The Foreigner Problem: Part I
I woke up today wondering why we’re still here. My mind raced with people, places, commitments, and most of all, time. The ever-elusive time, those spare days that Alex and I had hoped to save for travel around the peninsula. The hours in the weekend we wanted to explore Gwangju, or maybe, see a movie. The afternoons I wished to be out with my camera, but instead I’m shoulder deep in dictionaries and Korean newspapers in my continuing quest for the language. The late nights of martial arts that, once in awhile, we would prefer to spend over a quiet dinner. “Why are we still here?”, is the question that nagged me this morning as we woke up to bike to the immigration office.
Riding a bike is a meditative thing, especially in Gwangju. Small streets wind out onto the modern city routes between squat, square buildings. These small structures conceal cars from pedestrians, and vice-versa making for close calls, or calls you don’t want to get. Sidewalks are small if they exist at all, and when they do, are littered with young and old alike unaware of others around them. The old woman who is permanently bent at the waist from years of laboring under Japanese oppression and the rebuilding afterwards, I can forgive. The young kids jockeying for a better glimpse of their reflection to coif their hair, I cannot. I will ring my tiny bell, slow a bit, but then I leave it in the hands of the Gods of Pedestrian Warfare. Are there such Gods? I no longer doubt. As I was saying, biking is quite meditative. You're safety depends on you thinking of nothing else. All your focus pours into gear changes, traffic, and those damn hills.
Sweat beads on my forehead as we turn into Immigration’s parking lot. Two men twist around out of curiosity as we slow to a stop. They smoke, their eyes following us to the doors of office before they resume their conversation. When we return so does their curiosity, and they carefully pace towards us as we unlock our bikes. I liken it to an inquisitiveness one has when investigating an unusual object they randomly spot on the ground. No real emotion, just a need to place what one's seeing. Hopping on our bikes and heading out, the men pace back to the sidewalk they were previously holding down. Maybe with curiosity fulfilled, maybe not.
The reason for mentally noting all of their interest is not just because I’m a freak, it’s because I need to understand. The stares, the assumptions, the overwhelming curiosity that leads old men to stand with their faces 5 inches from mine. I’d like to know why the grocery ladies giggle a bit, and why some now, smile affectionately. Or why old women with a twinkle in their eye sometimes pat my arm and give a hefty laugh, while young women walk wide around me like I’m a pitbull foaming at the mouth . . . . .
Puffing my way up the large hill to “Gold Countryville”, the pieces of what once seemed a complex puzzle started to nestle together. I am now faced with “The Foreigner Problem”, and how we'd changed so much by not being a part of it.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Riding a bike is a meditative thing, especially in Gwangju. Small streets wind out onto the modern city routes between squat, square buildings. These small structures conceal cars from pedestrians, and vice-versa making for close calls, or calls you don’t want to get. Sidewalks are small if they exist at all, and when they do, are littered with young and old alike unaware of others around them. The old woman who is permanently bent at the waist from years of laboring under Japanese oppression and the rebuilding afterwards, I can forgive. The young kids jockeying for a better glimpse of their reflection to coif their hair, I cannot. I will ring my tiny bell, slow a bit, but then I leave it in the hands of the Gods of Pedestrian Warfare. Are there such Gods? I no longer doubt. As I was saying, biking is quite meditative. You're safety depends on you thinking of nothing else. All your focus pours into gear changes, traffic, and those damn hills.
Sweat beads on my forehead as we turn into Immigration’s parking lot. Two men twist around out of curiosity as we slow to a stop. They smoke, their eyes following us to the doors of office before they resume their conversation. When we return so does their curiosity, and they carefully pace towards us as we unlock our bikes. I liken it to an inquisitiveness one has when investigating an unusual object they randomly spot on the ground. No real emotion, just a need to place what one's seeing. Hopping on our bikes and heading out, the men pace back to the sidewalk they were previously holding down. Maybe with curiosity fulfilled, maybe not.
The reason for mentally noting all of their interest is not just because I’m a freak, it’s because I need to understand. The stares, the assumptions, the overwhelming curiosity that leads old men to stand with their faces 5 inches from mine. I’d like to know why the grocery ladies giggle a bit, and why some now, smile affectionately. Or why old women with a twinkle in their eye sometimes pat my arm and give a hefty laugh, while young women walk wide around me like I’m a pitbull foaming at the mouth . . . . .
Puffing my way up the large hill to “Gold Countryville”, the pieces of what once seemed a complex puzzle started to nestle together. I am now faced with “The Foreigner Problem”, and how we'd changed so much by not being a part of it.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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