Saturday, October 26, 2013
행콕은 이제 그만
Friday, October 25, 2013
No more Hancock
A young woman walking by asked,
“Hi, you’re not from around here, are you?”
“We’re from Brooklyn,” we replied.
About ten years ago, in late summer, we stayed near the Delaware River and went canoeing. Curious to know where the river actually began, we followed Route 97 upstream. The river, which had been flowing far below cliffs and mountains, came close beside us, then drifted away again.
The scenery was so beautiful, I wanted to capture it in my memory forever. That’s how we ended up in Hancock, a small romantic town in upstate New York. Surrounded by mountains and river mist, Hancock once thrived from its bluestone industry—the same flat stone you see in old Brooklyn sidewalks. But now, with no replacement industry, it has become run-down and sparsely populated. It’s also over three hours from New York City.
Across the river, the Pennsylvania side was so densely wooded it felt eerie to drive through. If you turn off Route 97 near a golf course close to Hancock, there’s a narrow unpaved path where only one car can barely pass. If you follow it to the end, it loops around the town and leads back to Main Street. In summer, the thick forest is so dense, sunlight barely makes it through. But in fall, with leaves blazing red and yellow, a lonely little creek beside the road feels like it’s waiting for us with quiet sympathy.
One day while wandering, we found a house for sale—connected directly to the river. A hand-painted sign in front said “For Sale by Owner,” and the name on it looked Polish and familiar. Sure enough, when I looked it up in the Yellow Pages, the owner turned out to be someone from our own Polish neighborhood in Brooklyn.
“How did you go all the way there and find my house?”
they asked in surprise.
So, our meeting with Hancock became a long, thin thread connecting it to Greenpoint, Brooklyn—like a spider’s web.
Hancock has improved a little since then, but it still carries that quiet, rainy-day loneliness. The woman who had welcomed us so warmly on our first visit—saying she lived nearby in Brooklyn—still hasn’t finished fixing her red-brick house. Old window frames are stacked here and there, waiting.
The river, so clear you can see the bottom, held the reflection of red autumn mountains as if time had stopped. Silently, it flowed like a still lake. Soon the leaves will fall, frost will come, and winter will arrive.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
물의 순리
‘물에 빠져도 살 수 있다.’ 는 엉뚱함이 나를 물 위에 뜨게 했는지도 모른다. 10여 년 동안 동네 수영장에 누워 천장 스카이뷰를 보며 하늘을 나는 듯 물을 저었다.
Friday, October 18, 2013
The rationality of water
When I was young, I, like many children, wished I could fly like a bird. I imagined that if I lay on the water and paddled with my arms, I could take off into the sky. But floating wasn’t easy. Frustrated, I once asked a skilled swimmer friend, “I’m going to jump in at the deepest end—please pull me out if I drown.” Then I leaped into the water. Maybe that absurd bravado—believing, “Even if I drown, I’ll live,”—is what kept me afloat. For over ten years, I lay in the community pool, staring at the skylight ceiling and paddling as if I were flying.
That day, however, was unlike any other. As I entered the locker room area, I noticed the pool window was covered with curtains—I couldn’t see inside. That had never happened before. While opening my locker to change, I nearly fainted: every locker held a blonde wig, looking eerily like severed heads. They stared at me ominously.
Inside the pool, there were no men—only women dressed in long skirts, floating in the water (their skirts ballooned like round, floating shapes). Every gaze turned to me, the small Asian woman in a swimsuit. I was utterly bewildered by the surreal scene. Slowly, I swam across the pool to understand what was happening. A pale woman approached me.
“Do you need a job?” she asked from the water.
I was stunned. A job—in the pool? I stammered,
“What job?”
“Cleaning job.”
A moment’s pause, then I pieced it together—it seemed the Jewish lady was asking if I could clean her home. I smiled and replied gracefully,
“I need a cleaning lady too.”
She floated away with her group, her annoyed, reddened face glancing back at me like a tofu drenched in red chili paste.
Later, dripping wet, I went to the front desk and asked. They told me the pool had changed its schedule: every Wednesday morning, a few hours were reserved exclusively for Hasidic Jewish women. These women follow strict modesty rules and cannot swim in mixed-gender spaces. I lay back in the water, paddling gently, pondering: “In this mixed-up, diverse New York, I’m not the only stranger here—so why the need to push me out like this?” It stung a bit, but understanding their way of life and cultural needs softened the discomfort.
As I floated, I reflected: if I resist the natural flow of water, I’ll drown—but if I let go and move with it, I’ll survive.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
208번 도로를 달려가면
그뿐만이 아니다. 돼지고기숙주찜, 해물쟁반국수, 허브꽃밥, 냉두부, 고추기름소스해물냉채, 생강소스참치회, 새싹탕평채, 아스파라거스 Vinaigrette, 모듬수육, 우족편, 오이소박이로 정성껏 차려진 식탁이 우리를 기다렸다.
"화창한 초가을 저녁 파티에 오는 하객들을 위해 새로 부드럽게 아스팔트까지 깔아 놓은 정성에 감복했어요."
Friday, October 11, 2013
If drive down road 208
As soon as you hit Route 208 from I‑78 West in New Jersey, the car glides smoothly across the road. Turn up the radio and enjoy the ride—before long, you reach a small hill planted with more than sixty varieties of herbs. A playful gardener, the owner, with a blue bow tie, plucked a herb leaf one by one for us, explaining each one's benefits. The scent of those herbs relaxed my body and mind.
But that was just the beginning. Waiting for us was a beautifully arranged table filled with dishes like pork and bean sprout steam, seafood noodle platter, herb‑flower rice, chilled tofu, seafood with chili‑oil sauce, tuna sashimi with ginger sauce, sprout tangpyeongchae, asparagus with vinaigrette, assorted boiled pork, ox trotter slices, and stuffed cucumber kimchi.
Then the hostess, wearing an elegant black dress with bare shoulders, began to play the piano. In that cozy atmosphere, it felt like 15 performers and the audience all shared the same stage. It was the annual “Wyckoff Home Concert” — a warm gathering where musicians and music lovers are invited into their home.
Our connection with this couple goes back over twenty years! I met the husband as my boss at work—and the wife through a book club. Only later, at a friend’s event, did I discover they were married.
Years ago, when my husband moved to Seoul to teach at a university, I relocated north to a good school district in northern New Jersey with our two young children in kindergarten and first grade. The couple hosting the home concert were my former boss and coworker — the same folks who hired me back then, despite my lack of experience and my age. They told me, "In America, age is just a number." They must have thought I was a little different but worth the chance.
A year later, when my husband, worn out by life in Korea, returned, we moved back to Brooklyn. I thought our connection had faded, but instead, it re-emerged and grew. Now, I've been invited to attend their home concert for several years.
On the drive home after that performance, one of the musicians said to my husband,
“Is it hard to live in New York as an artist?”
I replied bitterly,
“I survive by doing part-time work unrelated to music.”
We were all grateful to spend such a wonderful day thanks to two people who invite artists into their home, offering encouragement and comfort.
After the concert, they even sent us home with herb tea bags harvested that very year.
I admire the way they even repaved their driveway with smooth asphalt just for a warm, early-autumn evening party. When the elderly saxophonist made a playful joke, everyone laughed so wholeheartedly. I’d love nothing more than to ride down Route 208 again and go back to that place.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
또 혀
‘또 혀.’면 좋겠지만, 고맙고 미안혀서. 인자 내가 혀야 하는디.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Let's do it again
"Just a simple lunch with lettuce wraps," she said. But it turned out to be one of the most thoughtful, elaborate meals I’ve ever had. I had no idea there were so many different types of wraps we could eat! She said they were all freshly picked from the garden. Sitting at the table on a patch of green grass, it felt like dining in a cozy backyard farm—it was a joy.
It was during Chuseok (Korean harvest festival) when a friend brought homemade food to another friend’s house, and we all shared lunch together. It was one of those meals where your stomach feels full too soon, and you start to resent it—because you want to keep eating. Not just the wraps: there was freshly made kimchi, kale doenjang soup, and so many other dishes I can’t even remember them all. The food I couldn’t finish still lingers in my mind, and I find myself swallowing back a little drool just thinking about it.
My friend didn’t just prepare the food—she also brought the exact number of plates and utensils for everyone so as not to trouble the host. While we laughed and enjoyed the meal, she quietly prepared dessert, pickled leftover veggies in soy sauce, did the dishes, and even tidied up afterwards.
She later said,
“Making the food wasn’t hard. Washing all those greens was.”
Hearing that, I couldn’t help but wonder—doesn’t it take someone with a truly enlightened heart to put so much effort and care into something most people wouldn’t even think to do? Just standing in front of her makes me lower my head in humility. I’m embarrassed by my own lack of thoughtfulness in comparison.
When you’re too thankful, you start to feel guilty. And when you feel guilty, you become speechless. I couldn’t even say thank you—I just quietly drifted into old memories.
I used to work on the PTA when my kids were young. There was always a lot to do for school events, and even more behind-the-scenes tasks. We’d bring what we thought we needed, but inevitably, someone would forget something and it would slow down our work. I always thought, “Why not just borrow things from the teacher’s office?” But one of the moms insisted that we not inconvenience the school staff—they were working for our kids too. She’d go out to the nearest stationery store and buy what we needed.
That moment taught me a lasting lesson: When you come unprepared and rely on others for convenience, you’re only making things harder for them.