You've got a Friend in Me

"You've got a friend in me.

You've got a friend in me.

When the road looks rough ahead

and you're miles and miles

from your nice, warm bed,

just remember what you're old pal said--

you've got a friend in me."

--R. Newman

On August 13th, I was on my way to visit Brandon one last time before he left Korea. The night before, I had scouted out the best bus to take to the Suwon terminal, the plan being to catch the 7 p.m. bus to the Ju in order to make it there by dinner at 8:30. It was sprinkling a little as I made my way to the hanbit maul stop and waited for the 7-1 city bus; I was on it by 6:20. "Jennifer Lowery will be in Chungju Friday night, rain or shine," read my Facebook status. In July I had cancelled a get-together I had organized due to monsoon rains. As this was my last chance, I wouldn't let that stop me this time.

Rain I was prepared for that day; traffic, not so much. I breathed a prayer for the LORD to get me to Suwon's terminal on time as I sat nervously trying to read and relax on the bumpy ride. Things looked like they'd be tight when it was twenty-five minutes till 7 and the 7-1 bus was still ten stops away from the terminal. I counted down the stops with anticipation, eagerly awaiting the announcement of "Suwon Bus-su Tuh-mee-nul." I grew impatient and disheartened when the bus crept through one traffic jam after another. Anxiously I watched the cabin fill with still more patrons. It wasn't until I walked into the terminal that I reassured myself--it is Friday. Things are bound to be busy, especially in such a traffic-clogged place like Suwon.

The 7-1 dropped us off ten-to-fifteen meters from the actual bus stop, which was itself several tens of meters from the street corner which led to the terminal entrance. Rounding the corner resulted in another twenty yards to traverse. Tempted though I was by enticing storefronts and would-be indoor shortcuts, I half power-walked, half sprinted to the entrance, checking my watch or cell phone every few seconds to assure myself I could make it. Once inside, my heart sank at the first clock in sight: 1900 hours, already 7. Not many people were queued at the ticket counter when I glanced at it, so I held out hope that I'd be on time. Behind only two others, I paid quickly and took my ticket. "20:30," read the departure time. I was still late.

Something propelled me out the doors of the concourse and onto the platform. I walked the few paces to Gate 14, the departure gate for Chungju, and noticed a bus quietly sitting there. He had already turned his wheels to maneuver away from the curb when I timidly knocked on the door. I held up my ticket and quietly asked if I could still get on his bus. He nodded his head aggressively and motioned for me to take a seat. We pulled out of the parking space at 7:01. I was never so thankful for a bus than at that moment.

I made it to the Ju just after 9, later than I anticipated but still in time for Brandon's cuisine of choice for the evening: a shabu-shabu feast. Shabu-shabu is a Japanese style of cooking, something Andy and Brandon introduced me to the first week I was in Korea. Waitresses bring out cauldrons of boiling broth, heaps of noodles and mushrooms, and little shreds of frozen meat that you pinch with your chopsticks and dip in the broth to cook. Normally we would have had to go all the way across town and split the expensive 3600 won ($3.00) taxi fare to indulge the pleasures of such dining. But serendipitously, a restaurant specializing in the dish recently opened just across the street from Learning Well, in the near-vacant building Koreans raised as we watched from our office windows all winter long. With its proximity to our first meeting, it seemed a fitting place for our final dinner together.

At the restaurant, I met up with Brandon, Daniel, Matt and a Canadian named Jason. Matt walked home after the meal, but the rest of us headed to meet up with a few others for a night of singing at a downtown nurae-bang. Brandon kept commenting throughout the dinner that Andy should have been there--it would have been a party for the two of them, had he stayed. I couldn't have agreed more as we sat picking karaoke songs to sing that night. Remembering Andy's selections from the times we went as a large group, I picked out some to sing in his honor. I imagined him accompanying my rich alto with his clear falsetto as I sang "A Whole New World," a favorite of ours to sing as we would sit in the office together.

The last time I was at a nurae-bang with the gang from Chungju, I sang a song for Andy and Brandon as a reflection of our parting ways, Trisha Yearwood's "How Do I Live?" This time I didn't want to suggest such a melancholy note. I looked for a song to dedicate but couldn't find the one I wanted. Instead, after it was all over, I asked the guys to stay for a moment as I tried my hand at acapella. "This is for Brandon," I said, "as he's leaving us for bigger and better skies. You'll recognize it." Looking into his eyes to make sure he caught the message, I sang out what my kindergarteners call the "Toy Story Song."

"When the road gets rough ahead," I sang with conviction, loud enough to have not needed a mike. I looked straight at Brandon and thought of his upcoming trek across Nepal's Himalaya mountain range. Soon, it would be rough ahead, I knew. "And you're miles and miles from your nice, warm bed"--yes, this too would be true. "Just remember what you're old pal said: You've got a friend in me. Yeah, you've got a friend in me!"

Somewhere deep inside, I want that song to be true for us--for Andy, Brandon, and myself. I really don't want this to be the end. If it were, it might then feel that all the emotion and turmoil from the winter was really all for naught. Here's to you, my best friends in Korea. You've got a friend in me.