Hesitation

The air quietly breathes its freshness into the room as I sit as a guest of my friend December's on a newly-made Moroccan rug. Ruthie, the small house dog, grunts and growls at me from her high place atop the bed where her owner is resting. December's phone tells me it's finally morning: June 21, 2011, by its end the longest Tuesday I'll have ever had. Homecoming Day.

In less than six hours I will be boarding a plane bound for Texas with my one-way ticket in hand, unsure of when the next flight will ferry me back to Asia. Yet, my suitcases remain glued to the floor as if they were impenetrable rock. In less than two years this part of the world, largely unknown to vast populations of the US, has burrowed itself deep in the ressesses of my heart in ways that I never expected, and I quite hesitate to say goodbye.

Here are a select few of those ways:

*I chanced to meet a woman at a thrift store who, despite obvious language barriers, became one of the dearest and closest friends of mine and accepted me with such deep, unconditional love.

*I've been encouraged and strengthened by the ex-pat Christian community through the ministries of Seoul International Baptist Church and its members.

*Through three schools located in two countries, I had the privelege of reaching out and ministering to four major ethnic groups within Asia: Russian, Indian, Thai, and Korean.

*I tried my hand--er, lips--at speaking in four previously foreign languages and successfully carried a tune in two of them.

*I witnessed North Korea's picturesque mountainy landscape and was able to meet a young man who has actually vacationed in that closed country.

*I have been able to earnestly beseech the heart of Father God for the hearts, souls, and lives of dear, dear friends that I have come to greatly cherish halfway around the world.

*I was unexpectedly able to join a girlfriend on her trip to Thailand and might have found the next step of the journey.

About two or three years ago--summer of 2009, if memory serves--I had a dream about two pictures posted on Facebook. One was a picture of dried fish and the other was a shot of bottles of beverages in a grocer's chest refrigerator. In the dream, a close friend of mine commented that there was "a better selection in the Asian markets here."

I was just commenting about her comment when I shot up in bed and marveled loudly, "I just had a dream that I was in Asia!" Within months of that statement, I was.

"I can't believe you're leaving," my friend Josh commented offhand this afternoon as I helped him edit his paper one last time. "We've talked about it and you have good reasons, but I still can't believe it."

Neither can I, Josh. Neither can I.

The Man from Samgakji

Just after moving to Hwaseong-si last March, I was excited to note that I'd be living on the Seoul subway line. That meant there'd be no more two-hour early morning bus rides from Chungju to get to church on Sunday mornings, trips which rarely happened due to the distance needed to traverse. All it took now was a three-minute hop on the bus to get to Line One's Byeongjeom Station, seven stops to Guemjoeng, then 15 more to Line Four's Samgakji, with one final stop at Noksapyeong on Line Number Six. SIBC rested just down the road in Habangcheong, a five-minute walk from there.

One pleasant Sunday morning at Samgakji Station in the middle of that month, I started a conversation with a slightly older black man from Nigeria (or another similar African state), who also happened to be waiting for the train for Line Six. He said he was on his way to church at Hangangjin three stops away; I told him I was headed to church at Noksapyeong. I was so excited about my upcoming trip home to Texas the following April that I told this stranger about my brother's wedding as we waited for our train to arrive. We entered the subway together when it came, chatted amiably as we rode, and then cheerily parted ways once I reached my station.

Having come to Korea just four months before this encounter--with nearly all of that time spent in Chungju, excluded from the country's most popular ex-pat hub--I was still wide-eyed whenever I glimpsed another foreigner, no matter his nationality. Naively I believed that each one of them should be my friend. So, too, was my attitude towards this man: While standing on the platform together on that day, I gave him my name and email address. Pleasantly, he reciprocated with his own. I stuffed his address in my pocket when I left him and continued on my way, intending to add it to my growing list of Korea-based contacts.

Several months later in the summertime, long after my safe return from Texas, I found that scrap of paper with the man's email address written on it as I was cleaning things in my apartment. I contemplated for a moment whether or not to keep it; after all, how were acquaintances to become friends if not for more than initial contact? The more I thought about it, however, the more I felt convicted that this wasn't a connection that I needed in my life. The LORD had given me a plethora of friends here and this man didn't need to be one of them. It was then that the fun began.

After having not seen this man for months upon months, later that summer I bumped into him again at Samgakji. Not only did he remember me, but he also remembered where I had been and asked me about my brother's wedding. If memory serves, he even asked what I had brought him from the States. Red flag number one. He then recited everything I had said to him that first meeting verbatim--my name and email address, that is. Red flag number two.

He asked if I would go to church with him that morning, which I politely declined. And then he asked for my phone number. After I refused to give it to him, he became belligerent. "I thought you were nice," he kept saying. "You were such a nice girl. What changed you?"

I continued refusing him, reminding him that I was already late for church, but he wouldn't take the hint. "I am too," he said as he followed me out of the subway car at Noksapyeong, up two flights of stairs, then up two more escalators. "You were so nice," he repeated. "I thought you were nice."

"You're not gonna be nice?" he asked as we reached the last escalator and the exit to fresh air. "I thought you were a nice girl."

"I'm sorry," I told him as he followed me off the escalator. "I really have to go."

I didn't look back as I started my walk to church, though I prayed earnestly that he wouldn't follow me. He must have hailed a cab for Hangangjin, for I didn't see him again that day. But his persistence only worsened.

At this point, the man was merely a nuisance but not a threat. The next time I saw him about a month and a half later, we were standing in the same spot where we had met: just to the right of the stairs leading to Line Four, and just in front of the door to car number six. He had forgotten my email address, he said--magically--and needed me to refresh his memory. While I was at it, could I not toss him my phone number, too?

"You're strong," he hissed when I refused his request the second time. "Something happened when you were away. You're strong," he said again. And then he leaned in for the kill: "I break you."

Excuse me?

Mercifully at that moment our train chose to arrive; however, unmercifully, he was still headed in my direction. I walked onto the metro car and grabbed one of the thick vertical poles attached to the seats, which were sparsely populated by other riders. He advanced inside the train briskly and quickly found my left side, determined to continue his interrupted demands. "I break you," he repeated. He then grabbed the wrist that was holding onto the pole.

"Here, sit down," he whispered forcefully, nearly pulling me from my vertical position. I wriggled my arm free and remained standing, decisive silence filling the distance between us. After hearing the call for my stop, I abruptly shifted my weight towards the door and grabbed a cold handlebar to its right.

An older Korean woman stood next to me as Noksapyeong came into view. "Anieyo," she leaned over and whispered to me. Her hands were shaped into an over-sized X, Korea's universal sign for no. "Anieyo," she told me again, stringing unfamiliar sounds together as a form of advice.

"Comsahamnida," I thanked her as we heard the doors slide open. Even a monolingual ajumma could see through this man's actions, I reasoned.

There to greet my view as the train slid to a stop was the one who had witnessed half the encounter, my church friend, Holly Schoep. I threw my arms around her, never more thankful to see a friendly, aggression-less face, and confessed the scenario to her as we hiked up the stairs. "The LORD has made you into a strong woman," she proclaimed. "I'm proud of you for standing up to him."

Another month or two lapsed before my next encounter, this one just as eerie as the ones previous to it. I noticed him standing at the base of Samgakji's stairs as I breathlessly jogged down them. Avoiding him, I rapidly turned right when I reached the bottom and headed several rail car doors further on. I must have caught his attention, for as soon as the train arrived and I stepped onto it, there he was behind me.

I quickly crossed the width of the car to its right side and lowered my head toward my book. Following me, he tried conversing pleasantly at my elbow, but I didn't take my eyes from the page. He then followed me back across the train as I turned to face its left doors.

While I was still trying to read my book, he bent toward my right ear. "Next time I get your phone number, okay..."

This time I did look up. "Excuse me," I curtly declared and walked off the train.

I started trying to hide my identity at Samgakji as soon as the weather began to cool. Just before Line Four arrived at the station, I would quickly pull my hair into my hat, zip my jacket all the way up to my nose, and pull my circular scarf as far up my face as would permit me to see. It was impossible to fully disguise my hair, skin, or eyes in a land of monochromatic body tones, I knew--but perhaps my techniques would throw him off enough not to notice me.

As I repeated this stunt each Sunday, I would think about the things I couldn't hide: I always brought the same turquoise-blue travel bag to church, which never seemed to blend in. Plus, I was still reading the same book he had caught me with the last time. In the end, I thought perhaps disguising myself wouldn't do much good. Since it had been months since I had seen him last, maybe my Samgakji troubles were finally over.

This past Sunday proved a different story. As I stood at the side handlebar of the rail car's left doors, I caught a glimpse of a black man seated one section from me on the car's opposite side. That's him, I panicked. So he does ride the same train as me! Carefully I extricated myself from my post and slid through the double door leading to the next car. I looked down at the book I had forgotten to read just as a familiar voice reached my right elbow.

"Jenny," he called to me--with a name so intimate I let only my closet friends use. "I've been doing some traveling, too. It's such a long time. How are you?"

I had intended this to be a one-sided conversation and didn't glance up from my book. After several seconds' awkward pause, I finally thin-lipped, "I'm fine."

"Are you meditating?" he smoothly inquired.

Again, I was curt. "No, I'm reading."

As I said this, the train coasted to a jerky stop and opened onto Samgakji's platform. "Excuse me," I announced as I took my leave. He refused to take his.

I bolted for the arched opening from the platform to the corridor, feeling the weight of his steps as his shoes nipped at my heels. I half-walked, half ran to the other side of the passage, willing myself to calm down. Deliberately, I crossed to the right side of the vast hall, hoping I'd escape his pursuit if I hid myself inside a moving walkway. Yet Sunday was the one day these were turned off. I heard his heels click the metal slats of the non-moving horizontal escalator as we continued.

Bounding down the stairs at the end of the hall, his footfalls matched mine in intensity and speed. Clearly, this was a chase. I rounded the corner at the bottom, thinking I had time enough to hide, and stopped behind a large structural column a few meters past the stairwell. Through the glass reflection, I could clearly see him approaching my position from the front side.

"I recover your email," he smiled confidently at me as I tried slowing my breath. "I email you tonight. Is that okay?"

"No, it's not," I grimaced.

"May I see your book?"

"No!" I barked, surprising myself at my intensity. And then I looked him square in the eye. "You may not."

Though he was still smiling, inside I knew he felt defeated. Without another word, he shrugged half-heartedly and skulked away.

One Last Hurrah

*Saturday, July 10, 2010*

"Emily got her visa this week!" my friend Holly emailed me excitedly at the beginning of July. She was referring to a friend of ours from church, Emily Park, who had been waiting to hear word about when she could leave Korea for the States. She had recently gotten engaged to a young man from California who was currently working in Del Rio, Texas, and was hoping to marry him by the fall. "She will be leaving the last week of July, this month," Holly continued. "Are you still up for going [with us] next Saturday? One last horrah!"

The three of us, Emily, Holly, and me, had grown close during Korea's warmer months. I met them both around the middle of March when I first moved up to Suwon and first started coming to SIBC on a regular basis. We had hit it off right from the start, but it wasn't until May that we began to really get to know each other. On impulse one Sunday afternoon in Itaewon, after discussing it briefly with Holly who was walking beside me, Emily invited me to on a trip to Busan that the two of them were planning for the end of May. The trip itself became the centerpiece of our friendship over the summer and the two of them began inviting me to other events and activities outside church. We enjoyed Saturday outings to the outskirts of Seoul together, times where we took in the view, shared food we had never tried before, and encouraged each other in the LORD.

The plan for that next Saturday was to hit up some islands off the coast of Incheon, a busy metropolis on the Yellow Sea just west of Seoul, after browsing Korea's war museum near the center of town. I packed a sheet for lounging around on the beach and donned my polka-dotted swimsuit for the occasion. As I rode the subway into Seoul that afternoon, however, I learned that plans had changed. It was predicted to rain due to a typhoon [hurricane] hovering over one of Korea's seas, and Emily was worried about weather conditions on the island. The girls still wanted to see the museum, but instead of the island they thought we could hit up one of Seoul's many coffee shops afterwards. Though I was a little disappointed about not going to Incheon, the day turned out to be as crazy, upbeat, and fun as the girls I spent it with!

From L to R: Emily, Dawna, and Holly. Dawna also goes to SIBC and I have had the pleasure of getting to know her over the last several months as well. She went to the same college that Holly did, Bethel College in Minnesota, and knows many of the same people as she. Dawna was a nice, pleasantly spontaneous addition to our trio that day.

We enjoyed an array of foods on the grounds of the museum prior to entering the exhibit. Emily brought steamed mandu and chopped veggies and Holly brought bagels and little single-slices of cream cheese. My sheet made the meal all the more picnic-y.

Dawna, Holly, and I were slightly unprepared for what was meant by the "Korean War Museum." There were literally floors of displays for every war Korea has fought, beginning with ancient battles between the three original peninsular kingdoms. We spent so much time walking through Korea's distant past that we had little energy for what was of greater interest, displays of the modern Korean War from 1951-1953.

Instead of a coffee shop after the museum, we decided to check out Heongdae, a trendy shopping district near City Hall. We browsed an outdoor market near the area, where Seoul's upcoming artists were peddling their wares. It had the feel of San Antonio's First Friday, with interesting handicrafts and even caracture-drawings.

As a prelude to our meal, on the streets of Heongdae we decided to try the world's tallest ice cream cone, for about 1200 won each. It was good, as long as you raced to finish it and didn't let it melt!

We originally journeyed to the shopping district for some tasty Mexican food from Dos Tacos, but when the wait proved two hours decided to try a girl-y pasta place instead. The food was nice, the atmosphere pink, and the company priceless.

As we walked back from the restaurant, Dawna spied a purse she seriously contemplated purchasing. In the end, she decided against it and put it back. Smart move, Dawna. Smart move.