“Oh! This is upsetting. In Seoul, people treat me with respect. Why is everyone like this in New York?”
“I guess all the people who treated you like a VIP in Seoul are now relaxing while you enjoy your sabbatical in New York.”
I couldn’t hold back and replied with a cold tone.
This complaint came from an old friend who studied abroad with me long ago, but later became a professor in Seoul and got used to the special treatment there. But she lived through the hard life in New York too—how could she forget? Who should be treating whom now? It seems like “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” means nothing to her.
Now that we’ve lived in different environments for so long, even when we meet again, it doesn’t feel the same. Neither the Seoul way nor the New York way feels satisfying anymore. I’m already overwhelmed with visitors coming from all directions, and yet people show up in New York during their sabbaticals or summer breaks and expect me to meet them. Why should I meet up with people who act so formal and stiff now, when we used to laugh and talk so freely?
“Why didn’t you contact me when you came to Seoul?”
They say things like that, but when I do visit and reach out, they always say they’re on an overseas trip.
A long time ago, we lived in a big studio on Grand Street in Manhattan. My husband and I used one side, and our roommate used the other. We had master’s degrees that didn’t help us find proper jobs. To survive, my husband sold blouses on the corner of Broadway and Canal Street, and our roommate sold shrimp rolls from a shiny hot dog cart in front of the Chrysler Building.
Every night, the three of us sat down, counted the money, checked the totals, and laughed together. On days with good sales, we went to Chinatown and treated ourselves to an extra plate of watercress along with our usual cheap meal. Life was hard, but our passion for it burned as hot as the summer sun.
One day, a Black man bought a shrimp roll from our roommate and complained that there were no shrimp, even after eating half of it.
Our roommate told him,
“Keep eating. The shrimp will come out.”
We laughed so hard, clutching our stomachs and stomping our feet.
The shrimp was so small, it was like shrimp paste!
Have we really lost those fresh, youthful days forever?
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