A distraction from my inner void: an existential memoir of living in Jeju Island, Korea
On weekends in the fall, when the daylight hours were fading, I used to board the intercity bus from the north part of Jeju Island to Seogwipo to meet my friends for brunch. Sometimes I was very hungover. Often, I was a little lost. It was soberingly lonely, riding a bus in a remote part of a remote island far away from home.
To get to Seogwipo, I had to ride southward through the rolling hills. I lived on a windy slope at the foot of volcanic Mt. Halla in the northern part of the island of Jeju. It was well-known that the south side of our island was always a little warmer, so when the seasons were changing, it was nice to escape to the south. It seemed to catch a tepid sea breeze up against the slopes.
When deboarding at the Seogwipo bus terminal, one could clearly see the stately volcano whose summit often hid behind a cloud. But it wasn’t summer anymore, and the sky was a light shade of grey. The seasons were moving into a very bleak and dark part of the year and they’d take me with them.
Getting off the bus after an hour was like emerging into a whole new world. Residents of Seogwipo seemed to live the “old way”, doing things as they had done for hundreds of years. It felt so disconnected from the rest of the modern world. I could pass directly through the covered market and find myself wandering through crowds looking for sweets and sustenance to buy, often from old women in what we’d call balloon pants, working hard amidst billowing steam coming from large pots. The salty smells of boiling broth were to die for. There was nothing glamorous here, and yet it added comfort.
There even was a world beyond this place. In the oldest part of the city, a street stretched from an entrance of the market down a hill toward the harbor. It was called Lee Jung Seob Street, named after a famous artist who once lived there. From the threshold of his old house which still stood along the cobblestone street, you could see the glimmering ocean and tall, protruding islands in the distance with fur trees growing on them at perfect angles. Everything from the smooth street stones to the ocean waves caught sun rays in the temperate air. This romantic vista must have enchanted visitors for as long as humans have existed. Seogwipo was nothing short of paradise.
But it was getting too cold to enjoy the views and walk along the sea now. It was time to hibernate indoors. My South African friend Jen and I would text each other on flip phones to pick a spot to meet. She would invite others, and we’d begin to gather.
Cafes lined the street. We often planned to hit at least two of them, and if I arrived early enough, I would occupy a third alone while waiting for the others to wake up and get dressed.
Us expats lived a charmed life. Our salaries were fat compared to most Koreans, and we had little work to do. We taught in various public schools and private academies, working with children five days a week. They were generally very well-behaved, except sometimes when I taught in the high schools where I had to yell to be heard above the chatter in the classroom. My biggest problem ever was being heard over the voices of forty teenagers. We lived stress-free and happily. Doesn’t that sound like a dream?
Jen and I would lounge on pillows at a cafe, next to the window, and watch people walk by on the sidewalk. We’d order a first round of food, and then a second, drinking delicious lattes in between and gossiping about other expats we knew. If we’d gone out the night before, we would talk about the intricate web of relationships that was always developing.
On an island, it was hard to hide your private life as an expat. Everyone knew who was sleeping with who, and when new expats arrived for their teaching contracts, we would observe them with intense curiosity as if they were fresh meat.
It was impossible to visit Lee Jung Seob Street without entering Cafe MayB, a cozy little spot on a corner next to a flower shop. It was owned by a friend. We could watch wedding parties enter the wedding hall located across the street, which never ceased to provide entertainment. There was a wonderful terrace where, in warmer months, one could sit outside and gaze down the cobblestone street which plunged downward at a steep gradient from that intersection. MayB was a place you could literally spend all day in. Some people did.
How many hours of my life did I devote to writing in my journal at Cafe MayB over the years? How many solitary moments of self-reflection had I spent with a blanket thrown over my lap as the chill set in? How often had I found distractions from my inner void? How many affogatos and toasted sandwiches have I eaten in that spot, chewing with the hopes that it would nourish my withering soul?
When the hours had passed and we’d talked enough about our social circles, it was time for me to board the bus again and make the long trip back up to the north side. I didn’t like waiting for the bus in the dark, but as the night was setting in earlier and earlier, that meant I had to head back and say my goodbyes around four o’clock. I had to leave pretty Seogwipo behind and go back to a more grey, numb place. Of course, nowhere on the island was ugly, but in Jeju City, there was far more human greed and materialism unraveling in its midst.
To feel my feet hit the sidewalk and the cold late afternoon air touch my skin, it was gloomy indeed. When I smelled the stale Autumn air, it was a bit of a wake-up call. I was going back to my lonely apartment on the other side of the hills. Sometimes, only at that moment, did I realize I had no groceries in the fridge and I was going home to complete emptiness. I had no one there waiting for me. My students would greet me the next day early in the morning with fresh faces, but they faced the same existential dilemma that I did: who am I and why am I here?
I had no clear answers for them, although I often feigned wisdom.
I couldn’t help but question what I’d accomplished over the weekend. The cycle repeats as I leave the house to go to coffee shops and come back over and over and over again. What’s the point? What am I searching for?
None of it was clear. And now it lives in the past. I moved back from Korea in 2016. It is almost a dream now. I have to wonder whether all of my brunches in Seogwipo served some kind of purpose. Or have they been lost in the labyrinth of time, along with anyone’s memory of me ever having been there?
