You know when you’re lost in a crowd and you’re looking for that one special person, who looks least likely to bite, so that you can ask for directions? Somebody who looks like they’re probably a local, probably not packing heat, and can probably point you in the right direction without asking for your left kidney in return? Look no further. I am that person! Even the occasional Korean thinks that I’m that person.
It was a Tuesday. It was raining. I adore the rain, so I was quite chipper. I secretly can’t wait until typhoon season. And by secretly, I mean that I regularly scream this at the top of my lungs so that everybody knows it. I. Love. Rain. Nothing in this world gives me the joy that listening to a rain storm does. I figure that a typhoon will have the same effect, ten fold. Instead of cute little rain drops falling, the entire cloud will drop. Boom! Fantastic. My pants are totally off! Sign me up. Insert other random displays of enthusiasm here.
I was probably returning to work from to the kimbap restaurant near my school. This was mid January, so the memory on this part is a little foggy. Yes, it was raining in mid January. I am yet to spot a snow flake in Busan Land. I once thought that I saw some hail; this matter is still being debated. Every now and then when I’m really feeling homesick, I remind myself that while I may have been freezing my ass off for the past 6 weeks, I still couldn’t see my breath when I was outside. It’s almost enough to make one never want to go back to Canada Land and her cruel, cruel winters. Then I remember soju. And Piss Alley. And the Soju Men. Suddenly, Canada Land doesn’t seem too bad! And then I remember White Trash. And call centers. And that time that I got shingles. This is usually where I stop this train of thought in the hopes of salvaging whatever part of my mind hasn't shattered.
As I was making my way back to school, some random on a scooter whirled towards me. They tend to do this a lot, and it never ceases to irritate me. Something about speeding objects, which weigh infinitely more than I do, accelerating towards me makes me extremely uncomfortable. The Scooter Man slowed down just beside me. This is where he should have flipped up his helmet to speak to me. Of course, this is Korea Land, where helmets are for the old and not-so-nifty. Naturally, Scooter Man was not wearing his helmet. Scooter Man, with his gloriously air blown locks, started rambling at me in Korean. It dawned on me that he was probably asking for directions, as I can surmise no other reason why he would have been waving his hands as he was. It also dawned on me that with my hood pulled over my head and minimal light, there was the distinct possibility that for once in my Korean Life, somebody failed to notice that I was a foreigner. I removed my hood, smiled, and shrugged my shoulders at him. He looked confused and quickly drove away.
Sadly, I have not been mistaken for a local since.
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