The sixteen-hour flight was long and tedious. The seats were cramped and despite the on-board entertainment, I couldn’t focus on anything. I tried to sleep, but an odd sense of excitement buzzed through my veins.

It’s cool to be here, all alone, in the country where I was born. If Boyoung had traveled with me, I might have felt the need to appear unaffected. Instead, I am free to gawk and not feel stupid. Everywhere I look, there’s a sea of blue-black hair. Of oval-shaped eyes. Of round cheeks, smooth foreheads, small noses. These are faces with features that are similar to the ones I see in the mirror, the face that sometimes I forget I sport until I catch my reflection in a shop window. Oh, I’m Korean, my brain will stupidly supply.

Here, I don’t have to pretend I belong. I look like I belong. There are other travelers who stand out—a redhead with curly locks, a tall Caucasian businessman with blond hair, a family of five with varying hues of brown mops. Others look at them, but not at me.

No one would ask me where I came from. No one would question if I spoke the right language. No one—

“Passport, please.” The customs agent’s voice interrupts my little fantasy.

With a sigh, I hand the blue book over. Okay, so maybe there are people who will ask me questions, but they won’t be dumb ones like if I can see when I smile or whether my sex is slanted like my eyes or how I look like Constance Wu even though she’s a whole Chinese person and I’m Korean. There wouldn’t be any of those dumb questions that I still remember even though most were asked so many years ago that I should forget but can’t. I guess you remember the things that make you feel foreign in your own backyard.

“What is the purpose of your visit? Business? Travel?” The agent peers through the plexiglass at me. “Family?”

The options filter through my mind and I discard them one by one before settling on, “Yes, family.”

The customs agent stamps my passport and hands it back to me with a small nod. See? No dumb questions.

A silly smile spreads across my face. I’ve not even left the airport and I already feel at home. When I stroll through the automatic doors from baggage claim, I immediately spy my driver—tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored blue suit with his dark head bent over his phone. I keep my eye on him while I lease a Wi-Fi travel modem.

I’ve noticed that the men here are particularly fine—not that I’m here for some vacation romance, but every man I’ve seen has been well-groomed, well-dressed, and generally very easy on the eyes. Boyoung has been keeping things from me. How rude of her.

The clerk at the rental kiosk does speak English as Boyoung promised. The transaction is painless and in minutes I’m hurrying over to the man in blue.