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.