Saturday, November 30, 2013
떠나가는 후배
Friday, November 29, 2013
A leaving junior
In the early winter, when all the yellowed leaves have fallen, my dearest junior tells us she's leaving New York and going back to Korea. People I love seem to be slipping away one by one, like falling leaves. The older seniors have already passed on, and now the juniors are heading to Korea. Is it just my husband and me who are left behind?
Out of her backpack, like a tipsy bundle, tumbled bottles of makgeolli and snacks.
Maybe she can’t hold her liquor like before? Her Gyeongsang Province accent was getting thicker—clearly tipsy. I thought she was heading to the bathroom, but instead, she was struggling to squeeze her legs into a long photo booth. Well, maybe she's tired of drinking with the same old seniors who repeat themselves. She used to stay up drinking with us until dawn, even after a short nap.
“Call them. See if they can come,” he said.
When my husband gets a bit tipsy, he gets excited and says:
“Hey, come join us. We’re having a drink.”
And the reply, already slurred:
“I’m already drinking too!”
“Don't overdo it.”
“I love you, sunbaenim!”
“Who is it~”
It's the middle of the day, but the voice sounds like it just woke up.
“You went hard last night, didn’t you? Still passed out?”
Come to think of it, we spent more years together under the excuse of "art" that was more like "alcohol."
As a senior, I wasn’t a great role model or much help—just feel guilty and start mumbling while staring off in a random direction.
I once tried to set her up with a foreigner, not wanting her to struggle alone in New York. But she insisted, “I want to be able to eat Korean food in peace,” so that fell through too. Fine then. Korea's doing well—go. Eat all the Korean food you want, make great work, and live happily without feeling lonely.
The three of us, my husband, she, and I, walked to the subway station, arms around each other, swaying like drunks.
“Sunbaenim, I love you. You know I really like you, right?”
“You drunk?”
“Are we the only ones left now?” I said. “The only ones from our class who came first and stayed behind to keep watch over New York?”
“We stayed not because we had somewhere to be—but because we had nowhere to go, no one calling us back.”
“Why’d she have to leave now, in this bleak early winter when all the leaves have fallen? It’s just depressing.”
“You’d better stay healthy. If you’re going to be my drinking buddy, you’ll need to stick around. You’re my best friend, you know.”
I quietly reached for his hand. He pulled it away without a word and walked ahead. My awkward hand buried itself deep in my coat pocket, and my short legs hurried to keep up with him.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
남이섬 가는 길에
관광버스에서는 붉은색 유니폼 등산복 입은 아줌마들을 쉬지 않고 토해냈다. 남이섬은 폭탄 맞아 불타는 듯했다.
Friday, November 22, 2013
On the way to Nami Island
A middle-aged woman, wearing heavy lipstick, talked nonstop. The woman sitting next to her was nodding off, clearly sleepy. Losing her conversation partner, the talkative lady jumped into someone else’s conversation across the aisle—interrupting a woman who was asking the man beside her something.
For the full 55 minutes on Line 7 from Sangbong Station to Gapyeong on the Gyeongchun Line, the woman never once stopped talking. She went on and on with typical complaints—how she helped her youngest sister get married, how things worked out somehow, how she’s nice to her daughter-in-law but the daughter-in-law avoids her, and so on.
In the end, I moved to another seat a bit further away. Still, her voice followed me without pause. If I, a stranger, couldn’t handle the endless chatter, I can only imagine how her daughter-in-law must feel living with her.
Across from a man dozing off sat a woman with round, rabbit-like eyes wide open. Both wore identical red jackets—probably a new couple outfit. She was excitedly talking on the phone, saying, “We’re going hiking together as a couple!” Her husband looked exhausted, like he had been dragged out of bed.
Nearby, six older men—clearly past their prime—were dressed as if ready to conquer the Himalayas. When a young woman walked by wearing almost nothing on her lower half (just a long top and very short shorts), the men stopped talking and stared, mouths open and eyes wide. In contrast to the tired man napping beside his wife, these men looked thrilled and full of energy.
After getting off at Gapyeong Station, I took a local bus to Nami Island, also known as the "Naminara Republic"—a made-up country for tourists. We took a boat to the island, turned right, and walked along the river, circling the island. Then we crossed the middle, shaped like a half-moon. It was such a cute, charming island that I wanted to hold it in my hand.
Inside a thick pine forest fence, under the pouring sunlight, the wide grassy field embraced a small, deep-red maple tree, like it was peacefully dozing off. If I owned the Naminara Republic, I would’ve left it untouched, just as it was. But scattered around were man-made sculptures, guesthouses, restaurants, and random structures—like someone had done a poor cosmetic surgery on nature.
After leaving the island, I sat at the bus stop next to a Chinese woman and two young Chinese men, all waiting for the bus back to Gapyeong Station. Despite the long delay due to traffic, the bus never came. Finally, I used every body language move I could think of to suggest sharing a taxi. The four of us got in together—it was cheaper and more comfortable than the bus. What can I say? The Chinese are known for their practicality, and I’m from New York—the land of John Dewey, the king of pragmatism and experience.
The tour buses kept unloading middle-aged women in bright red hiking gear, like they were pouring out nonstop. Nami Island looked like it had been hit by a bomb and was on fire.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
사랑에 빠진
Friday, November 15, 2013
Falling in love
Raindrops tap against the window, forming little beads as they trickle down the glass. Yellow autumn leaves, soaked in rain, fall gently to the ground. Watching the leaves scattered on the wet pavement, I lower my head, the theme from In the Mood for Love (Yumeji’s Theme) playing in my mind.
The tense rhythm of the cello stirs up long-buried pain from deep within and scatters it into the air. The man’s deep gaze, as he silently looks at a woman with her eyes closed in sorrow and loneliness, melts into the music. The theme of longing, regret, and solitude plays again and again.
The movie opens and ends with a caption: “She lowered her head shyly when she met him. Because of his timidity, she eventually left.” That says it all — a love that could never be fulfilled. Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love (also translated as The Most Beautiful Time of Life) pulls you in deeper every time you watch it — especially on a rainy late autumn day like today.
The lead roles are played by Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung. In the cramped, narrow spaces of Hong Kong, the two characters cross paths silently, brushing past each other without ever touching. Yet, the music alone speaks volumes about their deep and desperate love.
As the woman walks down the narrow alley stairs with a heavy heart, the man passes her quietly, watching her with sadness. Later, under the dim light of a streetlamp in a dark alley, he leans against a wall to light a cigarette, hiding from the rain. From above the stairs, she looks down at where he just stood — her lingering gaze full of regret — while the music flows, almost as if to comfort her.
These fleeting moments and silent waits between two lonely people feel like scenes from a painting by Edward Hopper, who gently captured quiet emptiness.
As the English title In the Mood for Love suggests, the film is less about the story and more about the mood — the atmosphere, the silence, and the music. The soundtrack deepens the feeling of their unspoken love. On rainy days, I listen to it again and again, with the sound of the rain in the background.
There’s an old saying: “If you have a secret you want to hide, go to a mountain, find a tree, dig a hole in it, whisper your secret into the hole, and then seal it with mud.” In the film, Tony Leung’s character does just that. He whispers the secret of his love into a hole in a tree at an ancient temple in Cambodia and seals it with leaves and mud.
From behind, a young monk in orange robes watches him. The scene seems to speak quietly about the emptiness and impermanence of life. Though orange is a bright and warm color, why does it feel more like the blood-red of poppies — filled with sorrow and the futility of life — to me?
The film ends with the subtitle: “That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore.”
But unlike the words suggest, this movie lingers longer in my heart than any other love story. Maybe it’s because mature love that never came to be is the kind that stays with us the longest.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
날개 달린 소문
"미안해요. 사실은 오래전 이혼했는데 말하지 않았어요."
잠깐의 행복을 위해 긴 세월 고뇌의 실타래를 끌고 가며 엉클어지면 풀고 다시 엉키면 풀고를 반복하며 사는 것이 우리 내 삶이 아닐까. 힘든 삶 속에 가뜩이나 심심한 사람들의 입에 오르내리며 그들에게 조금이라도 즐거움을 줬다고 생각하니 ‘누가 그런 쓸데없는 소리를 하는냐?'며 소문의 근원을 찾으려고 열 올리는 일은 생략하며 산다.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Winged rumor
“It might be a sensitive topic… but is your whole family doing okay? I’m just asking out of concern.”
Over the years, I’ve been shocked several times by completely untrue rumors about my family.
Once, I woke up in the middle of the night to loud knocking on the door. I opened it to find a couple I knew standing there, looking at me with worried faces.
“We heard you were badly beaten by your husband, so we rushed over!”
The truth was, I had just been peacefully asleep. Not clinging to life after a beating, but deep in dreamland. That night, after waking up, I ended up setting the table for drinks and spent the night sipping in a daze.
Another time, my husband had gone to Korea briefly for some work. Then suddenly, the rumor was, “They got divorced, and he left her.”
Even I was shocked when I heard that one. One of the most ridiculous things I ever heard was a phone call from someone in Seoul asking,
“Was it true your mother took her own life?”
I was so stunned, I couldn’t even respond. None of these rumors had any basis in reality.
Because I’d been the subject of such baseless gossip myself, I used to take other people’s rumors with a grain of salt. But once, that backfired on me badly. At a polite social gathering, I asked an acquaintance,
“How’s your wife? Didn’t she come with you?”
His reaction was explosive—like a long-suppressed wound suddenly bursting open. Everyone around us turned in surprise.
“Why are you asking me about her?” he snapped.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t know. We actually got divorced a long time ago—I just never talked about it.”
He apologized the next day, and I ended up hearing a long story he’d never shared before.
Since then, I never ask about someone’s spouse if they show up alone. After all, they could be separated or divorced since the last time we met.
There’s now a rumor going around about a dear friend of mine—he separated from his wife and is now seeing someone else I’ve met a few times. But if he’s been through something painful and has now found someone who makes him happy, isn’t that something to be glad about? It’s not something I can fix, and unless he brings it up himself, I have no reason to ask.
Isn’t life just a constant tangle of threads—untangling, knotting again, and repeating that process, all for the sake of moments of happiness? And if, in the middle of all that, some lonely people find entertainment in gossiping about me—well, so be it. I choose not to waste energy asking, “Who said that? Where did it come from?”
Better to just live and let it pass.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
지금 어디에
Friday, November 1, 2013
Where are you guys now?
There was a roommate once—a pale, elegant woman who had left her home after a fight with her husband. She always kept her hair neatly pinned up and would sit in front of the mirror for hours, staring at herself. I’d wait for her to move so I could check my own reflection—see if the freckles and age spots on my face had grown bigger. Did her husband come back for her? Or not? I can’t quite remember now.
I used to sit in Washington Square Park and watch people pass by. That’s where I met another lonely woman, like me. She had married an American soldier stationed in Korea and ended up living in some rural town in Ohio. She said she’d fallen for a short Korean man who taught Taekwondo—just from watching him through a glass window—and eventually ran away to New York. She worked at night and went to language school during the day.
I felt guilty about using money from my parents, so I asked her if she could help me find a job. She gave me a lead, and I went to check it out—but it turned out to be a bar near Chinatown. Thick with cigarette smoke, dimly lit—I spotted her silhouette moving in the dark. I quietly turned and ran out of the alley, like a shadow.
I remember sitting in a beautiful living room in a luxury condo in Manhattan’s West Village. Elegant black furniture, a green velvet chair, a desk placed diagonally away from the wall—it was all so stylish. It belonged to my Japanese friend. I was envious of her comfortable life as a student.
“It was a married man—my father’s friend—who got this place for me,”
she confessed, her voice filled with guilt and unease. Her story shocked me.
As I left her apartment, I walked past the house where O. Henry had once lived and written The Last Leaf. My mind was swirling with thoughts. Those people I met in my early New York days—who appeared like comets and disappeared like shooting stars—where are they now? What kind of lives are they living?