Curious Colleagues: Seoul

Sunchaul sent the driver away with a quick wave of his hand and offered himself and his girlfriend as guides, instead. With tussled cheek-length hair and a pair of smart glasses, he didn’t paint the picture of a typical Korean. Moving ahead of us with haphazard strides, he walked with a clear disregard for the direction, saying over his shoulder that finding places in Seoul was hard, particularly with no address. When I asked if the guidebook had been right in saying that house numbers in Seoul weren’t sequential, he added that even with addresses it was still very difficult. We’d been walking for less than five minutes when he suddenly broke his air of high-minded repose and shouted “Let’s just get some beer!” I seconded it.

As I would learn, Sunchaul had a habit of doing this, shattering his typically restrained composure with sudden eruptions in a moment’s excitement that left him waving his hands in the air wildly and yelling, before just as suddenly stepping back into his cool, unhurried, and often silent conduct. Along the way, his girlfriend stopped to ask directions of two workers on the street, and Sunchaul noticing her absence behind us, wheeled around and shouted a sharp Korean reproach that sent her skittering to catch-up, but answering him with an easy and unhurried explanation.

We arrived at a street-side stand, with fold-away tables and plastic chairs set out on the vacant sidewalk in front of a mall that by day would be crammed with windowshoppers. As we drank, Sunchaul asked diplomatic questions and offered authoritative explanations. His girlfriend proved the more curious of the two, though with limited English hung back and pressed for a detailed explanations only when a break in the conversation allowed for her to interject. Thin, pretty, she dressed conservatively and wore her hair modestly. Though generally reserved, I could tell from a few tiny gestures and her easy posture that she was comfortable sitting there, and happy to have met us.

Asian reservation has many gradients, and to the unfamiliar may seem smug, standoffish, or awkward. Often, it’s only by the way a person will hold their shoulders, or look you in the eyes, that lets you know if the goodwill is genuine or forced. The conversation grew more loud as the finished bottles began to add up, and I wondered how much her reticence stemmed from gender roles. As I’d never have another chance to speak with her, it’s hard to know.

As we drank, it came out that Sunchaul was an associate professor at two Seoul universities, including the reputable Korea University, and that in any given semester he taught as many as eight classes, most of them on Korean literature. Not believing my good luck, I began drilling him for details on Korean literature. He told me hastily that there was only one book I had to read understand Korea, but that he couldn’t remember it’s English name. Taking my notebook, Sunchaul started to write. After a few misprints, he passed the book back to me. In a free-form hand he’d written 論語, the Chinese name for the Analects.

I shouted in surprise before nearly knocking the small table over in a gesture to mime my having the book with me, here, in Korea. For all my excitement Sunchaul sat back placidly, nodding in slow approval. So muted was his reaction, I doubted he had understood me. Still, it was a fantastic coincidence, and must have made an impression on him, because after I’d calmed down, he offered us the use of his remaining vacation time and his car for a road trip down the Korean coast. We agreed instantly. Each time he mentioned the trip thereafter, his girlfriend visibly cooled. In soft, low tones, she spoke to him with gentle Korean, which he ignored.

Sunchaul began to show signs of fading, and it was clear the drinking should soon end.
Knowing the customs in Asia, Jesse and I went about covertly trying to pay the bill ahead of our hosts. All over Asia, there are great races to pay the bill, but after his welcome and generosity, we both felt we had to pay the tab. Thinking we’d staged a friendly coup, as in Taiwan, I laughed and slapped him on the back when he started protesting with the shopkeeper, having found his money was no good.

Sunchual’s shoulders dropped, and his protests fell away with the pitiable candor of a drunken man. His voice had grown surprisingly weak, and Jess and I instantly realized we’d made a mistake. Defeated, he raised a last meek complaint before falling into a long silent stretch. “But . . . I’m older . . .”

A line of police officers had been marching up and down the street all evening long. Helmeted, with riot shields, and in a train at least a hundred men-strong, they walked in silence on silent streets. The beef riots, spurred on by an TV journalist’s investigative report that claimed mad cow disease targeted those of Korean decent with savage ferocity, still commanded the attention of many residents. Sunchaul pointed and laughed darkly. Silent officers on an empty street. It was all ridiculous. With that, we shook hands, and promising to call tomorrow to arrange our trip, parted ways. In the cab, we passed the officers sitting on thee sidewalk, still in their marching lines.