In early 2009, when I moved into my apartment in Seoul’s Gangnam District, I had a bit of self-directed advice: “Don’t let this drive you crazy.” The environment is quite different from that where I had lived (in two places) in Daegu and in those bucolic, long-ago days in Austin, Texas. From the third floor with a big window that faces Tehran-ro 4 gil Street, I have a nice vantage point from which to observe the passing show.
In some parts of Seoul, foreigners such as I are not so rare. Although this neighborhood abounds with academies of various kinds, I see almost nothing but Koreans. Sometimes two or three days go by without me seeing another foreigner. Let me say that I do not mind at all. On the contrary, it makes for an interesting existence.
Our very crowded area will be even more so in a year when two major construction projects across the street are finished. Except for west and south of the Halla Classic Building where I work, there are no sidewalks; you have no choice but to walk on the street between parked cars and those with impatient drivers at the wheel. Korea has an appallingly high rate of deaths from traffic accidents which may be traced to the facts that (1) it is a congested place, most especially Seoul, (2) there was no driving culture until maybe 50 years ago and (3) the Koreans have a tendency called palli, palli (hurry, hurry).
I marvel at the daring of some of these guys who drive scooters for a living. Whether delivering packages or food, they always travel at a breakneck pace. Intersections, even big ones, are no hindrance to them. They just find an opening and go, regardless of red lights, traffic or pedestrians. I once saw a man weaving in between cars with one hand on his scooter, the other holding a metal container with food and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Major streets like Gangnam and Tehran have broad sidewalks, and these gentlemen go zooming there as well. The police do not seem to mind.
People constantly socialize outside the 24-hour convenience store just below me. If the weather is nice, I can expect to see and hear them talking, and drinking beer and makkoli at all hours of the night. I am impressed with their stamina and how much they savor conversation. 3 a.m.? They are out there. 4 a.m., 5 a.m., still there, still going strong. The discussions, which sometimes sound like arguments, can be quite loud and accompanied by wild gesticulations.
I try not to generalize too much; the broader the statement, the narrower the mind, as I was once told. But I will make an exception here, and it pertains to rain. Koreans seem to really hate getting wet. If there is only the slightest precipitation, the umbrellas are out en masse. A person caught in the rain without an umbrella runs faster than Usain Bolt in the Olympic 100-meter finals. This puzzles me.
Where I live, it is mostly a business area, and people do dress up on weekdays. Other than students and restaurant workers, they are in nice-looking attire. I watch some of the women in high-heel shoes and practically scream, “How can you walk in those?!?” It obviously takes some effort. Primarily, however, I want to discuss the men. These guys dress well, with a certain style. I sometimes wonder whether they go to Hong Kong to have their suits made and tailored. (Mine were bought off the rack at a department store in Daegu.) The men tend to be in their late 20s to their early 40s, and they work long hours. That is a fact which surely pertains to some of my Hansung colleagues. Most of the men are varying degrees of handsome, but—and now I am coming to the point—they smoke like there is no tomorrow. Some of them have a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and so they alternate between puffing and sipping. They puff, then they sip, and then they puff some more. I am told that smoking is less common now in Korea than it was 20 years ago, but I can only surmise how bad it was back then. Have mercy, Miss Percy!
There is a “no smoking” sign on the wall adjacent to my officetel, but it is flagrantly disregarded. When I go to work in the morning, I reach the Halla Classic Building and turn left. That’s when I enter what I call Smoker’s Alley. I have to maneuver between groups of smokers and individual smokers before finally getting into the lobby, staggering and gasping for fresh air. A few women light up, but it is mostly a male thing as they appear to enjoy smoking such home-grown brands as Arirang, The One, Indigo, This, This Plus, Raison, Zest, Esse and Lo Crux. They smoke frequently and with vigor. It seems that they live to smoke.
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