As I was busily engaged upon the exercise machines in the park's outdoor gym, an elderly Korean man walked up to me. With a few English words, he provided me with an excuse to cease my pathetic attempts to do more than one stinking pull-up.
"Hello, good morning. Where are you from?"
Most of my conversations with Korean people have begun like this. The first question I'm asked is not "What's your name?" or "How are you doing?" but "Where are you from?" I'll admit that there are some undercurrents of resentment, dislike and even racism in this country, but generally the Koreans are friendly, polite, and curious about new people in their neighborhood.
This particular man stood straight and proud, and was a few inches under six feet. Spikes of thin, sweaty hair stuck out from beneath his black baseball cap. He wore polyester running clothes, a nearly ubiquitous getup for Korea's oldsters—a purple short-sleeved shirt and black trousers. His skin was mottled, but barely wrinkled. His eyes were clear and bright. His teeth, though slightly yellow and riddled with gaps, were straight and intact. His accent was thick but intelligible, and his above-average grasp of grammar and vocabulary set him apart from most adult ESL speakers.
Introductions were made, and we began to find out about each other. I told him I was an English teacher working at a hagwon just a block away. Though he wasn't able to clearly articulate what his job had been, this man—Mr. Song was his name—said that he'd worked for the Korean government, and had traveled to Vietnam, Thailand and Bangladesh as part of that work.
That's probably why his English is so good, I thought.
We moved from the warm sun into the shade of a wooden portico, sitting on a bench and watching the old men on the exercise machines. We talked of this and that. I usually try to assay the main currents of the Korean mindset whenever I speak to a national. I plied Mr. Song with various topics, focusing on Japan, Korean history, and warfare. He kindly informed me that kimchi had been invented as a winter food in Korea, something for the people to eat while they huddled in their houses, blizzards raging outside. I mentioned that the Japanese have claimed that they invented kimchi (as my students have told me). He said that the Japanese do make their own kimchi, but they began long after Korea did. He told me this in an impassive, impartial tone that most Korean don't use when speaking about Japan. He possessed a striking lack of hostility toward that country. Perhaps he concealed it well, or perhaps the Korean children I've been speaking with are being their usual inflammatory selves. Either way I was impressed.
I turned the conversation toward Korean history. He gave me a brief lesson in the progression of the kingdoms and empires of the ancient peninsula: Goryeo (from which is derived the Western name of "Korea"); the "Three Kingdoms" Period or Samguk Shidae, with Baekje (present-day Jeolla province), Silla (Gyeongsam provinces), and Goguryeo, which is now North Korea; and the following era of the Joseon Dynasty, which is generally accepted to be Korea's golden age. Hangeul was invented then, and metal-type printing, and Korea won some of its most glorious battles against Japan. I mentioned the invention of metal-type printing, but Mr. Song did not know anything about it. The talk of war, especially Korean implements of destruction (like the hwacha), seemed to make him uncomfortable. I promptly steered the conversation away from such topics. We talked of the weather. He was quite articulate. He didn't know much more than two-syllable words, but I helped him out with those. He was quite impressed with my grasp of the Korean alphabet. Upon hearing that I was from California, he mentioned that his son was a Samsung executive, living and working near Los Angeles.
The conversation ran on for 20 minutes, punctuated by short pauses, where we'd gaze over the leisurely old men on the exercise machines. The cool breeze brought our temperatures down by degrees. Then, not wanting to detain the poor man (he being too polite to end the conversation himself), I said that I must take my leave. We shook hands, whereupon I noticed that he was missing the tip of his right thumb. He said that he often exercised in Jungang Park at this time in the morning, and I mentioned that I would be in the vicinity as well, and hoped to speak with him again. We parted as friends.
This was just one encounter among many. I have often been approached by Korean strangers, usually elderly men, but occasionally youths. They all want to know more about me, where I come from, and how I like Korea. For my part, I'm always glad of the chance to speak with someone who comes from a completely different continent, background, and moral standard. It's a refreshing chance to gain insight into the human condition...as well as make a friend who lives an ocean away from the world I know.
Life in Korea ain't too bad, folks.
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