Namsan Folk Village

넘산골 (‘Namsangol’, “Namsan Folk Village”), is a little piece of tradition in the heart of 서울 (‘Seoul’). Though small by the standards of the castles and folk villages outside of Seoul, it is wonderful little piece of history.

I join my friends in what I think is a desperate attempt at immersion (as only one of the Koreans who was with me spoke English). We walk a mile to the village all while talking in broken English and Korean, and upon arrival, we are greeted with the harsh smell street vendors and tour buses. The paths are crowded, flooded with Chinese and Japanese tourists, along with a few westerners and Koreans.

The beauty of the village, though, soon overcomes the smell. We are introduced to a large plaza and pond. It seems that the pond absorbed the stench for as soon as we passed, the smell was gone.

As we stumble down cobblestone paths, my Korean friends attempt to explain the history of the Folk Village to my friend and I, and all laugh my friend Nathalie or I correct them on their history.

We wander on gravel paths to the traditional buildings, all trying to get as close to inside as possible without actually entering the buildings. It becomes very clear though as we walk through the houses, just how tiny the Korean people used to be.

We marvel at the elaborate bedrooms,

And coo as we see a cute couple enjoying the view of the pond.

We laugh as we play traditional Korean games,

And goof off for pictures when we can

As the time approaches for the park to close, we pose together for one last picture together.

We all leave, hungry and tired, but excited from our trip into history. We smile and laugh, smelling tasty food as we pass restaurants. The trip was filled with excitement of traditional Korea, and we all vowed to come back together, and next time, with hopefully a little more knowledge of history.

Time to Say Goodbye

At the Bellagio Fountains in Las Vegas, the final show of the night is a water ballet to the opera song “Time to Say Goodbye”. In this song, two lovers sing to each other as they are about to part forever. I’ve always found the song beautiful, and it has gotten me into the habit of seeing goodbyes as some romantic thing. Violins in the background, people crying, a handsome boyfriend with flowers saying, “Please, come back to me!”

Reality is far different from a romantic opera. The Austin airport is crowded, even at 5 a.m. I’m stressed and tired from a night of no sleep and constantly misplacing items. Moments before, I had to run back to the car to get my wallet because I had forgotten it in the fiasco that was unloading the car; half of me thought that my wallet was an hour away at home. Thank God it wasn’t.

I struggle with my heavy luggage as my mom desperately snaps pictures while I check-in to the airline. I find myself getting increasingly frustrated not just from the constant barrage of flashes, but the rude attendants at the airline who refuse to help me when the machine did not dispense my boarding pass. When I am finally all checked in, I let out a huge sigh of relief. The easiest part is done.

As I sit down, my mom lets go another camera flash. I give her playful glare and ask why she is doing that, after all, it isn’t my first time going to Korea. She stifles a sob and hugs me. I turn to my father who as always been a stoic man, and ever stoic does he remain in this situation.

The three of us sit there for a while, letting the beads of sweat dry from our foreheads and savor every moment we are having together. When 6 a.m. rings across the screen, we stand, knowing that it is time to say goodbye.

I give my mother a hug, who had been strong until this point, but is now sobbing on my shoulder as she squeezes me tightly. I hug her in return, her tears making me cry as well. I manage to untangle myself from my mother to hug my father who I can see is trying to be strong, but his façade is somewhat faltering. I hug him hard and stifle a sob.

With hugs over, I walk towards the security line and begin the arduous process of dealing with TSA. Occasionally, I look back and see my mom and my dad smiling and waving. As I take my final steps to where they will no longer be in my sight, I hum my song. Time to Say Goodbye.

We may be parting now, but soon, we will be together again.

To Say Goodbye

It is one day before I leave for Korea, actually 15 hours and 30 minutes to be exact, and it is now crunch time.

I have spent the last week preparing what I need to go. All my clothes are ready to pack, all medications in a bag, all shoes stuffed with socks and other miscellaneous items. All that is left are the little things. In the end though, it’s the little things that are the big things—and the hardest to do.

I start the morning off calling my bank to let them know I’m leaving the country and please for the love of God, do not cancel my card, I can’t handle that again. I send off any remaining papers to Texas Tech and let my advisors know what’s going on and what they will receive. I buy the remaining gifts and trinkets for friends I will meet in Korea, and cross out others like buying deodorant and packing a towel. These are important, but only little things.

Next comes the most important thing—calling my grandfather. It seems late when I call him even though the sun is high in the sky. I am wondering why I put this off to last. When he answers the phone, he doesn’t recognize my voice. It takes me a little bit, making sure my voice is loud and slow, to let him know who I am. Eventually he recognizes me and asks how I am. I use my smiling, salesman voice to tell him about my chores for the day, and how wonderful everything is, but on the outside I am thankful that he cannot see me. My eyes are watering and I am biting my lip, for I hear how sick he is and realize that it might be the last time I talk to him. I try to drag out my time, listening to his voice and think of times where he was spry and I would sit on his lap, laughing at the mooning Santa Clause. I think of burning wood in the fireplace, and his warm smile as he would pull me into his arms. The phone call goes all too fast, exhaustion clear in his voice. I wish him goodbye, say how much I love him, and that I can’t wait to see him when I return. He mumbles, saying he’s holding on and hopes he will see me in December, just in time for Christmas. When he finally hangs up the phone, I look at the time and see that the call has lasted only five minutes—five minutes too fast—five minutes too short. I find myself in tears while I realize that a line that had been on my checklist now needs to be crossed off. It was just a bullet, but my hand trembles as my pen runs through the words. Task done. Completed. It was so quick to do. Why?

As I cross out the last item, I look at my mom. We are sitting at lunch where I am enjoying the last salad that I will have in months. She smiles at me and I smile at her. I turn over my checklist and write on the back, “엄마, 사랑해요,” –“Mother, I love you.” As I hand he the card and tell her the meaning in Korean, she cries, grabbing my hand. I can no longer hold back my tears and cry with her, tightly grasp the hand that has held mine for so long.

“Write one for your father,” she says, choked up.

“Ok,” I reply, giving her hand one last squeeze.

I leave for Korea in one day—15 hours and 30 minutes to be exact. I have checked everything off my checklist and am ready to go, yet there are tears in my eyes.