CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Before I meet Yujun, I do an internet search for the biggest mistakes someone can make in Korea—something I should have done before I came here. Age is a big thing. I should offer to pay for the second round of any drinks. Most places do not require you to take off your shoes, but wearing socks just in case does not hurt. Don’t talk on the subway or the bus—I’d already figured that one out from my ride with Boyoung to the funeral home—and don’t point. Don’t stick your chopsticks in your rice, as that’s what they do at funerals. I didn’t see that at my father’s but he didn’t have much of a ceremony either. Koreans are big into gift giving. I’ll have to remember that. I also find some simple Korean sentences for “hello,” “how much,” and “where’s the bathroom.” I try them out but know I’m getting the pronunciation all wrong. I bookmark the link and get ready, reciting the words as I wash my face, brush my teeth and dress. Annyeonghaseyo, eolmayeyo, hwajangshireun eodiseyo? “Hello, how much, where’s the bathroom?” Annyeonghaseyo, eolmayeyo, hwajangshireun eodiseyo?

My options for date clothes are thin. I’d been focused on the proper attire for a family reunion, not trying to look sexy for a man. To be quite honest, though, my past attempts at sexiness have never been super successful. I don’t have the body for it. I’m small on top and straight down below. It might not be an exaggeration to say a board has more curves than me. Since I wore skinny jeans to the club, I search for something different. I wish I had more skirts. There are so many girls and women here in pretty dresses—even on the subway I noticed it.

The nicest thing in my suitcase at the moment is the black silk funeral dress I need to return to Boyoung, but I want to clean it first. I put that on my list of things to do tomorrow. The other dress I have is more Sunday school than Saturday night, so I end up wearing a pair of regular jeans, a white camisole, and a slightly oversize pink and yellow plaid shirt, unbuttoned and knotted at the waist. It looks decent with a pair of pale pink flats and gold hoops. I’m not going to stop traffic but I look okay? I hope.

None of my roommates make it home before I leave, but I download an app a travel site recommends and input the address that Yujun texted. The app tells me how to get to the subway, where to transfer, and how long it will take—all in English. When I arrive at the restaurant, I feel competent enough to conquer a small country, or at least demolish some delicious Korean beef.

The eatery is small, with a half dozen empty booths lining the walls. Lattice-like partitions provide privacy for each table. There’s no one at the front—just an empty register. I freeze, unsure of what to do, until the tall, lean figure of Choi Yujun appears from beyond one of the screens. He waves me forward in that Korean way with his fingers pointed toward the ground. A smile of delight threatens to bust across my face and make me look decidedly uncool. I rub my lips together so as not to blind Yujun with my eagerness as I hurry to his side.