Sunday

The cerulean sky seems to be saying it's warm out, even though the last few weeks have been deceptively blue-skied yet freezing. The patio tables are empty. Koreans have a phobia of being cold. I leave the tea candle burning and carry my cup of Papua New Guinea hand drip. This coffee provides the only communication the Korean owner/barista and I have with each other. She proudly says "Papua New Guinea issoyo" with a smile and I understand and thank her with a nervous smile/bow. (In the Southern part of the US, the general way of acknowledging or thanking another human being - say, if a driver lets you cross in front of his car - is with a smile. Here, it's with a bow. There are tons of different levels of bows for different social occasions, but I've only worked on one, and I believe I've just about got it so my neck doesn't look like it's spasming when I'm trying to respectfully greet to a student's mom. In any case, when I'm talking to someone face-to-face, my Southern roots demand me to smile, so I do this strange jittery, giddy head bow, especially when I'm about to be served my favorite delightful cup of coffee.)

Cup in hand, I grab my phone and paperback copy (finally!) of George Orwell's BURMESE DAYS. She may be irritated I left the candle burning, but reduced intelligence is usually inferred when dealing through a language barrier. It's become a habit to conform. She says, "Anyonghikaseyo," as I head toward the door, so I smile as though about to speak and raise the white ceramic cup I'm carrying out to show her I'm just going to sit on the patio. She nods and looks uncomfortably disapproving at the thought of my sitting in the 50 degree weather.

Next door, there is a Chinese restaurant with a picture of the chef on the front sign, and a life-like picture of him ushering and 어서오세요ing ("welcome" - one of my favorite Korean words because of its sound) you into the actual restaurant door. At the wood slat table, I arrange my phone and earbuds, although there is no one talking out here so I don't use them, and my Papua New Guinea, getting colder by the second. The chef, THE chef, appears at the squid tank in front, wearing the same chef's coat and tall white hat. I wonder if he's Chinese. He reaches into the tank to check out a squid by picking it out carelessly by its tentacle, like a dog with her teeth. He seems dissatisfied, so he takes to washing a few panes with the sponge in his other bare hand, dusting algae into the water and stirring the clams from their rest. He's a suta chef, which means he makes all the noodles in his restaurant by hand, stretching long thin lines of dough out and then doubling them over again to continue the process. I hear suta makes you feel full longer, but I've never compared them to any other kind. On the front sign, and usually in the window below the sign, the chef can be seen making the noodles, pleased with his business. Finally, he decides on a squid, scoops it up with the red plastic basket that has been floating and carries it inside, as a trail of green water marks his way behind him.

By now, it's 3:45 and people have starting lining up at the croquette place (for the Southerners with us today, pretty much pistolettes) on the other end of the complex. Every day, there is a line out of this place at least 45 minutes before it opens, and it grows to about 100 people or more, before the magical moment at 4:30. When I first noticed this place, it was almost dead winter. Still, the line formed, huddled, drank tea. I thought I HAD to try this heavenly goodness that I was being separated from by the longest line I'd ever seen, save the cables cars at Seoraksan Mountain (hightest in Korea) and roller coasters at Six Flags. One day, at the coffee shop, I noticed the line forming and thought I'd try it. Daniel and I stood in the "queue" for well over an hour and finally got to see what the fuss was all about. We got some curry croquettes, some cream ones, and a few scones. (Now, you can get scones well after the line is gone. No one wants them. The croquettes are what it's ALL about.) So we got home, excitedly opened them and scarfed them down. It was the most disappointing meal of my life. I honestly think people go there just because there is a line and they think, as I did, that they're missing out on something breathtaking. Not the case. I still get scones whenever I have the chance, even though the price has gone up. Maybe the good stuff is finally catching on.

I consider the forming queue with a chuckle, deciding an hour is too long to wait for a scone, notice the increasingly cold wind flapping the pages of my book, and go inside to see if my candle is still burning.