드디어 돈뭉치를 내 손에 움켜쥐었고 양쪽 호주머니에 마구 찔러 넣었다. 흘끔 뒤돌아보니 바짝 뒤따라오던 사람은 떨어진 돈뭉치를 보지 못했는지 아쉬운 표정이 없다. 나는 주머니에 두둑한 돈의 촉감을 만지며 아무 일도 없었다는 듯 가던 길을 염화시중의 미소를 띠며 천천히 걸었다.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
'희망' 이라는 이름의 허리케인
드디어 돈뭉치를 내 손에 움켜쥐었고 양쪽 호주머니에 마구 찔러 넣었다. 흘끔 뒤돌아보니 바짝 뒤따라오던 사람은 떨어진 돈뭉치를 보지 못했는지 아쉬운 표정이 없다. 나는 주머니에 두둑한 돈의 촉감을 만지며 아무 일도 없었다는 듯 가던 길을 염화시중의 미소를 띠며 천천히 걸었다.
Friday, November 26, 2010
A hurricane named Hope
I was walking down a long, bumpy road, looking around for a place to rest my tired legs. Then, in the distance, I spotted something—was that a bundle of green paper? My heart started to race. Could it be money? The closer I got, the more sure I became—it was money. But I noticed someone walking close behind me, which made me nervous. I needed to grab it before they saw it. My steps quickened. Finally, I snatched up the bundle and stuffed it into both pockets as quickly as I could. I glanced behind me—the person following didn’t seem to have seen it. No disappointment on their face. Feeling the weight of the cash in my pockets, I walked away slowly with a calm smile, pretending nothing had happened. Then—bang!—I woke up. The sharp, early morning noise of a garbage truck collecting trash from a nearby body shop jolted me awake. Oh no… That thick green bundle of dollars had looked so real in my dream!
Every day, I check the mailbox, hoping there’s no bad news—even just wishing for no stressful letters. I skim through the mail with a serious face, sigh in relief, toss away junk, and take care of the bills. All I wish for is a peaceful, uneventful day. Just like yesterday. Just like now.
There was a time when the bills piling up in the mailbox made me feel desperate—like I wanted to run away. I even joked about moving to Haenam, Korea’s “end of the land.” Surely no one would chase me there to collect bills! Or maybe I should join the Unification Church—they say they’ll at least take care of your basic needs. Even now, as my life stabilizes, I can’t seem to shake the anxiety from my early immigrant days. Maybe that’s just part of being an immigrant.
Today again, I opened the mailbox with nervous hands. There it was—a bright orange paper.
“Looking for a space to film a movie. Contact if you have a studio.”
Something about it smelled like money. I pulled it out of the trash where I’d tossed it and looked again. Could my dream be coming true?
I called the number. They showed up quickly. Someone came and took lots of pictures of the studio. Then the manager arrived and said he’d get back to me. Not long after, the manager returned with an interior designer. They explained the plan: one day to prep, one day to shoot, one day to put everything back. Three days in total. When they offered the payment, it was more than I expected. I didn’t even know where to look—I just stared awkwardly at the ceiling, trying to look cool.
Once the contract was signed, the money was basically mine. I got so excited, I immediately bought a case of wine. While sipping a glass, I started dreaming about how I’d use this unexpected cash. First, I’d go to the skincare place my friend recommended—great prices, great service. I’d get rid of these sunspots and freckles and maybe lift my drooping eyelids. I’d also finally buy that flat-screen TV. And maybe I’d go visit my younger son in Bangkok. On the way, why not stop by that “end of the land” town I used to joke about? My head was full of plans—dozens of ideas a day about what I’d do with the money.
After depositing the check at the bank, I came home.
“Oh my gosh.”
Waiting for me at the house were unexpected expenses—almost exactly equal to the money I had just received. So this is why people say that when unexpected money comes in, an unexpected expense follows.
I looked up at the sky, and the clouds seemed puffier than ever—like they were mocking me. While I was busy reaching for those unreachable clouds, a big wave came crashing in and washed away all my dreams…
…leaving only that case of wine behind.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
부전여전
Friday, October 22, 2010
Like father, like daughter
"Come on, let’s not fight and just enjoy the trip."
That’s what I said as I picked up my sister and her husband in the car at 6 a.m.
"You’re becoming more and more like Dad. You even talk like him!" my sister replied.
Every time I visit Korea, our father insists on taking my sister and me on a trip.
"From now on, I’ll pay for everything. Eat whatever you want. Just don’t fight, and enjoy yourselves."
But no matter how well it starts, small arguments always seem to creep in.
Our father, who had only one son and not a particularly accomplished one, always gets gloomy when his son comes up in conversation.
He always makes these little jabs, even about his grandson. Then he turns to my sister again:
"This old father takes you on trips and feeds you good food, but you’re out there making money and giving it all to God. How about giving just one-tenth of that effort to me?"
Even my patient sister can’t hold back when it comes to religion. She starts to reply, “And what about you—” but bites her tongue and holds it in.
My sister, who’s short in height, married in a hurry right after college. Despite our father’s strong opposition, her husband was tall and handsome. Thankfully, her kids inherited their dad’s height and good looks. But because of that opposition, our father always seemed a bit cold about it.
“What good is being tall? All you do is strain your neck looking up,” he would mutter.
All of us siblings eventually moved to the U.S. As the eldest daughter, my sister had felt it was her duty to stay behind until our father passed, but in doing so, she lost her younger years.
Stronger and healthier than any of us, our father finally told her,
“Honestly, you’d be helping me more by going to a better country like America and living well. So just go.”
His words hit like a knife—and she finally left Korea.
She’s older than me, but when it comes to life in America, I’m the older one. When she first arrived, she’d ask me for help constantly, and though I usually didn’t mind, on tough days I’d lose my temper.
“Sis, you’re always going to early morning prayer—where’s your God now? Why are you clinging to me all the time? Go pray to Him for help!”
And she would say, almost crying,
“You really do sound just like Dad.”
Then I’d feel bad.
“Okay, okay… I get it.”
She had left Korea to escape Dad’s harsh words—only to run into me. I felt sorry for her and helped, but truthfully, I’ve inherited Dad’s sharp tongue. She suffered from my outbursts, and I suffered from helping her get settled. Still, I’m glad she’s here. She reminds me of Mom.
The food she makes tastes just like Mom’s. No matter how much I snap or throw a tantrum, she puts up with me—just like Mom did.
When we look up together at the quiet country sky, stars pour down like they’re welcoming us.
Maybe by taking my sister on this trip, I can truly say I’m sorry for everything.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
천국보다 낯설은 이스탄불
마침내 터키의 도시 이스탄불에 도착해 호텔을 찾아가는 길, 저 멀리 바닷가에 로맨틱한 식당들이 눈에 띄었다. 호텔에 짐을 풀고 식당을 찾아 바닷가 쪽으로 꺾어 걸었다. 번화가에 그 많던 상가들이 멀어지며 좁은 골목이 미로처럼 얽혀져 바닷가로 이어졌다. 분비던 관광객의 모습은 점점 사라지고 두 방향으로 갈라지는 후미진 골목에 다다랐다.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Istanbul, stranger than heaven
“Spain? Turkey?”
Every time I felt the urge to escape somewhere, Istanbul was the first city that came to mind.
But somehow, I always ended up choosing other places instead.
Finally, I arrived in Istanbul, Turkey. On the way to the hotel, I noticed some romantic restaurants by the sea. After dropping off my luggage, I headed out in search of one. As I walked, the busy shopping area faded, replaced by a maze of narrow alleys leading toward the water. Tourists disappeared, and soon I found myself in a quiet, unfamiliar backstreet split into two paths.
Mesmerized by the city I had long dreamed of, I didn’t realize someone had been following me. A face I had passed several times reappeared. That’s when I knew something was wrong. A group of teenage boys—likely Kurdish—started to close in on me. It was already too late. I felt someone’s breath behind me. At the same time, my bag was yanked.
I was pulled back and spun to the side. A large, dark hand grabbed my bag and tugged hard. I instinctively held on to the strap, but I couldn’t overpower the teenager’s strength and fell forward.
Still gripping the bag, I was dragged across the cobblestone ground until the strap finally snapped. Though it happened in seconds, it felt like forever. I heard voices around me, but no one stepped in to help—only watched. The boy, victorious, looked back with a mocking grin before disappearing into the distance.
I tried to get up, but my body wouldn’t move. I lay in the middle of the alley in shock. The onlookers scattered, glancing at me as they left. It felt like the entire crowd was in on it. Anger boiled inside me.
As I slowly came to my senses, pain radiated from my knee. It was bleeding, my whole body bruised and sore. My legs were so swollen I couldn’t fit into my pants. I couldn’t bend my knees or even walk.
It was early January, and Istanbul was bitterly cold. During the holiday, people slaughtered sheep, and blood spilled out onto the streets. The metallic smell, the brutality—it all disgusted me. I had planned to continue my trip to Greece after Turkey, but that now seemed impossible.
Because government offices were closed for the holiday, I was stuck in Turkey until they reopened and I could replace my passport.
I rested my head on a pillow by the hotel window. Outside, people in fresh clothes hurried by, carrying boxes of baklava, celebrating and returning home smiling. Every morning at 6 a.m., the Islamic prayer call rang out through the city, but in my ears, it sounded like a cry of rage. It woke me from my shallow sleep.
I turned on the TV and flipped through channels until a Korean drama called “Hae-shin” appeared. Lying in bed watching it reminded me of a friend who had once visited New York from Paris. Instead of sightseeing, he stayed in and binge-watched a Korean drama, “Damo,” before flying back. Back then, I had thought, “How pathetic.”
Now I realized—I was the pathetic one.