Lost homecoming

'Avignon' is a word that brings back memories of my bittersweet and romantic youth.

After high school, my best friend and I often went to a tailor shop named Avignon. Her stylish older sister, who went to Ewha University, got her clothes made there. We looked through fashion magazines, chose styles we liked, and tried to dress up like her.

My friend was the youngest in her family, with older siblings who were smart and mature. So she grew up fast. She was neat, confident, and good at everything. We were close for many years. Then, one day, she suddenly got married and moved to America without saying goodbye.

Maybe because of her, I also changed my plan. I was going to go to Paris, France, but instead, I went to the U.S. as if I was looking for my missing other half. I tried to find her in America but failed. Later, when I visited Korea, I looked for traces of her past.

I searched the neighborhood of Maljukgeori where she used to live. But the old fields were gone, replaced by apartment buildings. The country path with young green sprouts, the thick trees where cicadas sang, and the snowy fields we used to walk together — all had disappeared. I remembered the church she went to in Seodaemun and visited it. Then I found out she now goes to a church in New York — not far from where I live. At that church, I saw a child who looked just like her.

“What’s your mom’s name?” 

I asked. She had a different last name, but the same first name. The child looked so much like my friend when she was young that I almost cried.

“My wife is at home preparing for guests. Let’s go together,” 

her husband said.

We went to their big house. Many elegant people were chatting around the pool. I found my friend and suddenly started crying hard. Even now, I think I was very childish. I had brought my brother-in-law, his wife, and three kids in a crowded car, just to see her. At that time, my life was very hard, and I looked tired and poor. As I left in the car, she waved goodbye. I saw pity in her eyes. Some say that when life is hard, you should stay quiet and hide. Then, when life gets better, you can see friends again. But I was in such a rush. Why?

Later, she contacted me. She was helping organize our high school reunion. I was happy to hear from her. But again, I caused trouble. I didn’t bring money for the reunion, so she paid for me. I planned to pay her back next time. Then she called and said,

“Most of our class reunion are doing well. The next reunion is at a classmate’s huge house in Long Island. I’m worried you might feel hurt seeing how well others live. Maybe it’s better not to come.”

Now, the reunions still happen somewhere, but I went only once. I never went again. I should have waited. I should have been patient.

헤어지는 연습

"우리 나이에, 앞으로 만나면 몇 번이나 더 만날 수 있니?"

친구의 말이 생각하면 할수록 예사말이 아니다.

“나야, 수임이.” 

전화할까 말까 망설이다 조심스럽게 전화했다. 

“어디야? LA에 왔니? 우리 집에 와.” 

“됐어, 그냥 목소리나 듣고 가려고 전화했어.” 

“야 되긴 뭐가 돼. 우리가 만나면 앞으로 몇 번이나 더 만날 수 있다고. 만날 수 있을 때 만나는 거야.”

성격이 밝고, 재미있는 친구라 항상 바쁘지만 내가 LA에 갈 적마다 대학 동기들을 모두 불러 바비큐를 해준다.

어린 시절엔 친구를 만들고, 친해지느라 만났는데 이제는 헤어지기 위해서 만난다니. 전화로만 안부를 주고받고자 했던 일이 만나서 회포를 풀며 늙어가는 친구들과 헤어지는 연습을 밤늦도록 했다.

재미있는 친구를 만나면 맑고 밝은 기운을 받아 기분이 좋아지며 다시 만나고 싶어진다. 매사에 부정적이고 문제가 많은 친구는 언젠가 그 골치 아픈 건수가 해결되면 밝아지겠지 기대하지만, 계속되는 평탄치 못한 일상생활 때문에 생기는 또 다른 우울증을 의논해야 하는 만남이 지속된다. 그리고는 마지못해 만나다 연락이 끊길 수밖에 없는 인연으로 남는다.

원색 옷을 즐겨 입는 지인이 있다. 그는 잘 이야기 하다가도 갑자기 발끈하며 험악한 분위기를 연출하곤 한다. 자라면서 삐딱하게 내부에 쌓인 Anger (화)를 기분만 뒤틀리면 벰파이어 에너지를 발산하듯 뿜어대는 것이다. 매사에 부정적인 그의 화려한 원색 옷 속에 숨어 있는 암울함을 마주하고 나면 며칠은 마음이 편치 않다. 즐거운 만남도 많은데 언제 폭발할지 모르는 조심조심 두근두근하는 긴장 속의 만남을 굳이 지속할 필요가 있을까?

누구도 나의 삶을 기분 좋게 그리고 행복하게 해줄 의무도 없고, 해 줄 수도 없다. 남편과 자식조차도. 스스로 행복할 방법을 찾아 삶을 창조해야만 다른 사람과도 즐거운 만남을 유지 할 수 있지 않을까?  

나와 학교 동기인 남편은 대학 시절엔 섣부른 인연이라도 맺어질까 봐 서로 눈도 마주치지 않았던 사이였다. 돌고 돌아 이 넓은 미국 땅에 와서 선배가 외로운 남자를 소개해 준다길래 나가보니, 떡 버티고 앉아 ‘어 아직 시집도 못 가고, 여기는 웬일이야?’ 했던 사람이 내 남편이 될 줄이야!

사이 좋을 때는 하늘이 점지해 준 인연 운운하면서 좋아라 유난을 떨다 별일 아닌 것으로 티격태격하며 열을 올린다. 끝장 볼 때까지 가 볼까 하다가도 언젠가는 헤어질 너와 난데, 결국 죽음에 의해 헤어질 수밖에 없는 인연이거늘.

Breaking up practice

"At our age, how many more times do you think we’ll get to meet?"
The more I think about what my friend said, the more I realize—it wasn’t just small talk.

“It’s me, Suim.”
I hesitated for a while, then finally gathered the courage to call her.
“Where are you? Are you in LA? Come over to my house.”
“It’s fine. I just wanted to hear your voice before I leave.”

“Come on, what do you mean ‘it’s fine’? Think about it—how many more chances will we get to see each other? We need to meet while we still can.”

She’s always so full of life and fun. Whenever I visit LA, she gathers our college friends for a backyard barbecue, no matter how busy she is.

When we were younger, we met to build friendships and get closer. Now, we meet almost as if we’re preparing to say goodbye. I originally planned to just call and catch up, but ended up staying late into the night, talking and laughing—practicing the art of parting with old friends, slowly growing older together.

When I meet someone with a bright and cheerful spirit, their energy lifts me up and makes me want to see them again. But some people are always stuck in negativity or problems. You hope things will get better for them, but new issues keep piling up, and each meeting turns into another round of heavy conversations. Eventually, the relationship becomes distant and fades away.

There’s someone I know who always wears very bright, bold colors. He can be friendly, then suddenly explode in anger and ruin the mood. He’s carried a lot of emotional baggage since childhood, and when something upsets him, it’s like he releases a burst of vampire-like negative energy. After spending time with him, I feel unsettled for days. There are so many joyful people to meet—why keep forcing tense, unpredictable interactions that make me feel like I’m walking on eggshells?

No one—not even a spouse or children—has the duty or the ability to make me happy.
I have to find my own way to create joy in life. Only then can I share that happiness with others and have meaningful connections.

My husband and I went to the same college. Back then, we barely even looked at each other, worried that some awkward relationship might form.
But after going around in circles in this vast country, a senior once told me, “I know a lonely guy you should meet.”

And there he was—sitting confidently, saying, 

“Oh, you’re still not married? What brings you here?”

Who knew that guy would become my husband?

When things are good between us, we say it must’ve been fate that brought us together. But then we argue over the silliest things. Sometimes it gets so heated I wonder if we’ll ever cool down—but in the end, we’re just two people who will one day part ways. Eventually, death will separate us anyway.

우리들의 수다

“너 어디 가고 싶은 곳 있니?” 

서울 사는 친구들이 멀리서 온 나에게 다정하게 물었다.

친구들은 내가 오래전 미국으로 떠난 후에도, 매달 한 번 맛있다고 소문난 식당에서 만나 수다 떨며 오랜 세월 함께 하는 모양이다. 모임이 있고 난 후에는 그중 한 친구가 어디를 가서 뭘 먹고 어떻게 놀았다며 가끔은 사진도 곁들인 이메일로 소식을 전해준다.

나는 친구들이 다닌 곳을 상상하며 함께 하지 못한 아쉬움으로 며칠은 향수에 젖어 보낸다. 

“너희가 자주 가는 곳에 가고 싶어.” 

내가 뉴욕에서 상상했던 친구들의 하루를 알고 싶었다.

각자에게 만나기가 편한 장소인 명동 입구 외환은행에서 만났다. 명동 성당 쪽을 향해 걸으며 골목골목을 기웃거렸으나, 옛 시절의 흔적은 아쉽게도 눈에 띄지 않았다.

‘뜰 안의 작은 행복”이라는 성당 가까이에 있는 식당에 갔다. 식 복사로 명동성당 신부님들에게 조리해온 사람이 직접 재배한 유기농 농산물로 요리하는 퓨전 한정식 식당이다. 분위기도 좋고 맛도 나쁘지는 않았다.

이렇게 고상한 곳 말고 70년대식 포장마차의 천막을 걷고 들어가 '아줌마 여기 오댕에 소주 한 병 주세요.' 라든가, 시장 좌판에 앉아서 ‘아줌마 막걸리에 빈대떡이요.’ 하는 곳이 좋겠건만. 입가심으로 솔솔 썬 파가 떠 있는 오댕 국물에 말아주는 국수를 훌훌 먹고 싶은데.

서울에 갈 때마다 꼭 포장마차에 가겠다며 벼르곤 했지만, 친정아버지가 

“너 배탈 나고 싶으면 가봐라.” 

극구 말리는 통에 한 번도 가지 못했다. 실지로 그런 곳이 있기나 한지? 남편은 서울에 가면 한국드라마에 나오는 근사한 바에서 한잔하고 싶단다.

그 고상한 이름의 식당에서 나와 우리는 ‘코인’이란 찻집으로 갔다. 대부분의 업소 이름이 길거나 영어다. 각자 주문하고 한참 수다를 떨다 목이 컬컬해지려는 순간 일본 웨이터가 서비스로 커피와 티를 친절하게 가져다줬다. 아니 명동 한복판에 웬 일본 웨이터? 국제화? 헷갈린다. 이렇게 중간에 공짜 서비스를 받고 오랜 시간 앉아 떠들어도 눈치를 주지 않는다고 자주 들른단다. 예전에 한 선배가 어느 식당 모임에서, 이 집에 자주 오는 이유 중의 하나가 

"손님을 들볶지 않아서."

선배 말에 고개를 끄떡이던 기억이 스쳤다.

해 질 무렵인데, 아무도 집에 가잔 말을 하지 않는다. 청계천 물에 발을 담그고 우리들의 수다는 끝없이 이어졌다. 그 와중에도 내 시선은 자꾸 위를 향했다. 무지막지한 청계천 고가도로 콘크리트 더미의 옛 기억의 잔상이 아직도 뇌리에서 사라지지 않은 모양이다.

정신을 헤까닥 놓아 버린다는 그 이상한 두뇌 병이 우리를 거들떠보지 않고 비껴간다면 우리의 수다는 멈추지 않고 영원히 계속되리라.

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.

오늘도 걷는다마는

‘오늘도오 걷는다마아는 정처 어업는 이바알길~, 지이나온 자국마아다 눈물 고오였다~’

아버지는 나와 같은 초등학교와 대학을 함께한 친구와 내가 아버지 양팔에 매달리자 기분이 좋은지 ‘나그네 설움’을 흥겹게 불렀다. 우리도 아버지의 음정에 맞춰 흥얼거리며 인사동 거리를 걸었다. 아버지는 이 친구와 내가 어릴 적 공유했던 고통을 모르는지 노랫가락은 흥겹게 잘도 넘어갔다.

초등학교 6학년 시작과 함께 담임 선생님의 지시로 반 전체 아이들이 각자 목공소에서 만든 회초리를 교실 벽 한쪽에 이름을 새겨 걸어 놓았다. 그 당시 최고 명문인 K 여중에 가기 위한 목표달성을 하지 못했을 경우의 회초리다. 매 맞다가 회초리가 부러지면 다시 목공소에서 만들어 와야 하는 것은 K 여중에 보내고 싶어하는 아버지의 몫이었다.

서울 시내 한복판에 있던 초등학교, 거기에서도 6학년 1반에 들어가 담임 선생님에게 매를 맞고 살아남은 아이는 K 여중에 입학이 보장될 정도로 유명한 선생이 있었다. 우선 성적이 떨어지면 매를 맞았지만 여러 다른 이유로도 수없이 맞았다. 선생님의 핏기 오른 서슬 퍼런 모습은 섬뜩했다. 학교에 가서 또 맞을지 모른다는 초조함에 하루하루가 암울하고 두려웠다.

6학년 여름방학이 끝날 즈음인 어느 날, 침대에 누워 학교로 돌아갈 생각을 하며 괴로워하고 있었다. 갑자기 오른팔이 흔들리며 몸의 중심을 잡지 못하고 침대 밑으로 떨어졌다. 이상한 현상이 내 팔에 갑자기 일어난 것이다. 또다시 팔이 앞뒤로 흔들렸다. 한 30초가량 흔들리다 멈추고 다시 흔들리고를 반복했다. 수시로 흔들리는 팔 때문에 나는 학교에 다닐 수가 없었다. 사색이 된 엄마는 여기저기 용하다는 양의사, 한의사를 수소문하여 병을 고치러 다녔다. 그러나 의사들은 병명을 찾지 못했다.

흔들리는 팔로 6학년 반 학기만 다니고 집에서 쉬었다. 생각만 해도 몸서리치던 선생을 보지 않으니 흔들리던 팔도 어느 날 갑자기 멈췄다. 물론 나는 아버지가 간절히 원했던 k 여중에 가지 못했다. 그러나 아버지의 다른 한쪽 팔에 매달려 걷는 친구는 나보다는 매집이 좋아 잘 견딘 덕분에 들어갔다. 친구는 주로 머리를 맞아 피딱지를 떼곤 했단다. 지금도 수시로 머리를 긁적거린다니. 좋았던 머리가 그 당시 충격으로 망가져 결국에 나는 아버지가 기대했던 S 대학마저도 실패하고 2차 대학에서 우리는 다시 만나는 신세가 되었다. 

지금 아버지는 내가 최고가 아니어도 건강하게 살아 줘서 좋아하지 않는가. 나 자신도 최고가 아니기에 남보다 못해도 당연한 것으로 받아들이고 하루하루 즐겁게 산다.

앞서 가는 사람들을 뒤에서 느긋이 바라보며 오늘도 정처 없는 이 발길.  

Even if I walk today

“Todaaay I walk again, with nooowhere to go~, tears welled up in every step I took~”

My father, clearly in a good mood with me and my childhood friend hanging off each of his arms, cheerfully sang “Nagune Sorrow” as we strolled down the street in Insa-dong. My friend and I hummed along to match his tune, even though he had no idea of the pain the two of us had once shared as children.

At the start of sixth grade, our homeroom teacher ordered every student in class to make a spanking stick at a woodworking shop. We each had to carve our names on it and hang it on the classroom wall. It was a “motivational” stick—meant to be used when we failed to reach our goal of getting into the most prestigious middle school, K Girls’ School. If the stick broke from too much beating, our parents—mine being especially eager for me to get into K School—were responsible for having a new one made.

Our elementary school was in the heart of Seoul, and Class 6-1 had a teacher so infamous that simply surviving her beatings all year pretty much guaranteed your spot at K Girls’ School. You’d get hit if your grades dropped—but also for many other random reasons. The image of her flushed, angry face was terrifying. I lived every day in fear, anxious about when the next blow would come.

Near the end of summer vacation in sixth grade, I was lying in bed, dreading the return to school. Suddenly, my right arm started shaking uncontrollably and slipped off the bed. My body lost balance. It kept happening—my arm would twitch back and forth for about 30 seconds, then stop, only to start again. I couldn’t go to school like that. My mom, pale with worry, dragged me from one doctor to another—both Western and Eastern medicine—but none could figure out what was wrong.

I stayed home for the second half of sixth grade. And strangely, once I no longer had to face that terrifying teacher, my arm stopped shaking. Just like that. Of course, I didn’t make it into K Girls’ School, something my father had desperately hoped for.

But the friend who now walked beside me, still hanging from my father's other arm, had stronger endurance. She made it in. She told me she used to get hit on the head so often that her scalp would scab over. She still scratches her head a lot to this day. She was once incredibly smart, but the trauma she endured must have taken its toll. In the end, she couldn’t get into the prestigious S University our parents had dreamed of either. We both ended up meeting again at a second-tier college.

And now, our father is simply happy that I’m healthy and living well, even if I’m not the best. I've come to accept that I’m not someone who needs to be number one. It’s okay not to be better than others—I live each day with that in mind and enjoy life.

As I walk behind others, I take my time, slowly observing those ahead of me.
Today again, I walk this path with nowhere particular to go.