I always fear that the lock on my door will malfunction when I leave and I’ll be trapped outside. It’s happened before, it will happen again. It’s a fixable thing, but more complicated than it seems when your landlord—and for that matter, all tenants in the building—don’t speak your language. Today, it’s not an issue, and I can continue down the three flights of stairs and out the door. I’m lucky to live in my four-story building in Wonju, as much of the surrounding area is congested with the standard, grey high-rise apartment buildings that dominate South Korean cities.
Spring happens fast here, clumps of blossoms the size of my head hang above me as I meander the side streets. Funny how the grey winters give way to pockets of green and pink and white. A plot of land is being torn up beside my building. The winter has left it in shambles of branches and dead vegetation. An elder woman surprises me with her agility as she tears up last year’s leftovers As the weeks pass, the plot will turn green, then red as chillies appear. Then the chillies will migrate to blankets on the sidewalks to dry in the sun.
I look to the mountains that surround the city. Still snow-capped and living in winter, but the green of the tree-line moves higher each day. Soon the trails that coat them will replace snow and ice with performance-wear-clad hikers.
The restaurants nearby have opened their doors, a clear sign that winter is gone. Scents of marinated meat and fermented vegetables tempt me, as always. After all, Korean food is what distracted me from my vegetarian ways; it took just one week for me to agree to my first Korean barbecue. If the restaurants have names, I don’t know them. All I can garner from signs is the food they serve—bibimbap, samjyeopsal, galbi, gimbap…
I finally turn and cross the main street, where one of the men who sells rotisserie chickens sets up. I won’t buy unless it is Thursday or Saturday of course—the man who sells on those days has the best-seasoned chickens. The lone way-gook on the street, I get a fair number of stares as I pass. But, the “chicken-man,” as I’ve secretly named him, always gives friendly smiles and is excited that I find his product so desirable. A horn honks as a driver has waited a second too long at a green light. Drivers here are in a perpetual hurry, every second counts.
Wonju is a city of less than 400,000, but there are a few different main centres of activity, and the school where I work is in one. As is common in Korea, there is almost a 3:2 ratio of coffee shops to buildings. I tend to drift to one named Tospia, the coffee isn’t fantastic, but it’s cheap compared to most of the Starbucks-esque (and actual Starbucks) places that occupy the streets. It’s nearly empty inside. The barista looks amused as I clumsily order “Hana Iced Americano, juseyo.” But, it’s OK. I’m used to it by now.
