My mom and I arrive at Incheon International Airport at 4:55 a.m. After passing through customs, we pick up our luggage from baggage claim and head over to the money exchange kiosk to swap a few bills before leaving the terminal. In need of caffeine, we join a short line outside one of the few businesses open at five in the morning—Dunkin’ Donuts. But it’s different than in the States. Besides the fact that everything is written in Korean, the interior is brighter and the menu has more food options. Also the donuts are somehow . . . cuter.
“I think the cab driver is here,” Mom says.
I look over to where an older well-dressed gentleman in white gloves holds a signboard with the names Susie and Jenny written upon it in English.
After making our purchases—Mom gets an extra drink for the driver—we follow him outside to a taxi where he expertly fits our four bags of luggage in the trunk. I’m glad for my thick puffer jacket, which I zip up all the way before getting into the car. Though it’s almost March, it’s about thirty degrees cooler here than in LA.
Mom makes conversation with the driver while I stare out the window at the foggy morning freeway.
According to the taxi driver’s GPS, it’ll take an hour and a half to drive from the airport—which is located in Incheon, a city right outside Seoul—to my grandmother’s house. At one point, we cross over a long bridge and the driver tells us that the body of water beneath us is the Yellow Sea.
I fall asleep halfway through the ride, startling awake when the driver honks at a scooter that cuts in front of the cab.
At some point, we must have crossed into Seoul. There are more cars on the road, and the streets we’re driving down are lined with tall buildings and signboards in Korean, with a few in English. We pass an entrance to a subway station. People dressed in business clothing enter and exit by escalators or by stairs, moving in a quick but orderly fashion. We left on a Wednesday in LA, but it’s a Friday morning in Seoul. At an intersection, I count at least six cafés, four beauty shops, and three cell phone stores.
After five hundred meters, according to the GPS, the driver turns off from the main road into a series of narrower streets of residential apartments, mostly walk-ups. The cab pulls up in front of an older building with a small convenience store on the first floor, across from a flower shop and a tiny café. Mom pays the driver and we leave most of our luggage on the street, bringing up only my cello and our carry-ons.
Mom is quiet, which is odd, as she was positively talkative with the driver. After ringing the buzzer, she grips her elbows with her hands, a sure sign that she’s nervous. This is the first time she’s seen her mother since she went to Seoul for a wedding almost seven years ago. And she’d been with Dad then.
The door opens.
I don’t know what I expect from meeting my grandmother in real life. My grandparents on my dad’s side of the family are a lot like my dad, sweet and funny, with a fondness for hard liquor.
I knew my mom had a strained relationship with her mother but I thought that was just because of physical distance, and my mom’s, well, personality. She doesn’t waste emotions on things that aren’t strictly beneficial to her, or me. Only my dad could bring out a different side of her.
If someone were to ask what I thought my grandmother would be like, I’d say she was probably similar to Mom—powerful, intimidating, and no-nonsense.
“Soojung-ah!” Halmeoni cries, calling my mother by her Korean name.
Mom stands stiffly as her mother throws her arms around her. She’s so tiny, she has to tiptoe in her house slippers.
She looks like the sweetest grandmother in the world.
“Come in! Come in!” She ushers us into her home, pushing aside the shoes that are laid neatly in rows by the entranceway. “And this must be Jenny.” She grabs my hands; hers are warm and soft. “So beautiful,” she says, and I feel a rush of warmth inside because no one has ever called me that before, and she sounds so sincere. “How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen years old.”
“Eomma,” Mom says. “We still have luggage outside.”
“I will call my landlord. He lives downstairs. He’ll bring it up.” She adds to me. “He always helps me with my groceries.”
She looks young for a grandmother, but that makes sense because my mom was young when she had me. She has short permed hair, shot with streaks of gray and a warm, sunny disposition. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle at the corners, and it’s the most adorable thing.
This whole time we’ve been conversing in Korean and I’m thankful that Mom forced me to stick with Korean class instead of quitting like I wanted to in second grade.
“It’s fine, Eomma,” Mom says. “Jenny’s strong.”
Mom nods at me and I race out the door to bring up the luggage while she unpacks in the only other bedroom in the apartment. It takes me four trips, but I manage to bring them all up. By the time I’m finished, Halmeoni has laid out breakfast on the small table in the kitchen. Toast slathered with butter, sunny-side-up eggs, and grilled spam. The bread for the toast must be from a bakery because it’s thick and fluffy, the eggs are cooked to perfection, and the spam is salty and sweet. The last meal I had was on the plane, and I’m starving. I inhale the food while my grandmother peels an apple next to me, nodding encouragingly.
After Mom finishes unpacking, she heads over to the small table, and I stand so she can sit on one of the two chairs.
“Can I go out and explore the neighborhood?” I ask my mom in English.
Halmeoni looks up where she’s begun peeling another apple. “Doesn’t she want to unpack?” she asks my mom.
“Jenny’s not staying,” Mom explains. “The school she’s attending has dormitories. She’s moving in the day after tomorrow.”
“Ah.” Halmeoni nods knowingly, “Chelliseuteu.” Cellist. Still holding the apple and knife, she raises two thumbs. “Meosisseo.” Very cool.
Reaching behind her, she grabs a piece of paper and writes down 1103*—the code to the keypad of the apartment—slipping it into my hands along with several man-won, roughly the equivalent of ten-dollar bills.
While I search my suitcase for my ankle boots, my grandma expresses concern about me going out into the city alone. She’s never been to Seoul. She doesn’t know the area. What if she gets lost?
“Don’t worry, Eomma,” Mom reassures her, “Jenny is very smart, and she can read and converse in Korean. She also has her cell phone.”
“Are you sure?” She sounds relieved. “She must be independent, like you.”
My mother doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “Yes, Eomeoni,” she says, finally. “Jenny’s had to grow up fast, like me.”
A look passes between them, and I edge toward the door. Whatever they need to work through, it’s better if I’m not around.
My first stop is the café across the street to load up on some caffeine. A chime twinkles when I open the door. When no one comes out to greet me, I leisurely move around the small space, which is about half the size of the foyer in Jay’s Karaoke. Natural light comes through the eastern-facing window, gilding the plethora of fresh flowers on the sill, presumably from the flower shop next door. Small personal touches make the café seem homely and pleasant. Jazz plays from a speaker in the corner.
“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone came in.” A young athletic-looking guy in an apron steps through the curtain.
Then I notice what he’s wearing. “You go to the Manhattan School of Music?” I ask in English.
He looks down at his sweatshirt, then back up at me. “Yeah,” he answers, also in English. “I’m a sophomore, studying saxophone. Why?”
“I want to go there. It’s my top choice.” That and the Berklee College of Music in Boston. Except that Mom prefers I live in New York City, closer to my dad’s side of the family.
The guy gives me an appraising look, and I instinctively stand up straighter. “Oh yeah? For . . . dance?”
I blush. “Cello.”
“Right. So what brings you to Seoul?”
“I’m visiting my grandmother for a few months. I actually arrived here a few hours ago. From LA.”
“That makes sense. You look like an LA girl.”
I wasn’t exactly sure about the dancer comment, but there’s something about this one that gives me pause.
I think he’s flirting with me. This is the second time in so many months that a guy has flirted with me.
While not as absurdly handsome as Jaewoo, café boy is cute. And older.
The door opens behind me and a guy wearing a delivery outfit calls out, “I have a big order today, Ian-ssi.”
“My name,” the café boy says to me. “Ian.”
“I’m Jenny.”
“Wait one sec.”
When he returns, he hands me a to-go cup. “My number’s written on the side. I took a semester off from school to pay some bills, so I’ll be in Seoul. If you have any questions about MSM or just wanna hang out, give me a call.”
“I—I will, thank you.”
“See you around, Jenny.”
He starts readying the large order for the guy and I make my way to the door, glancing down at the side of the cup where he’s written in neat marker: Ian Nam, guide to all things MSM, plus his phone number.
I control my facial expression until I’m out the door, then sort of fast-walk down the street, my heart racing. Within only a few short hours of landing in Seoul, a cute Korean boy who works at a café and goes to my dream school, gave me his number and may or may not have asked me out on a date.
Maybe this is a sign of how I should spend these next few months in Seoul, going on dates, spending my time on activities other than cello practice or lessons.
I stumble a bit, as a memory rises up, of Jaewoo across the table from me in the small tent stall in LA, listening attentively as I opened up to him about my father. I feel a tightness in my chest, remembering how happy and hopeful I felt that night, which makes it all the worse that he never texted me back. But it’s my fault. I let my guard down. If I had just allowed that night to be what it was always meant to be—a distraction—then I would have never felt so disappointed.
Five months in Seoul, five months to have new experiences and make the most of each moment, and then I’ll return home, hopefully armed with the fiery determination to go after the future I’ve always wanted.
Bolstered by this resolve, I spend the next hour walking around the neighborhood—there’s a subway entrance only a few blocks from my grandmother’s house and a restaurant that specializes in juk, or Korean porridge, tucked into a quiet corner—before returning to the apartment.
The rest of the day is spent with my halmeoni. She and my mom must have at least come to a truce because my mom is cordial and Halmeoni is positively chipper. We take a taxi to the clinic where Halmeoni will spend most weekends after her treatments. This is actually where I’ll come to visit her, since when she’s at the apartment during the week I’ll be at the dorms.
Afterward, we grab lunch and walk around the area. Mom wants to avoid jet lag, so we attempt a little sightseeing but by six, I’m asleep on my feet. I manage to stay awake for another two hours but doze off on the cab ride back, waking only to stumble up the stairs to the apartment, where I hit the pillow and sleep for twelve hours straight.
