This time I’m almost expecting it. I mean, Mark is somewhat predictable, and just like all men, he behaves according to well-structured patterns. That’s why, when I hear someone knocking at my door the next Saturday morning, I can’t say I’m surprised. It was obvious he wouldn’t let me sleep in. He thinks that wasting your time is a crime against nature.
“Go away! I’m not coming running, not for any reason!” I shout, putting my head under the pillow. But, instead of stopping, he knocks more insistently.
“It’s useless. And for your information, I’ve changed the door combination!” I shout with a hint of pride. Before going to bed yesterday, I had a flash of inspiration – it took me a bloody long time to understand how to modify the access code, but given today’s results, I’d say it was worth it. An hour well spent.
“Well done, I’m very impressed!” he says from the other side of the door, “but I promise this time it’s nothing to do with sport.”
Never trust a sportsperson, they always have the awful habit of considering unsporty types as potential converts to their cause. And I can’t understand why: I’m not stopping him from carrying on with his stupid jogging, am I? I am not arrogant enough to think I ought to make him change his mind. So why doesn’t he do the same with me?
“Mark, it’s only eight thirty,” I moan, though I suspect he knows perfectly well what time it is.
“Exactly! I’ve let you sleep in long enough, don’t you think? Come on, open this door – we have a very busy day ahead of us!” He shouts in what is an almost joyful voice. So he’s not just a sportsman, he’s also one of those weirdos who wake up happy. God, he’s just unbearable!
“Ok! I’m coming!” I shout, resigning myself to the inevitable. The sooner I get rid of him, the sooner I’ll be able go back to sleep, I think. I reach the entrance and open the door only slightly.
“What do you want?” I snap.
Mark, who’s wearing dark jeans, a blue shirt and a grey pullover is staring at me, looking almost amused. He closely examines the embarrassing new pyjamas I’m wearing and then bursts into laughter.
“Are all of your pyjamas like that?” he asks, leaning against the door jamb.
“Ha, ha, very funny. I happen to love cute pyjamas. So what? Have you got a problem with these darling little monkeys?” I ask threateningly, looking down at myself.
“Oh no, of course not, they’re adorable! Listen, given that it’s the beginning of October the day is unseasonably warm, so I was thinking of taking you to see some parts of Seoul that you really shouldn’t miss. I mean, since you’re here anyway, why not live like a tourist for a bit?”
“I’m usually the kind of tourist who spends her holiday lying by a pool with a nice drink in one hand,” I admit candidly.
He smiles with satisfaction.
“Exactly what I suspected, and that’s why I feel a responsibility to drag you around town. I’ve been working for my place in Paradise lately.”
“Sooner or later all of your sarcasm will be used against you,” I sigh, deciding to open the door completely and moving aside enough to allow him to enter.
“Johnson, coming from you, that almost sounds like a compliment. But, anyway, come on, get dressed! We’ll get you breakfast on the way,” he orders, making himself comfortable on my sofa.
I grunt in annoyance, but obey. When I come back from my room I’m wearing my tight jeans, a white cotton t-shirt and some flat ballerinas. I’d better not wear high heels, seeing as this man is quite capable of making me walk for ten kilometres.
“Are you ready?” he asks, looking satisfied.
“I was born ready,” I mumble without much enthusiasm. Mark bursts out laughing and opens the door for me. Let’s hope for the best.
This time the journey by metro is longer than usual. We take the purple line eastwards, then get off at Jongno 3(sam)-ga station and take the orange line, which takes us to Gyeongbokgung, exit 5. Everywhere else on Earth, if you leave the metro by the wrong exit it’s not a big deal – here, it means you’re lost forever.
*
“Where are we going?” I ask, as we leave the metro.
“We’re in Gyeongbokgung, I thought that was obvious,” he answers, sounding surprised. Maybe it’s obvious for him, who has Korean ancestors, but I’m not as perceptive.
“Never mind… How about this breakfast you promised me?” I remind him, as I hear my stomach rumbling. Mark looks around and takes me to a small kiosk by the street, where they sell little sweets and stuffed donuts. He buys a few of them and gives me one. “I would have never guessed you liked street food…” I comment, a little taken aback. I’ve never had any problem with it myself, so I bite into my donut without waiting for his explanation.
“Don’t you even want to know what it is that you’re eating?” Mark laughs, watching me enjoying the food. “There might even be your beloved Chinese cabbage in there…”
“You can’t fool me,” I answer between mouthfuls. “Whatever it is, it’s nice. Another one, thanks,” I say, stretching out my hand.
“They’re called ‘hotteok’, if you want to know,” he informs me.
“They’re stuffed donuts, Mark. Let’s not make life more complicated than it needs to be. Tell me what’s inside them instead.”
“Usually a mixture of honey, cane sugar, cinnamon, walnuts and nuts.”
“This is the first Korean dish I’ve had that I’ve liked.”
“And that’s not all. Look over there…” I look around us carefully and almost burst out crying for sheer joy. “A Starbucks!” I exclaim, as though looking at a beautiful mirage. Almost without realizing I’m doing it, I grab Mark’s hand and drag him off towards the shop.
“Can you imagine? I can have a soy cappuccino!”
“Well, you can try…” Mark warns me. “I don’t know why, but in this country soy milk has never been a big thing.” And the killjoy is apparently right, because I have to settle for another of the watery coffees that seem to be a very trendy beverage in this area of Asia. My disappointment is clearly visible, so much so that Mark feels it’s his duty to cheer me up. “Come on, don’t be sad. You’ll see that the day will be interesting anyway. Donut?” he asks, handing me another one. I sigh and accept it: I might as well eat at this point. We walk between tall buildings for another few minutes until we arrive in a square, a really huge one, which gives me the impression that it has been teleported in from another planet.
“Gyeongbokgung is the name of the most famous royal palace in Seoul, and this, Gwanghwamun, is its main entrance,” Mark reveals to me while we’re approaching it. The square is pretty crowded, with people moving between ancient statues and a very modern fountain, which sprays water directly from the ground.
Once we are standing in front of the palace entrance, I’m gobsmacked with amazement. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly was not such a unique building. I have never seen anything like this.
“How many centuries ago was it built?” I ask.
Mark immediately turns into a perfect tour guide.
“To tell you the truth, it’s actually a copy: the latest rebuilding of this beautiful structure is from the Sixties. All of the vast palace that we are going to visit today was first built more or less at the end of the Fourth century, then destroyed in the Sixth, and then rebuilt around the middle of the Ninth century; then it was razed to the ground again during the Japanese occupation, between 1910 and 1945. This door was in fact rebuilt somewhere else and then brought here, to its original place, at the end of 2010.”
“Are you joking?” I exclaim.
Mark looks at me, his face serious.
“Unfortunately not. This country has always been very unstable. And as you can see, the tension between the two Koreas shows no sign of going away,” he explains, “and for this reason, young people here have to do a very severe military service that lasts two years.”
“Like in Israel,” I comment, astonished at myself for having remembered such a thing. “Did you do two years of military service too?”
He glances at me sheepishly.
“I have an American passport, don’t you remember? I didn’t serve even for a day, anywhere.”
“You sly fox,” I comment, laughing. In his place, I would have done the same.
“Come on, let’s go inside,” he says, seemingly happy to change the topic of discussion. He can’t have liked appearing a little less perfect than usual.
At the entrance there are two guards wearing traditional costume. Marks explains to me that the changing of the guard is an interesting spectacle here, too, even though the traditional Korean uniforms are very different from the ones you see in London.
Once inside, we walk around and visit the many rebuilt edifices: the royal throne, the queen’s residency, and the prayer area, full of statues of Buddha. But the two most breath-taking buildings are Hyangwonjeong, a hexagonal pagoda located in the middle of a little artificial lake, and Kyeonghoeru, the biggest pagoda in South Korea, which looks out onto a lake and is held up by forty-eight pillars.
“So, what do you think of it?” asks Mark, a satisfied expression on his face, while we’re sitting by the lake’s shore, admiring the wonderful surroundings.
He’s really too happy with my reaction. “I don’t know why you’re bothering to ask, you know very well that this place is absolutely enchanting.”
“And that you would never have come here on your own,” he feels the need to point out.
“You can’t be sure of that. Maybe sooner or later I would have come – even alone.”
“Exactly, alone. It’s better not to risk any unpleasant encounters,” he says enigmatically.
“What do you mean? Korea seems like a pretty safe place to me. If we don’t count the threat of North Korea, that is…”
At night the streets are full of drunkards, ok, but they all look quite innocuous to me.
“You wouldn’t feel so comfortable if you were in areas that are a bit further from the centre. I’m not saying that people are dangerous, but… Well, some middle aged men might try and approach you. You’re tall, blonde, and everyone here thinks that…”
He stops, not knowing how to go on with his explanation. I’d say he actually looks embarrassed.
“What do they think?” I ask, urging him to finish his sentence.
“You might be mistaken for a Russian,” he reveals.
I look at him in confusion.
“Is that all? I’m not Russian, obviously.”
“You know, tall, blonde, pale complexion, you might look ‘Russian’ for them. Which over here stands for… a prostitute.”
There, he’s said it.
“What?!” I get to my feet in anger. “Do I look like a prostitute to you?”
“Of course not,” Mark answers immediately, trying to calm me down. “I didn’t say you look like one, I just warned you that they might think you are.”
This all sounds like science fiction to me.
“A prostitute…” I repeat in shock.
“I’d just rather you were aware of what might happen. It doesn’t mean it’s necessarily going to happen, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. You’re a westerner, and that draws people’s attention. Over the last few years, our country has been literally invaded by Russian prostitutes, and that’s why the word ‘Russian’ has now taken on a different meaning,” he explains.
“And what if someone actually is Russian but just doesn’t happen to be a prostitute?” I ask in irritation. Nobody has ever told me that I might be mistaken for a sex worker before.
“Maddison, don’t go off on a tangent. You’re not Russian, you’re English. Anyway, in order to avoid, as much as possible, any unpleasant encounters, just remember not to show too much cleavage,” he adds.
I had almost calmed down, but now I snarl at him again.
“I always dress in a totally appropriate way!” I exclaim.
“You dress in a perfectly normal way for an English person. But if you were Korean, you couldn’t wear as many low-cut tops as you do,” he explains.
I stare at him and blink in rage. I swear, I’m going to kill this man sooner or later. I will end up in prison, but it will be worth it.
“Are you kidding me? What low-cut clothes are you talking about?”
“Have you ever wondered why nobody here wears sleeveless shirts or why turtlenecks are so fashionable?” he asks.
“Maybe they don’t have much of an aesthetic sense,” I suggest. I mean, I’ve seen people dressed in some very questionable ways.
Mark can’t hold back a little snigger. “That’s true, but it’s mainly a cultural reason: Koreans think it’s very important to cover up your breasts.”
“But in compensation they’re quite happy to flash an embarrassing amount of leg,” I take the liberty of adding.
“Yes, it’s true. Young Korean women do wear ridiculously short mini-skirts. I guess it’s a way of rebelling, while still respecting the rules.”
We sit there in silence for a little longer, resting after all our walking. It’s been a weird morning: obviously Mark can never completely switch off that bossy attitude of his, but all in all, I have to admit that I’ve spent a few pleasant hours. Of course that was mostly because of the wonderful places we visited, rather than the company. Once we’ve rested enough, we decide to walk back towards the metro.
The journey this time is quite long, since we need to reach Gangnam. For once I know where we’re going! I mean, everyone on Earth knows that part of Seoul, thanks to the super-famous pop hit that sings about it. To my mind, that song was more torture than music, but at least it meant that I already knew something about Korea.
Gangnam is a district located to the south of the river which has grown quickly over the last few years, becoming a symbol of richness and abundance. The inhabitants are known for being a sort of ‘Eastern Californians’: with the high life and a lot of money. They say that one square metre here costs up to four times the national average price.
“Would you like to have lunch?” Mark asks, once we’re out of the metro.
“You know I never say ‘no’ to food,” I approve.
“Do you feel brave?” he asks mischievously.
“Not brave enough to eat Korean food, if that’s what you’ve got in mind,” I cut him off.
“But special, really excellent Korean food,” he swears, placing his hand on his heart.
“Do I really have to?” I ask with very little enthusiasm.
“Of course you have to! And after lunch I’m going to take you to a unique place: the museum of kimchi!” Seeing my outraged expression, he breaks out in a very rare and sincere-seeming smile. I appreciate the singularity of the event, but do I really have to make such awful sacrifices just to make this man smile?
The restaurant is luxurious for sure, but like all the Korean restaurants I’ve seen so far, it has no chairs. We have to sit on pillows here too.
“I’ll have to admit it, Mark. Eating while sitting with my legs crossed is really not the type of thing I go in for.”
Even after a few weeks experience, I haven’t improved a bit: I just cannot manage to sit on the floor gracefully. If I ever knew how to, I must have left the skill in London, or it refused to emigrate with me.
“It’s just a question of getting used to it – just like running, for example, or waking up early and having a healthy life style,” he feels the need to point out.
I was in no doubt that he would take advantage of the occasion for a little sermon.
“In my opinion, sleeping habits are genetic: some people just love waking up early. I am not one of them. And anyway sleeping until nine on Saturdays is not strange. Everybody does it. You’re the one with a problem,” I reply, while smiling innocently.
Mark observes me carefully, but doesn’t say another word. Then he takes the menu, which is written completely in Korean, and starts studying it.
“Do you trust me to order for both of us?”
I’m afraid that trust for one another is something Mark and I will always find hard to feel, even after working together for a year, but in extreme situations you need to take extreme decisions. I mean, there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of me ordering something random without ending up with the most disgusting thing in the menu.
“Of course,” I answer, feigning conviction. Mark raises an eyebrow dubiously, but a few seconds later he’s already selecting the dishes to order.
“I would ask you what you just ordered, but I’d prefer not to have my hopes destroyed for a few more minutes,” I confess. “If it’s going to be kimchi, I’d rather not know about it.”
I haven’t even finished speaking when the waiter comes back, carrying a ridiculous number of little bowls. As expected, the biggest one contains kimchi.
Mark can’t contain his laughter. “I swear, I didn’t order it,” he says, while laughing. “It’s on the house, they give it to you with everything you order!”
“Of course, and since it goes so well with everything…” I mumble in resignation.
They bring us some very finely sliced meat, marinated in a sauce which I wouldn’t know how to identify, and we have to cook it ourselves on a hotplate in the middle of the table. The experience is actually sort of fun, and the meat is delicious – the only problem is the smell of kimchi, which I really can’t ignore.
“When we had the bird flu epidemic – there were hardly any cases here, if you compare it with China – it was scientifically proven that the spices contained in the kimchi helped to disinfect the population’s bodies. Kimchi is a real national treasure,” he explains, while observing my complete indifference. “You should at least try it…”
He’s right about that: I know perfectly well that I won’t like such spicy food, but on the other hand I’m very curious. How bad can it be, from one to ten?
Without over-thinking it, I close my eyes and put some kimchi in my mouth. At first I’m surprised, because I was expecting the cabbage to be softer, while instead it’s crunchy, and the chilli is not that strong. I fool myself into thinking I’m chewing something ordinary. But when I least expect it, there is a horribly strong taste that makes me grab my glass of water and drain it while coughing.
“How much chilli do you use, for heaven’s sake? Two kilos per bowl?” I ask with a red face.
The bastard takes some and swallows it as though he doesn’t even notice how spicy it is.
“This is just medium intense, don’t start your usual moaning!”
“You could exterminate all the rats on the planet with your bloody kimchi,” I grumble while continuing to drink water.
“It’s always the same thing, Maddison: you’re just not used to it…” he pontificates with a chuckle. “Anyway, this is the basic version of kimchi – in the more sophisticated versions you can add pieces of fresh calamari marinated in salt for over a week.”
My face turns pale and my stomach emits a weird groan. This is really too much. I used to love calamari, but I have a feeling I won’t be eating it any more.
My reaction to the kimchi means I manage to get out of visiting the museum dedicated to this glorious Korean food. It seems that it contains a tasting room, but after only a teaspoon I’ve already had enough of the stuff. Mark tries to convince me the whole time that if I started eating spices every day I would end up liking them. Maybe he’s right, but for the moment I remain unconvinced.
We spend the rest of the afternoon roaming around Gangnam, walking about like a couple of tourists in search of weird things. And you can certainly find plenty of them here: the first thing I notice is the number of couples walking around the town dressed identically and with identical accessories. It’s like looking at twins, but in fact they’re actually girlfriend and boyfriend. They stroll hand in hand, wearing the same shoes and t-shirts and with matching hoodies. You end up asking yourself if they’re also wearing the same underwear and what they’ll do with their clothes if they split up. Anyway, in the very unlikely event that one day I do manage to find a boyfriend, I certainly won’t be dressing like him. I don’t like unisex hoodies. And I wouldn’t even like my hypothetical boyfriend to dress like me. What an unnerving idea!
After walking for a long time along the busy streets full of shops, we come across a real Buddhist temple, which stands almost stubbornly among big buildings with illuminated windows. It’s Bongeunsa temple, a little oasis of tranquility in the middle of all the chaos. The contrast is so powerful that it feels like you have entered another dimension. Mark and I sit on the steps to peacefully admire the buildings shining on the horizon.
“I’m tired,” I complain, massaging a foot.
“I can imagine. But it’s been an interesting day, hasn’t it?”
“It certainly has. What I saw today in Seoul is enough to last me for at least six months.”
“I have planned one last thing: eating something quick and then going to see the Banpo bridge.”
I can hardly stand up, I really don’t feel like visiting other places. “Please, don’t make me…” I implore him.
Mark stops admiring the horizon and turns to look at me, an intense expression on his face.
“I promise it will be worth it,” he says, almost seductively. I’ve already seen him using this technique: if he can’t convince you immediately, he finds a way to bewitch you. He mesmerizes you with those unique eyes of his while carefully modulating his voice. In the end you can only surrender, even if you didn’t want to.
“Ok, but let’s make it quick,” I say to him, “or you’ll have to carry me home.”
We go out of the temple and decide to have a quick hamburger for dinner, then we take the metro again and reach his beloved Banpo bridge. When we arrive at the southern shore, the sun has almost disappeared and the bridge’s lights are already on. And this is not an ordinary bridge: it’s a gigantic fountain whose sprays of water are illuminated by a thousand colourful lights which create a rainbow effect. The sight is breath-taking.
“Wow…” I whisper, staring at the scene.
“It always has that effect on people the first time they see it. It’s cool, isn’t it?”
I nod blissfully. Never mind cool, this is enchanting.
“It’s the longest bridge-fountain in the world. It’s even mentioned in the Guinness Book of Records,” he points out swottily. I guess for Korean people obtaining a record is something of great importance. It doesn’t mean much to me – what is important is the feeling of amazement it gives me.
We stand there in religious silence for a long time, both of us lost in that playful rainbow of colours.
Then, communicating with each another only by head movements, we take the metro and finally go home.