Prior to
coming to Korea, I had only used public transportation on rare occasions, and
then only for their novelty (bear in mind that I grew up in a state that
doesn’t even have one subway line). In Seoul, however, public transportation was
an integral part of my daily life. I had
no car, and while taxis are rather inexpensive in the city it’s prudent to
exercise a bit of financial caution when one can.
Every
subway system has its fair share of crazy people, but what makes Seoul’s crazy
commuters unique is that many of them sell things. You know that you’re about to witness a
hustle when you hear an obnoxious, generically Asian song emanating from a
clearly outdated boom box. A man in a brightly
colored suit will then set up camp in the middle of the car, bow to his fellow
passengers, and tell them about the great new CD/Cell Phone/MP3 player they can
purchase, without the inconvenience of having to search for it in stores. People will then proceed to actually purchase
these items.
My favorite
crazy Korean subway passengers, however, are by far the angry “halmoni (할머니),” or
grandmother, and “ajumma (아줌마),” or middle aged lady. Because of the Confucian history of Korea
these individuals are necessarily recorded a great deal of respect, whether
willingly or begrudgingly. Usually this
privilege is understood to include a duty to treat those younger than oneself
well, but occasionally it is abused. An
ajumma, I have heard it said, has four elbows (including their shoulder blades)
that they employ while making room for themselves.
In many
ways it seems that the time period between tending rice paddies and paying cab
drivers has been too short. Many Korean
quirks can, in my opinion, be attributed to treatment of one’s surroundings as
one’s home and one’s countrymen as neighbors.
Often times this results in a great deal of kindness towards strangers
(foreigners included), but perhaps just as often it results in a tendency to
push one’s weight around the way one might do with a child or younger sibling
While en
route to meet a friend one afternoon, I had the misfortune to sit next to a
particularly ornery “halmoni.” She was
yelling loudly at the people around her, but not at anyone in particular. Trying to listen to my Ipod, my trustworthy
and loyal friend throughout my first year in Korea, I was perturbed. I was not sufficiently perturbed, however, to
do anything other than roll my eyes. Eventually
a pretty girl of about twenty, unaware of the maelstrom into which she was
entering, came and stood in front of her.
The halmoni, apparently
unafraid of a personal injury lawsuit, kicked her! She actually swung her stubby little leg out
and kicked her. The girl walked away,
and still nobody said anything.
As a
foreigner I am able to somewhat circumvent the rules regarding respect for
one’s elders, though I rarely exercise that ability. A friend of mine ten years
my senior, for example, allows me to address her more informally than she
allows her boyfriend. Sometimes when I
address older Koreans informally they assume that it is because I have simply
made an error, Korean not being my mother tongue. Most often this is the case, but occasionally it is on purpose. In some ways I
consider this free reign to be a responsibility. And so when the halmoni kicked the young girl and continued her verbal torrent I
turned to her and said, in her language, “Halmoni,
shut up (할머니, 정말 시끄럽네요).” She did, if only out of pure shock. The rest of the car seemed to have trouble
holding in their laughter, and in an attempt to save face she gave her seat to
someone standing, stating that she didn’t want to sit next to me. Nor I you, ma’am.
Korea is a country where bad behavior is acceptable, regardless of age, as long as it is the
product of alcohol. Perhaps living in a
university district my view is a bit skewed, but I think that is reasonable to
claim that Koreans drink a fair amount.
And although I have on occasion seen wives look on with exhaustion as
their husbands play yet another drinking game, the general consensus seems to
be that drinking is just another (occasionally humorous, occasionally
less-than-humorous) part of life.
The drunken
ajosshi (아저씨, middle-aged
man) on the subway is certainly a comical character, although one more comical
in retrospect than in the present. The
distance of time is necessary to forget the rotten smell of soju on their
breath. Occasionally the distance of
time is also necessary to forget the rotten smell that has obviously resulted
from their failure to bathe with soap and shampoo.
To pass the
time and avoid staring at people on the subway, I would often bring along note
cards with Korean words and their English definitions. Admittedly, I would on occasion try to
position my note cards such that a pretty girl might see them and be impressed
that a foreigner was trying to learn her language. Once, while coming back from Gangnam, the
main entertainment district of the city, I noticed a cute girl staring intently
at my note cards. I turned and said to
her, “Do you have to learn English too, miss?
(아가씨는 영어 공부를 좀 하는 것 같네요)” Caught, she
laughed and struck up a conversation.
Unfortunately, I had also attracted
the attention of a drunk ajosshi. While
I was
flattered that he thought so highly of my physical
appearance (“handsome boy!”), I could
have done without his insistence on rubbing my face to prove this point. All the soap in the world could not convince
me that I was going to be properly rid of his smell at any point in the near
future.
Thankfully
the ajosshi did not know any English.
Usually when they have a fledgling knowledge of the language (anything
past the ability to say “hello” is
considered sufficient), they will say something to the effect of “U.S.A.?
Okay!” I just nod and smile,
knowing that they are just trying to extend a warm greeting to a foreigner, an
act not to be taken for granted while living abroad.
On
occasion, however, it can be obnoxious when someone insists on having an
English conversation. They might want
you to be their English teacher, or they might just want to show off their hard-won
English speaking abilities in front of the hoi polloi. My usual response is to say that I am from
Spain (this approach can backfire, I might add.
I know of one individual who used to tell people on the subway that he
spoke Russian, until one day the individual who approached him turned out to be
fluent in that language).
I’ve also
encountered a great deal of kindness on the subway. As in any country, the proper thing to do
when sitting and an elderly lady is in the vicinity, is to offer her one’s
seat. In Korea, however, it is common
courtesy for those women to then offer to hold one’s bag for the duration of
their ride. It’s not always helpful;
most of the time I don’t carry around a heavy bag, and if it is truly heavy I
don’t want to burden the lady with its weight.
But it is a nice gesture, and one that leaves me with a pleasant
feeling.
The subway
is a place of extremes. Some evenings,
when it was particularly crowded and noisy, I would look around and see nothing
but faces to hate and a culture to despise.
It is easy to pin frustrations on the people around oneself, and when
living in Seoul, that includes some fifteen million individuals, about half of
who seem to be riding the subway at any given time. Thankfully there was Sindorim, the station at
which everyone on line number two exited.
Late at night I would almost invariably have the car to myself and three
or four other individuals for the remaining few stops. Riding over the Han River at night, with the
lights of the city ablaze and the dark water still and quiet, it was difficult
to be but so angry at that old bitch.
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