Meditation Day 27 – 0
Day 36?
What am I grateful for? As my body lay still, my mind racing, this blanket is too cold. The two of them too hot. The other one just right, but the duvet not as soft.
The more time I spend in Korea, the more I see how Korean I am.
The Korean in me is always looking for improvements. Spot the waste. Stop the unnecessary. Find better ways to get it done. Reduce, reimagine. Do it right first time with automation and markers as required.
What does it mean to be Korean? To read the room. To see where I fit in the order of hierarchy. Am I allowed to talk? Or is this a meeting of the elders and seniors, and I must feign interest and not disagree?
As I land, I walk through the fossils of Covid, abandoned and overlooked. I go through the immigration line, the first machine scans my passport, before opening the door, where I place my index finger against the scanner. The door opens again, and I walk through, with no checked baggage to wait for. I walk to get u-sim with 100 minutes of call time and unlimited data for 15 days. Thereafter, I send the temporary number to few friends and family. My eldest aunt calls me, and we talk briefly before I excuse myself. I have to buy the airport limousine bus to Hong-Dae for KRW17,500.
My local bank card works, with enough funds to last this trip. I withdraw the maximum KRW 500k to 650k daily to top up. Using the Naver map, I find the walking path to my final destination.
Doukan, the nicest and friendliest community manager checks me into my private room with comfy bed and two rows of hangers for my clothes. It feels good to have my own place to sleep in, and downstairs to work out of, with an external screen.
Cafes and convenience stores appear every 5th building, and I don’t know how these businesses sustain with so much competition. How people manage to stay thin with so much flour and sugar in everything they sell.
Baked goods are combined with everything you’d want, and it’s rare to see butter or jam served with your pastry. Everything is baked in. The same with grilled meat. Scissors are used to cut the meat into bite sized chunks, and so you never see knives as we use spoons and silver chopsticks.
Signs are everywhere. Walk to your right. Do not pass. Hold onto the escalator. In case of fire, do not panic. In case of emergency, pull this handle. Do not talk loudly. Be considerate. Move the pack from your back to the front, to give more space to others. Do not sit on the seat designated for pregnant women. Do not litter (there are no trash cans anywhere). Every taxi has a number for foreigners to call if they need help. Behind every bathroom stall is a sign to seek help if you are suffering from drug addiction. There is zero tolerance here, when it coms to drugs. No weed. No psychedelics. When there is a fire or heavy wind or missing person, the city sends you notifications on your phone, depending on where you are. Every apartment has speakers built in for public announcements. Every hiking trail is manicured. Raised platforms dot public spaces and local mountains to mount your tents. In some areas, there are picnic mats placed for the public to rest on. Along walkways near streams, a variety of exercise machines are available free of charge.
Even weddings are efficient. Wedding halls are set up with stages, flowers and perfect lighting with rooms for make up and hair. Changing rooms with lockers. Restaurant for guests. These halls are rented for maximum two hours, to get people in and out. If you miss the time of the wedding, you’ll be witnessing strangers events. Every picture and setting perfect. All you have to do is pay and show up.
The country I left behind, the poor and unrecognized has made impressive improvements that has now become the norm.
This was done by getting rid of all the gaps and finding better ways to live collectively.
But a part of me, having lived in South Africa for the past 14 years thinks otherwise. I miss the human connection from inefficient way of working. Even ordering at restaurants are done on kiosks with a touch of few screens. Convenient, yes. Human touch, none.
I just listened to Ocean Vuong be interviewed by New York Times for his new book. He recounts his part time job at Boston Market. The facade of American restaurants that are defrosting frozen meals to look human made. The time he almost killed his neighbor for stealing his bike. How he lived in government housing, having to survive with the little with his family. His parents working all the time. How he feels unrelatable to his family. How he feels alone. He breaks down in some parts. His story is not dissimilar to mine. Except I don’t break down after years of therapy, few rounds of mushroom ceremony and one ayahuasca coupled with Vipassana meditation. I agree. It’s nearly impossible to be who we are with ethnic family who we were born into. Impossible explain to them where we are and who we have become, and so I have also abandoned this effort. Instead, forming and nurturing communities with the third culture of international travelers who are more like me than my ethnic family.
Ocean and I have more in common. This is why we should write, to share our stories. To create the connections and invite others to see themselves through our own stories.
And so, this love letter goes out to Ocean Vuong for catalyzing these thoughts and ramblings through your interview and your first book, “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.”
