Wednesday, May 15

A BASKIN ROBBINS SUMMER (continued. Part XIV of ? If you are new to this story, you can read from the beginning,

here)


“Hi,” said a soft voice in Korean. I turned, and immediately lowered my eyes. I still have a hard time looking pretty girls in the eyes. I guess I’m afraid that they can somehow see into me, and find me lacking.

“Hi,” I managed to squeeze out in a soprano’s quaver.
“You must be the pastor’s nephew.”
“Yes.”

“I’m H*** J***. Actually, you can call me Lydia.”
“Lydia? You have an American name?”

She laughed, the free and comfortable laugh of the happiest person in the world.

Then, she dropped my jaw by speaking to me, in English. Not the broken English that all schoolchildren learn in school, not the English that my relatives try on me. But grammatically perfect, English, albeit with a small accent. “I grew up in Argentina.” My hesitant Korean disappeared, and I switched into my more comfortable element.

“Argentina? You grew up in Argentina? What’s a Korean girl doing in Argentina?” Lydia’s father, it turns out, had business in Argentina for quite some time, and had moved back to Korea some years back. Which meant that Lydia spoke not only Korean and English, but Spanish.

Senseless chit-chat followed, of which I remember not a whit. I managed to answer Lydia’s questions, and even ask some of my own, but I was floating on a cloud somewhere, singing halleluiah. She was such a nice person. I had an easier time talking to her than my own relatives. I shared my trip in Korea with her, and she listened. I was willing to tell stories forever, if that meant that she would continue to smile up at me. My euphoria was broken when a group of people entered the room. They were around my age group, and had come to get Lydia to hang out. Introductions were quickly made, and again, I became the test object of funky, broken English.

We headed out to a local jja jang myun (Chinese noodles with black bean sauce) corner restaurant. It quickly became apparent that these guys knew of me, already. The same crew had been Jimmy’s friends when he was here two years ago. Young Mo, the tough guy of the group, was especially nice to me. He was one year older than me, and one year younger than Jimmy. He had really liked Jimmy when Jimmy had visited, and now had taken an interest in me. The rest of the day flew by, and I was sorry when it became evening. We parted ways, and I walked back to the church building with Lydia, who also lived nearby.

(to be continued...)


yakob at 5:32 PM

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