03
On the way to Gyeongbokgoong, Sooncheon spoke to me as if he were a professional tour guide, pointing out every detail imaginable and describing its relevance to the city.
“Just beyond that neighborhood on the right is Yongma Land, where the souls of evil dance after death and on the left ahead is Cheonggyecheon stream. Its waters contain more wishes than there are stars in sky.”
Occasionally Sooncheon would add anecdotes of particular significance. At these times, his tone would sharpen, his pitch would rise, and he would pause to make sure I was listening.
“Jonah. Don’t dip a hat in the stream. My chingu, Ji-ho, received a pink strip from KNP for it one time.”
“Jeon Jung-kook! He’s been spotted in this area on many occasions!”
I questioned Sooncheon’s knowledge of these observances, but did not argue out of respect. I’d only been in Seoul for just over an hour. When we arrived at Gyeongbokgoong Palace, it looked remarkably like the Tiananmen Square in Beijing, except maybe more desolate and slightly smaller. And the guards had different uniforms and accessories.
“Gyeongbokgoong is an architecting masterpiece, a world wonder. It was built during the Joseon dynasty sometime in the 14th century. It formed an example for much architecting after it was built, from Japan’s teahouses to China’s Tiananmen Square, Gyeongbokgoong was first.”
Sooncheon stood resolutely, facing the palace as he spoke, as if he was speaking to the ancestors who built it. Several other tourists from many nationalities stood around, snapping photos and pointing out features. I walked through the crowd and knelt about six feet away from a decorated red guard similarly yet more traditionally Korean-dressed than an RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) officer. I removed my iPhone from my pocket and set the camera feature to portrait, blurring out the background and distinguishing the guard into perspective. A moment later the flash from the camera went off. At the same time the guard snapped into action letting out a loud “HIE-YAH!” while performing a taekwondo-type maneuver, outstretching his arm and forming a ‘stop’ signal with his hand directly at me. His arm stretched firmly forward; his hand at a 90º angle from the arm, paralleling his right leg, which was aptly fixed at another 90º angle at the knee. The guard had effectively been a statue up to this point, almost stone-like. It was a complete 180º switch, like a dormant volcano erupting after centuries of inactivity. The sudden reaction jolted me backward and in the tumble I threw my phone into the sky. It came crashing down onto the cobblestone walkway a moment later. I sat dazed. I couldn’t immediately comprehend what had transpired. The action from the guard was rare and the crowd of people looked on in awe, wondering what would happen next. People began hovering around me, snapping photos of the guard in his pose with me on the ground in anguish. Sooncheon ran up to me, fell to his knees, and lifted me from the shoulder pits to my feet. I was in shock and couldn’t understand yet what had occurred. “Dweero, dweero!” He yelled at the crowd around us. At the same time, he grabbed my phone and handed it to me. The screen had a long jagged crack across the face like a spider web, the centre of the smash like a bullet through Plexiglas. The cracks were so pervasive I couldn’t make out the screen. The phone was ruined.
On the way home, neither of us spoke for a short time. As Sooncheon sped through the city streets I let the breeze wash over my face. It had a hot sort of sensation to it, like a fan blowing smoke.
Sooncheon turned to face me. “Sorry about your phone, Jonah. You can use mine while you’re here.”
I tilted my head to look at him. “Thanks,” I said curtly.
When we got back to the apatu Sooncheon made more makgeolli, proceeding to serve me a cup. I swirled the milky concoction about with the small spoon accompanying it. The mixture formed a small whirlpool in the cup.
“We can hike Seolaksan tomorrow,” Sooncheon offered.
Milky spirals swirled around each other in the ceramic cup. My eyes transfixed on the curves of liquid going around and around.
Sooncheon nestled into the corner of the sofa, compressing his puffy red jacket against a pillow in the process. “Fresh air! New day!” he gleamed, trying to combat the gloomy atmosphere inside the apatu.
I stopped my stirring and the small waves settled into each other, “sure, Seolaksan sounds good.”
Sooncheon had one bedroom in his apatu so we spent the night in the same room. He was hospitable, offering to sleep on the floor while I took the bed. Moments after saying goodnight, he began to snore. His snoring sounded like a koala trapped in a well. It had an enduring effect and pulsated with each beat, growing louder like a yell in a cave. It made sleep impossible. I struggled to will myself to sleep in between the snores, but gave up trying after some time. Then I tried a new strategy, I began to count the seconds between each snore. 1-2-3-4, snore. 1-2-3-4, snore. It had a rhythmic effect and seemed to always be on target, like clockwork. I began to imagine it as some type of Korean anthem and visualized a choir of red, white, and blue snorers with synths and gongs going off in between. Sometime shortly later, I fell asleep.