Korea Part One

I was trying to stir up some enthusiasm for the contents of the Rose Records Store at Terminal One of Taoyuan Airport when it occurred to me: Who on earth is going to buy a CD on their way out of a country, other than someone who has momentarily forgotten how an ipod works? Deflated by my insight I put down a very-nearly purchased ‘The Best of The Police’ and wandered out.
Starbucks looked uncomfortably crowded, while Mr. Brown’s Coffee – which enjoyed a much larger and more relaxed seating area, was completely empty. Ha, I will not be swayed by the common man! I thought to myself, and settled into the less well known chain with an enormous bergamot-fuming mug of Earl Grey Tea. Indeed I was about to move out of the realm of the common man; this trip was an invitation from the British Council to work in the far South of Korea as a ‘Master Trainer’. Along with another trainer from Malaysia, I would be in the city of Gwangju enlightening a group of thirty local Elementary School English teachers with pedagogical theory and EFL methodology. They would then go out and train other Elementary school teachers, who would then go and train yet more teachers, until the whole of Korea was speaking English like a Hartley.
Unfortunately, the Earl Grey tea was fucking disgusting, and proved two things - that the common man is often right, and that the girl in the far corner, who had got the coffee from Starbucks, then snuck into Mr. Brown’s, had a far higher IQ, than me, and quite probably more in the way of cojones.
Impossible to be sure, though - she was too far away to check for an Adam’s apple.

‘My name is Captain Hudson, and I hope you enjoy this Cathay Pacific flight to Seoul, South Korea.’
I was happy with that – Hudson – quite a trustworthy sounding name; the kind of name you could imagine quite reliably performing certain tasks – say, flying safely between two Asian countries. In fact the flight was uneventful and smooth for almost the whole two hours. On such a short hop there were no personal TV screens, which I took as a personal insult, but I tried not to let it get to me. As we began our descent I stopped worrying about the episodes of ‘House’ I had been unable to enjoy, and decided to enjoy the fact that I was sat in the row with extra legroom. This meant both that I could stretch out my legs, and make inappropriate levels of eye contact with the attractive stewardess who had just strapped herself into the contraption opposite. The landing gear hydraulicked into place beneath us, we lurched lower and lower, and outside I could see the city taking shape, skyscrapers and stadiums, factories and flyovers separating out from the mass of lights and asserting their independence. Then the flashing urgence of the airport, the beginnings of a runway and-
The thrust, which had been pulling back as we nosed towards the ground suddenly reversed itself, and shuddering with exertion, the aeroplane strained back into the sky.
‘What!’ One word, barked from somewhere behind me as the plane struggled to gain elevation. I took a long, slow breath and tried to rationalize this: Hudson, we were not going to crash with that kind of name at the helm, it was unthinkable. I looked over at the stewardess to confirm my confidence, sure she would be full of a reassuring smile that told me this happened everytime they landed in Seoul. Perhaps it was some kind of cultural thing, the aviation equivalent of a bow.
Unfortunately, the stewardess was staring out of the window with her hand clasped over her mouth and looked like she might be about to throw up.
Before I could extrapolate this into the disaster it almost definitely was, the plane leveled out and the tannoy crackled into life.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began calmly, ‘this is Captain Hudson again. I am sorry about that. We were about to land when I happened to notice there was another plane on our runway, so I thought we’d better just have another go round and see if we can do better next time.’

On most trips now, I only take hand luggage. I’ve had far too many liaisons with luggage carousels that did not end well. This was a two week trip though, and it wasn’t like traveling back home to the UK, where I could take the minimum of clothing and be fairly sure that:
(a) my parents still haven’t emptied my old bedroom wardrobe of unfashionable 80’s clothing
(b) even if they have, they’re my parents and if they have to put up with me wearing the same pair of socks for ten days, it still won’t be the most disgusting state they’ve seen me in
This was also a business trip, and so there was a bewildering, vomit-worthy cataclysm of ties to cart around on top of all the shirts, suits and shoes. All of this is by way of prefacing that I stood there, at Incheon Airport Luggage Carousel D for a depressingly long time, watching the crowd of familiar co-travelers dwindle until it was just a fat, bald, unkempt guy who may have been staying there to put off having to sleep on the street, and me, with my growing sense of despair. Eventually, though - and quite a while after I’d already calculated how much Korean Won I wouldn’t have left after buying a new wardrobe – my battered blue suitcase popped out of the little tunnel and clattered towards me.
‘For fuck’s sake mate,’ I said, so happy to see it again that I had anthromorphisized it into a best friend. ‘Talk about taking your time.’
‘Are you talking to me?’ said the fat, bald unkempt man with the tone of someone who really hopes the answer is going to be yes.

‘Good morning!’ said the attractive Korean lady stood in the Arrivals Hall, when I indicated that my name was probably as close to ‘Mr. Hartley Pole’ as she was going to get. This would have been fine, had it indeed been morning. As things stood, though, it was nine o’clock in the evening. I decided to make a joke of it, in the hopes that this would cause us to bond, and who knew where things might lead after that.
‘Well, the flight was a bit late – but I didn’t think it was that late!’
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t be sorry, it was just a bad joke, that’s all. No need to apologize for it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Never mind.’
‘I will just call my neighbour.’
She produced a walkie talkie, while I reflected on the rudeness of waiting an hour and a half for a customer, then deciding to have a chat with your next door neighbour. It soon became clear, however, that the person she actually wanted to call was the driver waiting outside. Unless, of course, he also just happens to be her neighbour.
We walked outside, and for the first time I felt thankful for the coat I’d bought in Taiwan a few days earlier. It was only minus two or three, but felt like Siberia had just swallowed me.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ said the attractive lady.
‘That p-part wasn’t a joke, that was me being cold.’
‘Oh.’
I pulled my coat tighter around me, and one button immediately fell off.
‘Shit.’
‘Ha?’
‘No.’
‘Here is the car.’
It was a black limousine with tinted windows. Me and my overcoat got in, feeling mafia-like, the door closed and the beautiful lady did a deep bow. I waved and smiled at her, then remembered that the windows were tinted and I was quite possibly making a fool of myself, so I stopped in case the driver realized what an idiot I truly was. As I turned to the front and relaxed into the superbly heated seat, I caught the driver’s face in the rear view mirror and realized it was too late.