Walking home in the midday heat, I run into the man at the kimbap nara who so expertly rolls up my tuna-mayo, and whose daughter is my girlfriend's student. I bow hello, stop, and chat in rudimentary Korean. He gestures at the leafy greens poking out of my grocery bag and I pull them out for inspection. What are they? he arches his eyebrows at the unfamiliar produce. Hell, I don't know. My staple spinachey green is out of season and I'm trying new things. His expression suggests I've bought inedible weeds. I shrug and parade my more familiar goods from my bag -- olive oil, carrots, sweet potato -- fumbling the Korean name of each and letting him correct me.
Walking on I meet the old lady from the next building who collects recylables in her wheel barrow. Like many elderly Korean women she's hunched like Quasimodo and wrinkled like a grimace. We're familiar and greet each other warmly. I repeat the grocery show-and-tell. She seems equally interested in what I eat
I still remember when the local grocer, who'd always seemed a bit suspicious of me, learned my profession a while back. Work, what? he asked accusingly of me. Me being a grown man, casually fruit-shopping (a housewife's task!) in the middle of a work day. Computer, at home, I said and watched him have his aha-moment, his demeanor warming instantly. I wasn't some criminal or useless exploiter after all.
It occurred to me what a mystery I must have been to the local observers. Strange non-teacher foreigner, loafing about in his jeans and sneakers... but now I'm no longer so strange, just some dude eating my weird vegetables like everybody else. I've come a long way.
The market had used clothes piled so densely it was difficult to browse through them. Vendors, mostly ajummas, idled by their goods, chit-chatting through the mothball fumes, peeling chestnuts, or otherwise passing time. No pressure peddling here. I found a stall stocked mostly with men's clothes, manned by an ajoshi. As usual, I pointed, shrugged, and used facial expressions to communicate. The old man eyeballed me briefly and in seconds pulled from a wall of clothes a jacket that fit me. He then repeated this trick with a pair of jeans. An extra-large pair of jeans was strung up as a divider and I changed amidst the piles. After haggling and completing the transaction, he handed me his business card. My denim guy has a calling card featuring Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.
Here are three ways to tell someone they have a big head in Korean. I think the second one is the most slang-y (and it's general, as in military general). And, yes, I have a big head.
We watched Volver last night. Penelope Cruz is looking goooood! Also, I can still pick out more Spanish than Korean. The other day I was awakened by a phone call, and said, "I don't know Korean." I went back to bed and in my half-sleep congratulated myself for conjuring that phrase in my daze. Then I realized what I actually said was, "I don't know English." Is confused? I idiot? En Español?
Anyway, someone buy me this thingy --