the little incident

This kind of thing used to happen a lot during the 90s, but it doesn't happen so much anymore. Or maybe it does: maybe I'm now too old for it to happen to me. Back in the 90s, foreigners like me used to get randomly accosted all the time, sometimes by Koreans eager to practice their English, but often by people who were just fucking crazy and looking to latch onto someone on whom to foist their insanity. Or maybe I'm just one of those people who naturally attracts harassing assholes, like the guy who quietly sits in the movie theater until his peace is disturbed by the loud, stupid fuckers who sit behind him and talk and laugh loudly through the whole goddamn movie. Whatever the case may be, I used to get accosted a lot, but over the years, such incidents became less and less frequent. I'd like to think it's because expats, especially Korean-speaking expats, are now more of an everyday reality, particularly in big cities like Seoul, Busan, and Daegu—and also in the smaller cities.

But Wednesday night, in my building's basement grocery, I got accosted.

Of course, that's a lot of buildup for what turned out to be an innocent interaction. I normally use the self-checkout machines at my grocery, but yesterday, I used the staffed cash register because I needed to buy food-waste recycling bags to replenish my exhausted supply. As I was standing at the register, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a hesitant lady hovering slightly behind and to my left. I got that old uh-oh feeling that I used to get back when people-accosting was a common thing, and once I'd finished bagging my groceries and was turning to leave, this woman stepped timidly up and said "Excuse me" in English, then showed me a spaghetti bottle (amatriciana) that she had tried and failed to open, so she'd obviously been in search of some large, brawny person to do the job for her. All she could find, though, was me. She was very apologetic-looking and all smiles, and she spoke to me in an awkward mixture of Korean and English, making her desire understood. I gamely took the bottle of amatriciana with a grimace, told her in Korean that "I'll try" to get it open, then twisted the cap, which opened with surprising ease. I handed the bottle back to the lady, and she began bowing repeatedly in thanks, making me feel extremely awkward. Even more awkward was that we both were now walking to the elevators, and we ended up taking the same elevator together—her to the ninth floor, and me to the fourteenth. During the elevator ride, I asked her whether she was prepping a pasta dish; she said she was pouring the sauce over some beef and onions; I smiled, nodded, and blandly told her that that sounded delicious. When the door opened for the ninth floor, she shot out as I wished her bon appétit.

And that was that. The incident itself wasn't really anything special; if anything, I felt kind of bad for the lady. She seemed genuinely apologetic, and the whole sequence of events felt awkward. Why had she gone back down to the grocery to have her bottle opened? I'm sure that she was as glad as I was when we had finally gone our separate ways. But the encounter was a reminder of the bad old days, three decades ago, when everyone either wanted to be your friend (that was a creepy era in modern Korean history) or wanted you to be the focal point for some insane fixation.

I'll never forget the time, years ago, when I was walking through Jamshil with my Kiwi buddy John, and we were accosted by a crazy homeless guy who was muttering—either to himself or to us or to God—and smiling. This guy fell in behind us, uncomfortably close and keeping pace, so John and I decided to split up at an opportune moment. We did so... and the guy immediately swerved to follow poor John. John told me later that he'd managed to lose the madman, but I definitely felt bad for my friend. That's the thing about the insane: they're constantly creating narratives, wrapping themselves in those stories as if the narratives were cocoons, and if you, Unfortunate Traveler, happen to be blundering by right at the moment they see you, then you become part of that narrative, and the crazies will react to you as if you've said or done something worthy of reaction.

More recently, I was with my buddy Charles when a crazy lady suddenly came up to us and asked in English whether we spoke Spanish. We both said no, and she spouted some statistic about how there were X million Spanish speakers in America, so you're a liar—she angrily pointed at me—and you're a liar—she pointed at Charles. That had to be one of the more bizarre encounters I've had while living in Seoul, and I've seen some weird shit here.

I think I was with Mike or one my brothers on an empty Line 3 train at night, way back in the 90s, when a sleeping homeless guy in the car with us suddenly vomited, pouring his guts onto the subway car's floor. As the subway sped up, swerved, and slowed down, the edges of the vomit pool rolled crazily across the floor like the questing tendrils of an amoeba. It was a sight to see, not to mention a smell to smell. As I said: I've seen a lot of crazy shit, but I'm sure that's tame compared to what people who frequent bars and nightclubs and places of ill repute see.

Fun times. Fun times.