In the car park at the observation point, the wind whipped our coats against our legs. A smell of cold oil wafted toward us from a tteok stall. Kerrand buried his hands in his pockets, his sketchbook protruding from the right pocket. We climbed the hill as far as the lookout point. A line of binoculars. For five hundred won, you could gaze at North Korea. I slid a coin in the slot. It was so cold our eyelids stuck to the metal frames. To the right, the ocean. To the left, a wall of mountains. Ahead of us, fog. Not much of a view, but what could you expect in this weather? We went back down to the car park.

The old lady we’d seen earlier was there, talking to the woman selling tteok at the stall. As soon as she saw me she was all over me, talking at me and stroking my cheek with her rough hand. I pushed her away. She whimpered. I clutched at Kerrand, he calmly put his arm around my shoulders.

“What did she say?”

“We’re God’s children. She thinks I’m pretty.”

The woman at the stall pointed to a dumpling floating in the pot. Oil was seeping from its pores, expelling little bubbles of air. I shook my head. The other woman was still whining. Kerrand drew me toward the car.

Inside, I wedged my legs against the heater, rubbed my hands between my thighs. I wasn’t warming up. We headed toward the museum. It was late in the afternoon, I hadn’t eaten since the evening before. A Choco Pie had burst out of its purple wrapper at the bottom of my bag and I began picking at it, one crumb at a time.

“When was the last time you were here?” asked Kerrand.

“This is my first time.”

“You’ve never been here before? Out of a feeling of solidarity, I mean?”

“Shedding a few tears behind a pair of binoculars? You call that solidarity?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Tourists are the only ones who come here.”

Kerrand didn’t respond. At the museum entrance, inside a sterile box, a woman’s face leaned in, mouth close to the microphone. Five thousand won.

“For two?” I asked.

A pair of bulging eyes looked languidly up at me. Yes, for two people, she said in English. I choked back the humiliation of not being addressed in my own language in front of Kerrand. A rubber-gloved hand pointed us in the right direction.

Too much of everything. Too big, too cold, too empty. The clatter of our shoes on the marble slabs rang out. Kerrand wandered aimlessly, hands in his pockets, looking distracted. Eventually he stopped in front of a display of leather helmets and asked me to translate a sign.