Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Visa Run, Part One
Meeting other foreigners in South Korea is similar to gorging on strawberries—both are luxurious experiences that, while not implausible, are rare enough to make one go delirious and desperate.
I’ve approached men and women in airports, subways and bars without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment. I’ve exchanged numbers with people I’ve known for minutes and embraced others in the darkness and stench of neglected alleys. I’ve made sober declarations of lifelong friendship to those who may forget me once they return to their motherlands.
My once severely introverted self has been nearly snuffed out. Or so I thought, until I made my visa run to Osaka.
Thirty days after my arrival in the Pacific, my employer sent me to Japan, alone, for my working visa. My knowledge of the country’s language was up to par with that of my Korean—which is to say, almost nonexistent.
So I was understandably a wide-eyed and jittery mess as I dragged my fake designer luggage to the currency exchange booth. Clutching my passport to my chest like a bible, I dismissively muttered an apology as I accidentally elbowed an attractive blond foreigner (Canadian, by the look of the omnipresent maple leaf ironed onto his North Face backpack). His sleazy-looking, middle-aged friend approached me moments later.
“What’re you here for?” he asked, and I from the slur in his voice I knew he was Texan. As he spoke, he gave me the look-over, and in turn I tried not to stare too hard at the rat tail dangling down his neck.
We hadn’t spoken for more than two minutes when he invited me to see him when we returned home. “We could be friends,” he swarmed, “or more, if that’s what you’re looking for. You should join us tonight—we’ll hit the bars, go dancing, hug . . . More than hug, if you’ll let me.”
Now, I’ve been hit on by a circus of employers, instructors, married men and all-around losers so frequently that it’s a surprise I’m still attracted to men. But never in my life had I felt more disgusted with the opposite gender. I was already edging away when he invited me to join him and two other English teachers on the bullet train headed to the city.
I briefly envisioned them mugging me outside my hotel. Straightening my spine, I bristled and said as coldly as I could manage, “I don’t want to offend you, but we just met and I don’t think I can trust you.”
Shrugging, he scribbled his number and folded it into my fist. “Call me when you get back to Korea,” he pleaded as he scampered away.
A part of me knew they were really English teachers, and my suspicions where confirmed as I ran into them at the embassy. Fortunately, I had arrived just an hour before the office closed (I had lost track of time at the train station bookstore) and had an excuse to dismiss the advances of the leering Texan, “Lance,” who hovered over my shoulder while I filled out my application, “just in case you need me.” He finally left when his companions dragged him out of there, determined to hit the bars as soon as possible.
After turning in my forms, I had oodles of free time and no idea of how to spend it. I had built my entire schedule around the Museum of Oriental Ceramics, but after checking into my hotel (which was only an arm's length away from brothels and porn shops) I discovered all the museums and temples had closed. And in spite of two books, one Japanese dictionary, fistfuls of brochures and streets aglow in florescent lights, I had nothing to do but eat and shop. And think.
Because of my insane work hours and a surprisingly plump social life, I hadn’t felt homesick for those first four weeks as an expatriate. But as I sipped coconut tea in a coffee house that was a block away from the life-sized, bare-breasted doll displayed across three strip clubs, I was suddenly hit with the realization that I was completely alone.
No burying my head into my mother’s shoulder as we watched some awful Lifetime movie. No more lengthy discussions with my father over our fiber intake and strength training. No more geeky chatter over comics with M. No more wasting gas with J as we belted out Mariah Carey's number one hits. No more spontaneous trips for pizza, coffee and chick flicks with friends. No more running alongside those goddamn orchards I’d loved and loathed so much.
I was in a country where no one knew of my diehard belief that Batman could kick Superman on his worst day. No one knew I would sacrifice a baby goat to see Chicago live in concert. No one knew that the prince's library gift to Belle in Beauty and the Beast was my favorite movie moment of all time, and no one definitely knew I was hungry for someone who was just as alone as I was.
After stuffing myself with strawberry cake, I wandered out. Soon after I heard my name, and saw Lance with bleary-eyed foreigners. As I shuffled in their direction, I could see in their expressions that I looked as exhausted as they did.
“Beer,” Lance said, throwing an arm around my shoulders and thrusting a can in my hands. “It’ll warm you right up.” Without a second thought I brought it to my lips and drank it like water in the middle of that perverted little street, with the city’s billboard lights streaming into the back of my head, screaming open, open, open.
Pia at 9:47 PM
1 Comments
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at 10:48 PM
said... Great Story, I wish I could write like you do. You should think about writing a book. I messaged you on myspace and am anxious to hear back from you. Oh yea, and there is a man in my life but you have to message me back to find out more.
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