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.