PIFF Final Installment

There was only one day left in the Son Family Vacation. Son Family, that’s what Tanner, Dahee, and I call ourselves. Every good Migook (American) needs a Korean name. Upon hearing that Tanner had one, Teho, I insisted. Dahee named me Eun-Ho. It means “Silver Lake.” Teho means “Big Tiger.” Dahee chose that one for Tanner. They are dating. Of course we needed a last name too because in Korea one is introduced last-name first. Dahee’s surname is Son. We opted to borrow it.

There were more movies to see, but one morning in line had been enough. Besides, we had been out late meeting Sasha’s brother the night befoe. Sasha was one of my best friends in Buenos Aires. She is one half Scottish, one quarter Russian, and one quarter American. Sasha is slender and pretty with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and an inquisitive face. Argentine men called her a goddess, much because of her blonde hair, which is uncommon in the land of colectivos. They’ll also say just about anything to a girl. It’s impressive really. Sorry Sasha. Sasha is now a ski bum. Incidentally, her brother teaches in Korea. He calls himself Sirius Amadori.

Siri came to meet me in front of the McDonald’s at the Kyungsung University subway stop, exit 4. We went to a loud Migook bar and yelled politely at each other over whisky while a cover band played the Kinks and Bob Marley. I was struck hard by American bar culture.

Korean bars are relatively quiet. Small parties of friends meet up for drinks and conversation, occassionally breaking the low hum with an act of restrained boisterousness. This place was an aquarium of carnivorous sea creatures in close quarters. We swam through the multi-colored crowd to a bench covered in faux crimson leather and sat down. In raw animal endeavors, genetic makeup is the primary limiting/liberating factor, determining one’s place in the struggle for prosperity. Homo sapiens have distinct advantages though. Each temporary resident of this underwatering hole had developed personal style as an added weapon. Claws and teeth were replaced with flattering clothes, witty turns of speech, practiced nonchalance, and well-timed eye contact. My shirt collar had been flipped up in the wearing and removal of the coat I bought Friday morning at the Shinsegae shopping center. When I sat down next to Siri with the whisky a girl I hadn’t talked to yet flipped it back down. She turned out to be nice, so I flipped it up again when she wasn’t looking to see what would happen. She flipped it down again. Human sexuality, in this venue anyway, is psychological warfare. It’s what Jim Stephens and Joe Cooper would call a “fuck scene.”

I wasn’t there for battle though, just to meet an old friend’s brother. When I was a child, John Morgret and I would play telephone in the neighborhood pool, going below the surface and yelling as loud as we could face to face to see if we understood what the other was saying. Here in the ocean it sounded about the same but lacking the white background of the pool walls, the three blue tile letters on the bottom (RRP for Raleigh Ridge Park, our subdivision), and the shiny oscillating ceiling of the water. These were replaced by neon Jim Beam advertisements and veneer walls. The smell of chlorine and barbecue switched out for cigarette smoke and perfume, day turned to night.

Siri left early, and I went with the nice girl and her coworkers to a noreabang (Karaoke bar). They were all nice too. I sang Oasis with friendly Brits. Then I went back to the hostel and slept on the balcony.

Our time with the Megabox had ended, so we went to the fish market. I say fish market, but district would be more appropriate. There is a central building at the waterside. The bottom floor, which is the size of a football field, is full of fish tanks. Its floor is perpetually wet, I noticed, as saltwater seeped through my shoes and socks, saying a cold hello to my toes. I have only two pairs of shoes with me. One, hiking boots. The other, Italian dress shoes I bought in Mobile for a %50 discount. The clerk was overjoyed that I bought a nice pair in hard times. A friend of Dahee’s was with us at the market, and the two of them negotiated our lunch as I snapped photographs of tank after tank of red snapper, sea cucumber, dungeoness crab, and more kinds of sea animals than I realized could be eaten. We pointed out individual fish, choosing the heartiest and healthiest looking. Ironically this superior genetic predisposition of theirs resulted in death. I suppose some fish may be smart enough, or nonchalant enough, not to get caught. A man in a yellow apron cut up our fish as we watched. A lady seated us upstairs. Another brought us a rectancular plate of still-moving octopus which we had not ordered. I grabbed a big piece, dipped it in soy sauce and wasabi, and chewed as fast and hard as I could. Then I swallowed it. A few minutes later another lady came by and took it away. It wasn’t free, just an error on the part of our server. The fish was excellent. We ate it raw.

Our final destination was the Nampodong shopping district, just across the street from the fish market. It is a busy maze of alleyways and stores of all kinds that looks and sounds like this:

Walking through Nampodong

At 5pm our plane took off from Busan. The flight was short, just under an hour. We touched down on Jejudo. Home.