CUCUMBER

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.”

“You’ll figure that out. The more you know who you are,

and what you want, the less you let things upset you.”

Bob Harris, Lost in Translation (2003)

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

Christmas lights cascade around my head. I wander the neon-lit streets full of college students - men with bowl cuts and plaid jackets, women with dresses and skirts of various colors. A dance battle is happening behind me. The audience cheers as a man spins on his head to the song “Gangnam Style,” that of the viral music with 2.7 billion views on YouTube. A man saunters outside a Korean barbecue restaurant, pack of Parliaments in hand, removes a cigarette and lights it. He puffs the smoke into the air, pierced with a purple haze from a 노래방 across the street. Since I’ve arrived in August, I’ve explored almost every district of Seoul’s streets. My friends are in their freshman years of college. I am here.

노래방 - “noraebang”

a karaoke room, where friends and family meet

to drink soju and sing songs well into the vibrant night.

The signs’ lights fill the streets with pinks, blues, and indigos. Street lights highlight the masses of people milling about. If I look up at the sky long enough, the stars appear, the noise drowns, and the light pollution recedes - a singular dot in a lively world.

A 할머니 shoves a brochure in my hand as she hustles by, trying to lure me into a gun range. The brochure is a small square paper, with pictures of machine guns and pistols and rifles and multiple exclamation points. She doesn’t care who takes them as long as she gets rid of all of them. Four other women on this street are doing the same thing. They offer no smiles or familiarity, just bitter hospitality that leaves me shiver.

할머니 - “hal mo nee”

grandmother, one who provides

love & comfort & security

This time off came unexpectedly. At the time, one year felt infinite - to simply skip one academic year after twelve straight - the monotonous cycle breaks. I am here. Here, sarcasm flies over people’s heads. Do not tell them that, they will look over their heads in confusion. I am, for the better part, alone.

Businessmen loiter on the street. They puff their cigars and guffaw in their suits. They indulge in their barbecue meals and substitute 소주 for water. In a side room is a pool table, glowing green under the spotlight. Obscured in cigarette haze, a gentleman whips his pool stick back, cracks the cue, and shatters the vibrant triangle. I struggle to order 삼겹살. My Korean is passable, but not fluent. When people learn, I receive many looks of disappointment - looks of disgust, arrogance, and condescendence. Waiters, cashiers, cab drivers, and common folk on the subway all know how to roll their eyes. How can I look like them but not be one of them?

소주 - “soju “

 a clear, vodka-like, rice spirit

삼겹살 - “sam gyeop sal”

- thick, fat slices of pork

 - similar to bacon

 - delicious

Another! my friend exclaims, slamming his third White Russian on the table. The drink shines bright white under the LED disco lights of Pierrot Strike. A well-known cosmic bowling alley, this is also where I discover White Russians are very good. I love the coffee liqueur - it agrees with me in taste, but it does not agree with my stomach; the White Russians come back up in the restroom. My friend asks me if I’m okay. Yes. He orders me another. Perfect.

Koreans wear big, baggy sweatshirts with random English words plastered on the front in big, baggy letters. Words like “BEACH” or “building” or “CUCUMBER.” I bet they forget, if they ever knew, the meanings of the words they wear. It is like us in America, where we wear shirts or get tattoos in foreign languages. I understand its appeal, but its arbitrary and a little off putting. I am timid in a familiar but unrecognizable culture. I lost count of the times I have seen Lost in Translation.

Lost in Translation - film, released in 2003

Strangers

 Bob Harris and Charlotte

form a quirky, poetic relationship

exploring the foreign streets of

Tokyo, Japan.

Bob and Charlotte are wonderful together. Lost in the beautiful world of Tokyo, they embrace their vulnerabilities rather than shy away from them. Vulnerability is beautiful. It can grow your heart to twice its size, but it can also shatter it to pieces, glass against concrete. Lost in Translation fills in the gaps of loneliness. Often, I find myself melancholic for no reason at all. I am reminded it is okay to be lost.

vulnerability

noun (plural vulnerabilities)

the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of

being attacked or harmed, physically or emotionally

Meeting women in Korea is very different than in America, naturally. Men are more important in Korean culture, the fruit bearers. The men pamper the women, pay for all meals, spoil them. The women become dazzled and swept off their feet with money and attention. They like to be equated to a dollar value. HOW MUCH AM I WORTH TO YOU? They want to be spoiled, but also want nothing too committed. This of course, does not account for all women in Korea.

Communication is difficult, but not impossible. The art of romance is a traditionally understood culture and procedure, something I did not fully grasp in Seoul. In a country I can hardly communicate, identify with, or befriend, I am truly on my own, in a place I now consider another home, but at the time, could not feel more foreign. I can understand you, but sometimes I do not think we are speaking the same language.

SEOUL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

Seoul’s airport is one of the nicest I’ve ever been to. It is also ranked the cleanest airport in the world by more than a couple of sources. The airport has multiple food courts, a spa, and private sleeping rooms for naps and overnight stays. Oh, there are also indoor gardens, a casino, indoor gardens, and about one hundred Duty Free stores. The airport is an attraction all in itself.

It is the day I am departing to go to Hawaii. Home. I have arrived at the airport five hours before my flight. I buy some small gifts and books around the airport, including Duty Free, the only place I can buy Parliaments to bring back to the states. I sit down and order udon at one of the food courts. As I pay the check, the waitress asks me where I’m headed. Hawaii, I say. Oh, lucky. Hawaii is beautiful. I wish I could spend the holidays there. Enjoy your visit, she says. Why am I only visiting? Seoul isn’t my home, is it?

As I board my plane, looking out the window, it’s weird to tell myself it is over. During my three months in Seoul I was amazed, inquisitive, confident, hurt, and healed. I will return, but it will never be the same. I miss the beautiful streets, bars, bowling lanes, and pool rooms in Seoul. I miss the curiosity - the urge to keep learning. But leaving Seoul does not mean removing my curiosity - I can do this anywhere.

“Let’s never come here again because it would never be as much fun.”

- Charlotte, Lost in Translation