From Seattle to Pusan

I left Seattle for Pusan on August 31st.  It was a clear blue Sunday.  Singer/songwriter Christina Antipa drove me to Sea-Tac International Airport.  I gave her the cassette tapes I couldn’t take with me.  When she dropped me off I hugged her and said, “You oughta write a song about this.”

I never thought that old Nissan of hers could peel out.

I had the unfounded yet unshakeable notion that something would go wrong with this trip: my recruiter probably wouldn’t be there when I arrived; maybe my visa would be denied; or, once we landed in Tokyo, I wouldn’t find the gate for my connecting flight.  But I easily navigated security and had plenty of time to get some lunch.  A while later, I and my predominately Asian co-passengers boarded.

The plane backed up, made all the customary whirring noises, and abruptly came to a stop.  The captain’s voice informed us an engine wasn’t performing properly.  He said a maintenance crew was being sent out to inspect the problem.  An hour delay at the very least.  It was easier to fix here, he joked, than over the Pacific.  The Asians around me didn’t laugh, perhaps because they didn’t speak English; but then I didn’t laugh either.  Not only did I have a terrible vision of drowning among a fiery wreckage, but the delay meant I would be late for my connecting flight in Tokyo.

These are the obstacles that separate the hardened traveler from the soft-bellied tourist, and there has never been a doubt that I belong to the latter camp.  Once the plane finally took off, I tried to relax by watching Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.  I hadn’t been so disillusioned since my dad told me there was no Santa Claus.  Perhaps it was this profound disappointment that curbed my anxiety about landing in a foreign country, alone and naïve.  If such a shit movie could be listed among the Indiana gems, what would it matter if we did crash?

We shadowed the sun for ten hours.  It was dusk when we descended on Tokyo’s airport.  The actual city is far inland, but here glistening farmlands and golf courses surrounded the airport.  It was pretty, but I was preoccupied: my connecting flight departed in fifteen minutes.

The plane parked and the aisles immediately became thick with people.  Some woman, obviously late for her own connection, made like a bowling ball for the exit.  She only managed a few feet before backs and elbows blocked her path.  We all gave her a disapproving shake of the head.  Secretly, I admired her gumption.

Once off the plane, I raced through the airport, laptop underarm, gasping English to Asians who blankly pointed me in other directions.  Eventually I was ushered to a gate where a flight to Seoul was boarding.  I gathered that I would stay the night in a hotel and depart for Pusan in the morning.  I passed an old security guard on my way up the ramp.  “Good luck,” he said.

When I took my seat it dawned that my luggage might still be on the last plane.  Also, I hadn’t phoned my recruiter to say I would not be in Pusan tonight.  But the gods were with me: an airline representative was waiting for me when we landed; she called my recruiter and showed me to my luggage, which was making the rounds at the baggage claim.

Three other people were in my same situation, also having travelled from Seattle, and we were all put in a van and taken to a hotel.  There was a young man, his wife, and an elderly woman — all Korean.  The young man spoke English, having grown up in the states.  At the hotel he translated the desk clerk’s instructions regarding the room and next morning’s flight.  My room was plush: a huge bathroom, a flat-screen TV, a computer, and two double beds.

I awoke very early the next morning and found an English channel that broadcast news.   Hurricane Gustav was due to tear shit up in the states.  When I came down to the lobby, the elderly woman was already there.  She accompanied me to the hotel’s restaurant and we had an awkward breakfast, me searching through my phrase book, her ripping the book out of my hands to read what I was trying to say.

After the other guy and his wife came down, we all piled into the van and headed for the airport.  During the hour flight I read that the won had fallen in value, dramatically, since the previous night.  I couldn’t ignore the coincidence of my arrival and Korea’s declining monetary worth.

Seoul International Airport is clean and huge, polished and high-tech.  An underground rail stops at every gate.  Pusan airport is much smaller and feels rustic by comparison.  Su, my recruiter, recognized me as I exited the baggage area.  She drove me to my apartment, about half an hour from the airport, and along the way we went through a few tollbooths.  The freeway was walled about as high as Su’s van, but I could see the hills beyond.  At their base, the hills crawled with dirty, colorful structures, and their crests were dense green.  The day was overcast, a perfectly white sky, and very humid.  We exited the freeway and drove down a street with some very tall buildings, covered in signs that all said the same unintelligible thing to me.  Su pointed out the huge Starbucks near my place, which is often used as a meeting place for foreigners.  Then she dropped me off, gave me a brief tour of my quasi-futuristic studio apartment, and left me there.

It was Tuesday; Monday was lost in the shuffle.