Mom always pressed me to go out more, to be more social, but that wasn’t my thing. Last night was an anomaly. All my interaction with Choi Yujun has been out of the ordinary. The point of this is to say that I’m likely misreading Yujun’s actions and my dream of being smothered alive is symbolic of how embarrassed I will feel mistaking his friendliness for something more. In the light of day, when sleep and time have burned off the soju, it’s clear he was being kind and not trying to get into my mom jeans.

I vow to be cool and less dorky the next time I see him—if I see him at all again, which is unlikely. Besides, I have more important things to do, none of which I can accomplish until lunchtime, when I meet with Boyoung. I drag my stiff body out of bed and wander downstairs. Everyone is gone again. My flatmates are hard workers.

I decide to go for another walk. This time I don’t need my notebook to recognize the chicken sign: 치킨 . If I’m ever lost and hungry, I’ll at least be able to figure out where to eat. From the lettering on the windows, I’m able to figure out a few more words. Over the top of a laundromat I see a word that reminds me of ppalli ppalli—the first word I learned in Korean. When I check the translation app on my phone and find out that I’m very close—ppallaebang—I want to slap a gold star on my chest. Fluency, here I come. I almost text Yujun from Seoul but manage to talk myself down from that silly impulse. The instinct to share something with Yujun only happens three more times before lunch.

I manage to keep myself together until it’s time to meet Boyoung at the ttalgi café she suggested. Two doors down from the café, a few older people stand in front of a four-story building that looks to be in the process of renovation. They are all holding signs with red-and-black lettering. My limited Korean gives me no insight and I add it to the mental scroll of all the things I need Boyoung to explain, but first are my photos.

The inside of the ttalgi café is adorable. Literally everything on the menu is related to that one particular fruit—strawberry milk, strawberry bread, strawberry muffins, strawberry ice cream. The seats are even covered with a red berry pattern. I love it and want to take it home with me.

Boyoung is next to the far wall with her head bent over her phone. She’s always fifteen minutes early. I hurry over to where she is standing by the wall and we go together to the counter. I allow her to order for me but shove her lightly out of the way so I can pay.

Boyoung helps me navigate the checkout process. When the transaction is complete, Boyoung takes a small electronic disk from the clerk, which I assume lets us know when our order is done. We find a small table near the windows and from my seat I can see the protestors. “What’s going on outside?”