MOSTLY TRUE

Itaewon, a district of Seoul, is where you can see the foreigners. After three months out in the country towns of northern South Korea, where I was often the only Westerner, it was strange to see such an international assortment of people. Afghans, Turks, Americans, Irish, South Africans, French, Kenyans - you name it.

Here, I sat smoking cigarettes and drinking soju out in the street for hours, just people-watching. Irish and Turkish restaurants were all around - but the foreign food was expensive. I was waiting to meet a friend for dinner.

As it was getting dark, a blonde man walked up to me and asked in a thick Germanic - perhaps Swiss - accent, “Am I to know where the Tom’s Coffee Shop is?”

I told him I had no idea (and no working smartphone) where this place was to be found. He clapped his hand on my shoulder, anyway, and said, “OK. Thank you!” and walked away. I lit another cigarette, but in a second he was back. “I did not mean to be so rude! Should I say ‘Good day’?” He looked concerned, as if he accidentally offended me.

Sure, I said. I’m not picky.

He still looked concerned. “But there is not much of the day left!”

I was suddenly at a loss for words. Well, you could say ‘Good evening’.

“Aaah! Good evening!” He clapped me on the shoulder again and wandered off to find his coffee shop, happy again.

I sat quietly laughing at the cute but awkward conversation while finishing my cigarette. This was a good encounter - rarely do people think Americans get offended in the same way as, for example, a shop owner in Paris who you forgot to say Bonjour to.

My friend arrived a few minutes later and our feast began - Korean barbecue like no other, pork and octopus cooked on the table, watered down with light beer and shots of soju. Somehow, I don’t even remember that friend’s name - we were just staying at the same hostel, another friendship of just a few nights spent eating together.