The Bus Stop

I like it here, this dirty bus stop. I like this area of town. It's probably the dirtiest. There's a traditional market not too far from the steps and the smell of livestock is constant. I like it here more than anywhere in Cheongju. It's quiet. Just the hum of the buses and the shuffle of travelogues. The occasional taxi horn. The muted chaos of life moving around.

I'm the only white guy here, again. All my friends went to the beach. I'm broke. I spent my last hundred dollars fixing the eyes of a dog I didn't want in the first place. So I sit and watch the sunset with my hot coffee in the muggy evening. Watching the yellow dust settle in.

I liked the bus stop since beginning of my tour here. This area represents the edge of my universe and the gateway to Seoul. Being here in the shadow of departure. Playfully kicking around the idea of just leaving. I can't go any further west than this location.

Days like this it's hard not to be morose. Saturday night alone. No money, no company. Just Billy Bragg in your ear. Where are my friends? A show at Duffy's? A pool? A grill out? Make the best of it, I guess. Try to look forward and take another drag. You're an alien, boy-o, stuck on the peninsula.

My co-worker is a wise lady. She dresses and carries herself with the demeanor of a madame. She's running this whorehouse. She scares me when she says Korea isn't the culture shock. The real culture shock is going home. They're expecting "Their Dan" to get off the plane, she tells me, but he's dead and gone. You're someone else now, she tells me, but you can't see it now. You're expecting "Your Friends" but they'll be someone else, too. And all you can communicate is your past not your present.

Maybe it's not too late to salvage this. Here at this dirty bus stop. Where the coke is warmer than the fries. Maybe it's not too late to get on a bus and just fucking go. Maybe it's not to late. Maybe.

And take another drag.

Sometimes

I pack all my bags put on my coat and enter my credit card information. Just to be a double-click away from home.

Maybe I'm too Romantic

I've been in Korea for six months now. Slowly but surely I am forgotten as I will be when I die. A quiet whisper for maybe a decade and then nothing more than a tombstone.

A consistent question amongst the white people is "Why did you come to Korea?" There are a variety of answers that any number of people. Which one you believe depends on how cynical you are on the day in question.

Some would say its fear. There are a lot of burn outs, stoners, slackers, nut jobs and general garbage from the various English speaking countries of the world. Running away from their lives. One guy lived with his parents until he was 32. Another girl is divorced and wants to binge on the nihilistic promiscuity raging over at the local majority-white bars. Trying to forget while they can what they can.

And in my cynical moments, the painfully loud solitude of the other side of the globe. I can find that in myself. But those moments fade and the good times come and I remember why I'm hear.

How could I resist the proud tradition of the young man leaving his homeland to seek his fortune and adventure in a foreign land. From the Iliad to Barry Lyndon it's a classic theme in art that I couldn't resist. This is my right. This is my due. It's practically my duty.

So in the middle of the night, with five days notice I picked up my life, said good bye to those most important to me, and hopped on a plane without blinking. Was I sad? Yes. It had to be done and it was and I couldn't regret it.