Our chatter

"Is there anywhere you want to go?"
My friends in Seoul asked me warmly, knowing I had come from far away.

Even after I moved to the U.S. long ago, my friends continued to meet once a month at popular restaurants, chatting and staying close over the years. After each gathering, one of them would often send me an email, sometimes with photos, sharing where they went, what they ate, and how much fun they had.

I’d imagine their outings from afar and feel a deep longing, spending the next few days in a cloud of nostalgia.
“I want to go where you usually hang out.”
I wanted to experience the kind of day I had only imagined from New York.

We agreed to meet at the entrance of Myeong-dong, in front of the Woori Bank—a convenient spot for everyone. As we walked toward Myeong-dong Cathedral, we peeked into alleyways, but there were hardly any traces left of the good old days.

We had lunch at a restaurant near the cathedral called “A Small Happiness in the Garden.” It’s a Korean fusion restaurant where the chef, who used to cook for the Myeong-dong priests, now prepares meals using organic vegetables she grows herself. The food was pretty good, and the atmosphere was pleasant.

But honestly, I longed for something else. A 1970s-style tented street stall where I could pull back the plastic flap and say,
“Ajumma, one bottle of soju and some fishcakes, please!”
Or a market stall where I could sit and shout,
“Ajumma, makgeolli and a plate of mung bean pancakes!”
And then finish it off with noodles in a hot fishcake broth sprinkled with green onions.

Every time I went to Seoul, I swore I’d try a pojangmacha (street stall), but my father would always say,
“If you want a stomachache, go ahead.”
So I never got to go. Now I even wonder—do those stalls still exist?
Meanwhile, my husband dreams of sipping whiskey in one of those fancy bars from Korean dramas.

After leaving the elegant restaurant, we went to a café called “Coin.” Most places these days have long or English names. We ordered our drinks and chatted for ages, and just as our throats were starting to feel dry, a Japanese waiter kindly brought over complimentary coffee and tea.
A Japanese waiter? In the middle of Myeong-dong? Globalization? It was a bit confusing.
But my friends said that’s why they like this café—no one rushes you, and they even bring you freebies.

I remembered a senior once saying about a favorite restaurant,
“They don’t pressure the customers here.”
And we had all nodded in agreement.

It was already sunset, but no one mentioned going home. We dipped our feet into the Cheonggyecheon stream and kept chatting endlessly. Even then, my eyes kept drifting upward.
The ghostly image of the massive overpass that used to loom over Cheonggyecheon was still stuck in my mind.

If that strange brain disease—the one that takes away your memory and thoughts—never touches us, Then maybe, just maybe, Our endless conversations will go on forever.