Trust and Comforts

I'm in love with the end. Or well, I fall in love with the things that are ending. If it's going to last, I forget to love it. Korea is ending. My adventure is coming to a close. Quicker than I anticipated. And I find myself loving everything about Korea, knowing soon enough, I won't be able to love it the same way. And also knowing that I don't know what is after. After. After Korea.

We are creatures of habit, it's the way we survive, the way we function. But habits don't come quickly in a foreign country. I have them now and they are comforting. I wake up early in the morning, turn on the heat for my shower, make a cup of instant coffee, get ready for work, walk to work with my ipod in my one good ear, teach, go to the gym, walk home, make dinner, read, watch bad television, play with Animal, and go to sleep. Sometimes I mix it up a bit, but for the most part, that's my life. There is comfort in that. And there is comfort in the familiar faces and the same awkward greetings at the gym and there is comfort in the things that didn't used to make sense. Things like the community bathrooms, with both urinals and stalls and no there is no lock, you just walk in and if someone is using the urinal, just attempt to avoid glancing down and definitely don't make eye contact. I don't want to make eye contact with an old man holding his...you get the picture. There is comfort in the fact that everyone has there cell phone number on their dashboard or windshield so that if they block someone in when they are parking their car, that person can call them and they'll come and move it. There is comfort in always sharing your meals; eating is about community and friendship and nothing is more intimate than sharing food.

There is a fondness blooming in my heart like a poppy. It frightens me. This is not an easy place to love and it is not an easy place to call a friend, but the breakthroughs feel enormous when they happen, as if I've just chipped away the first piece of the Berlin Wall. And it's all about to crumble and open up to a different world. How do I walk away from that?

On Saturday, I arrived at Hongik station and called Sun Joon. "Ask someone how to get to the Happy Prince," he told me. Only, I didn't understand what he said.

"Holpy Prints?" I asked him.

"Yes, Happy Prince."

I handed my phone to a stranger and shrugged. The stranger pointed at the call button as if I was really stupid and couldn't figure out how to make a phone call. "Aneeyo, anee," I said, making my hand into the shape of a phone and held it to my ear.

"Yoboseyo?" he said into my phone. I could here Sun Joon on the other end.

The stranger handed me back my phone. "I don't know," he said. "Chogum man-yo." Wait a minute. He asked another man. "Mul ay yo," the second stranger said. I don't know.

"It's okay," I said, laughing. "Kamsamnida."

I got back on the phone with Sun Joon. "No one knows," I told him, about to give up. "I can come back another day."

"No, no, it's okay," he reassured me. "I'm very sick, so I can't come to meet you," he groaned into the phone.

I spotted another stranger, leaning against the cement of a short wall, smoking a cigarrette. I liked his style...converse, skinny jeans, Panama hat, scarf, and the thinnest mustache ever (Korean men have a difficult time growing a full stache). "Excuse me," I said, handing him my phone. I put my trust in strangers.

"Yoboseyo," he said into the phone, almost completely unphased. He continued speaking and when he handed me back my phone he said, in perfect English, "I don't know how to tell you to get there, so I will take you." We wandered through Hongdae, the artsy university district of Seoul, awkwardly bumping into each other in an attempt to avoid bumping into other strangers.

His name was Hun Lee and he spoke perfect English. He said he studied very hard to learn English. He is a student, studying computer engineering and design. He walked me for twenty minutes, right to the front doors of the Happy Prince and then turned around and walked back to the subway station.

When I called Sun Joon back to let him know I was at the Happy Prince he told me to wait at the flower shop across the street and someone would come and meet me.

Someone, who's name I have completely forgotten, came and met me. He was dressed in '80s punk attire, with anarchist patches sewn onto his black pants and skeleton rings on his fingers. But his voice was soft and he had the most perfectly smooth skin and dimples that made him appear less extreme.

He kept telling me that the "tattoo guy is really sick, so I'll take care of you." What I thought he meant was that he would help me with my tattoo design. Which he did. And he brought me tea. And measured my wrists, and left me in a freezing room for 20 minutes. What I didn't think, after hearing how sick the tattoo guy was several times, was that this guy was going to do my tattoos. But, after several minutes of watching him battle with the tattoo gun, it sunk in. I took a deep breath and put my trust in another stranger.

And everything turned out just as I wanted it. Trust. It's a funny thing. Sometimes, it's easier to trust strangers than the people we love. It feel less dangerous. But, what's the danger in trusting anyone? Everyday is a risk. Trusting people makes it feel a little less risky.