” I turned around. I looked him straight in the eye. I might be loving a Korean man. If he were not married. And I turned back around, staring at the endless line of red lights as traffic stretched in front of us for miles and miles.

Mr. Ju put on a tape. A beautiful, sultry Korean voice singing love songs. Mr. Backseat translated. “Love me. Love you. Love each other. Love, love, love.”

I glanced up. Daegu – 12 km.