Famous Long Ago*

Floyd Cowan, publisher of Asian Journeys, writes about two visits to Seoul, South Korea, many years apart.

Not so long ago, I sat alone in my Soeul hotel in room looking out at the cityscape. I poured a second glass of whiskey, the first already making memories of times many years earlier. 

Thirty years before, Seoul was different, I was different. More desolate. Less refined. K-Culture may have been stirring into nascent, but Japan was enjoying the fullness of its economic growth.  I was based in Japan, but I needed visa space so I’d flown from Tokyo to Seoul. A visa run. 

Then I stayed in a cheap hotel, not the 5-star I was now enjoying. The yen was strong in those days, but I was still counting my notes. We were making good money, but Tokyo was expensive and we had a long climb to get out of day-to-day living. On this trip, all these years later, I was solid. 

As a travel writer all my expenses were paid. Except for the whisky. Our group was taken for lunch. It seemed a bit odd to me. We were not in Seoul, where I thought we were going. Somewhere on the outskirts. In a low-slung middle aged building. We took off our shoes outside and waited. It was a very popular place with live fish swimming languidly to their death.

I was fuzzy after an overnight flight from Singapore. On a budget airline. With people I didn’t know. I know, that didn’t bother me. I was familiar with people I didn’t know. None of us had slept that much.

Sleep was a secret scent that floated away. And then back into black. The bing bing bing and bright lights biting my eyes. Gathering my bags. Gathering  thoughts I wished would go away – those memories of Seoul.

After an amazing exotic seafood lunch, we were taken to the hotel where we changed and showered and slept and then into the gentle evening given a tour of streets lined with craft shops.  A day totally controlled by others.  But I was thankful to see the new Seoul. Not the Seoul I had met in1992. I was happy it had changed. Seoul changed. Korea grew and sparkled. K- pop, K- culture, K- everything. This small country was dominating in many areas. 

After landing at Gimpo in 1992 I found my way into the city and the cheap hotel I could easily sketch. Not because I remember that hotel so particularly, but because I’ve been in so many like it.  

In the morning I went to the embassy and got my passport stamped. That would let me back in Japan for another 30 days. 

I had lunch, then walked around the city. It was cold. I knew Seoul in winter, and it never tried to impress me; it just pressed its cold fingers into my face. Waited to see what I’d do. No enticing eyes came out of winter wind. The narrow Korean eyes squinted. 

In the swelting summer it was all the same, but different. Now, the eyes were August. Wide as an open plain. I retreated to the simple room and slept. I’ve never been able to resist an afternoon nap. 

Instead of 20 minutes I sunk into a deep sluggish sleep that was hard to wake from. A hard mattress that didn’t care who I was or what I felt. I struggled with thoughts of what to do. Sleep more or go out? Needing to go to the toilet pressed the decision into action.

Winter has a bitter humour — the kind that nips at your ears and dares you to pretend you’re enjoying yourself this close to the 38th parallel. 

Summer is kinder. Especially in the evening. 

Not knowing where I was going, unseen I wandered in a narrow neon lit street, looking for something where I was nothing. Dressed in simple shades amongst the then fashionistas of Seoul. And already, then, they dressed. Seoul pulsed with neon, spilling colours across black pavement, painting the night in restless, relentless metallic hues. The hot air hums, signs crackle, night heckles, voices, traffic rising, laughter spilling, the scent of sizzling meat curling through the gaudy glow. 

It played me, a liquid embrace I was all too willing to sink into. Smiles flash. Girls call out. Men gesture, coaxing me. Into their establishments. They are lairs. They are liars. Their dens of iniquity.  Pamphlets flutter, invitations to indulgence, each one a doorway to a taste, an experience, a promise. A laugh, a cry, to ultimate disappointment.

“Hey Joe, what do you want?” All the touts in Seoul assume every white guy is in the American Armed Forces.

“Just looking for a beer.” 

“Yeah. Right up here. Quiet place. Cheap drinks.” 

Being Canadian, I trusted his sincerity. I climbed the stairs. I stepped up and into a bright spacious room. Most tables were filled. I looked about. Where to sit?

“Here, here,” the waiter ushered me to a table. Seated. The hum of conversation, threading through the air, made me feel alone. Most tables were filled, groups clustered over half-empty drinks, excited laughter, filling the space empty beside me. Whenever I travelled, the most lonely moments are often when I was having a meal or drinking.

I wasn’t alone for more than a moment as the waiter went to get my beer. When a foamy mug of beer arrived I surveyed the room and I got the feeling this was a private party. I began to expect someone to approach me and say, ‘You’re in the wrong place, my friend, you’d better leave.’

Two young guys did come to my table, but they were friendly. “Hello Joe. Where in the US you from?”

“I’m from that very cold part. Canada.” 

“Oh Canada,” they looked at each other.

I was not sure if their pleasure was genuine or whether or not they would prefer to befriend an American. My very short hair led them to think I was in the Armed Forces. Which I’ve never been in. 

Returning to Japan I was in Gimpo walking towards my gate when I passed four US Marines. 

“Sir.” They all nodded.

“Gentlemen,” I responded without stopping. Do I look that old and hard bitten I wondered.

Their young faces were light and happy and they were heading home. I was still on a long journey with home, not being an important destination.

Unasked, they sat down with me. I didn’t get a feeling they were trying to scam me. The whole atmosphere was, what? too personal? Friendly. I welcomed friendly.

We chatted about nothing. I finished my beer and was about to order another. “No. No.” they chimed. “It is on us.”

“Can’t let you do that. I can pay for my own.”

“We’re not paying for it. The Big Guy is paying.”

I looked two tables over where a very fit, a very big Korean, was holding court. I watched him. He was in charge. Everyone around him were players. He was the man.

“He’s celebrating.” 

“Celebrating what?”

“He is very famous.”

“Really?”

“He just got drafted into KBO.”

Korea’s professional baseball league. 

“Top college player in Korea. Very famous.”

“Why so?”

“He is a power hitter. He is famous for ppa-dun.”

“What is ppa-dun.”

They looked at each other. They didn’t know the English word.

“Uh, you know. He hits a homer and he takes the bat and…” he motioned.

“He flips it in the air.”

“Yes, that is it - ppa-dun!”

“He’s a bit of a showboat.”

“Yes! That’s it. He is very popular.”

“He signed big contract. Biggest ever for BTO.”

“Here’s to him!” We clinked glasses.

“More! Beer,” they called. And more beer arrived. 

They told me his name, but it didn’t ring any bells. Korean baseball wasn’t my forte. But the beer kept coming.

I was well into the beer when one said, “Do you want to meet him?”

“He speaks English? I don’t speak any Korean.”

Shaking of heads. “His English isn’t very good.”

“His girlfriend speaks pretty very good English.”

“Pretty.”

Both drew back. “You don’t mess with her.”

“No,” I raised my hands. “Just saying.”

Yeah. Yeah. They nodded. Sinking back. Relaxing. Shoulders easing. 

We sat back in our chairs and then we were joined by their friends. I shook hands warmly and chatted with them. When I was on to my third beer the Big Guy noticed me. But didn’t acknowledge my existence.

“Come. Come. Come.”

I was pulled out of my chair “it would be an insult if you didn’t want to meet him. He’s paying for everything.” 

“Not for me. He doesn’t know me. I can pay for myself.”

One look: That is not the right attitude.

Another look: He’s paying.

There was an empty seat at the four-seat table. My friends introduced me in Korean. 

“Nice to meet you,” I reached out to shake his hand.

He remained seated. He reached across the table. He was the man. I was now his guest. His grip was everything you’d expect. Engulfing. Meaty. Crushing. Dominating. Making sure you acknowledged he is the Guy. The Man. The Big Guy.

I acknowledged. My life has been lived around people like this. I wasn’t in my element. He was the only Korean baseball player I’d ever met. I wasn’t out of my element. I’ve interviewed politicians, high ranking military, sports personalities, comedians, actors. Just about all strata of society. He was going to introduce me to a whole different level of life. 

The conversation started with the usual questions, and I gave the usual responses. 

“Oh, Canada…”

I kept the smile to myself as I knew he wasn’t about to start singing my national anthem. 

With a focus on the Big Guy, I acknowledged the girlfriend without out dwelling on her. Nodded to the guy next to the Big Guy. Who was he? Somebody in for a drink, or his right-hand man? 

“Thank you for the drinks.” I started to stand up.

“No. No. No. More drinks! What are you drinking?”

“Beer.”

He shook his head. “No.” He called to the waiter. “For my friend, Somaek.” 

The waiter hurried away.

“What is that?” 

As the two guys who brought me there had disappeared, I looked at the friend next to the Big Guy who just looked back without comment.

The girlfriend said, “It’s beer and soju.”

I nodded. Not able to not look into those eyes. She was Korean gorgeous. Perfect skin. Perfect eyebrows. Perfect features. The crimson curve of her neon lips. Entrancing eyes. I was incapable of not noticing the slight smile.  And if I noticed her beauty the Big Guy would notice.

I turned to the Big Guy. “Congratulations. I hear you just got drafted.”

He didn’t beam; he simply nodded. Face like a Korean mask you can buy in any souvenir shop.

The girlfriend translated. He nodded again. I was surprised that powerful   physique could be so contained. The congenial conversation got more relaxed, and I made a few jokes. The girlfriend warmed to me. The drinks flowed. The Somaek. The soju. The beer. In a lustful line. Kicked me in the head. We laughed a lot and then it was late, and the place was closing. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and alcohol, laughter cutting through the hum of distant music. It was time to go.

The Big Guy stood up. “Let’s go for dinner,” he called to the few remaining. “I take you to the best place,” he looked at me. “Their food is so good. Real Korean. You will love it.” It was a command. I was too buzzed to be concerned.

He paid the bill. And us few remaining made our way downstairs.

I was in my worst of moods. Overconfident. Talking. Yapping. Joking. Thinking I was the best shit on the pile. And that was going to put me in the shit.

We spilled out into the street. If you’ve been to Seoul, you know the narrow lanes, choked with bars, filled with drunks, cars crawling, jamming the way. Neon signs chattering. Cackling. I was walking almost arm in arm with the girlfriend, I was absorbing, reveling in the scene, the arguments on the edge, stories unfolding in the shadows. This is why I travelled.

The boyfriend was being the Big Guy. He walked in the middle of the street into the face of an oncoming traffic. A car laid on the horn. 

“Who are you horning?” he yelled at the driver. 

The driver yelled out the window.

I didn’t understand the Korean. But totally understood this. 

The Big Guy pounded on the hood of the car.

The driver jumped out of the car.

It looked like a fight would ensue. Friends dragged him away. They apologized to the driver. 

We all laughed. “He’s something else,” I said to the girlfriend.

She nodded with conviction.

Fortunately, the restaurant was not far. Unfortunately, it was about to close.

The eight or nine of us had stumbled down the steps. The Big Guy was embraced and loved by the owner. He didn’t get all the love he wanted.

“I’m sorry, we are about to close,” she purred into his face.

His face crumpled. He wailed in protest.

“The kitchen has closed,” she apologized sweetly.         

He begged. He pleaded. He offered money. Nothing worked.

As inebriated as I was, I knew this wasn’t good.

This little woman at the door was stronger than the Big Guy. “You come back tomorrow, and I will give you special service.”

He lost face. He had to retreat in front of his friends. Even he could not keep the restaurant open.

I knew this wasn’t good. 

Torn between anger and humiliation he glared.

All his friends and sycophants were making for the exit. Apologizing, saying they had to go home. It was late. Despite my lack of language, I did my own translating.

Why wasn’t I leaving? I didn’t know. Drunk.

I understood his angry Korean.

Why wasn’t I leaving?

It wasn’t because of the girl. I did feel bad for her.

Why?

I felt bad for him. I felt I had to stay for him. Not run away.

Back on the red and green neon splashed street, quieter now in the midnight hour, there was just the Big Guy, the girlfriend and me. Everyone else had scampered away.

“Ah,” he smiled. “I know another place. Very good.” He nodded. “Very good. It will be open.”

I was his only hope for redemption, and I wasn’t going to let him down.

To my relief the restaurant was open and welcomed us in. 

Just the three of us. I, sitting next to the girlfriend, across from the Big Guy.

Someone recognized him and he beamed and gave a wave and a big smile. But I knew, the anger still simmered inside of him.

He ordered for the three of us, and the soju came first. We clinked glasses. Geonbae, and I stumbled over my words saying Gombai a bad mash of Japanese and Korean. 

You must understand how nationalistic Koreans are. As a national pastime they hate the Japanese. Having lived in Tokyo for four years, and having spent much time in pubs and bars, my brain was wired to say Cheers, the Japanese way. Campai!

The Big Guy glared at me.

That should have sobered me up. It did, slightly, but not as much as I needed to be, not as much as I was going to be.  

“You, a journalist. You write about baseball?”

“I have written about baseball.” Again, language stumbled between us. And I fell down. Picking myself up, I continued, “Recently I interviewed an American pitcher who had come to play in Japan.” There was a slur in there.

His face twitched at the mention of Japanese baseball, but his interest in an American pitcher overcame national pride. For a moment we had a topic we could talk about while the girlfriend was happy to sit in the shadows.

The girlfriend didn’t have the National Pride in the same way, and she made a comment about Japanese baseball players. I snickered. His glare flashed from her to me. 

I really didn’t know what to say. She said something in Korean. His tension, not mine, dropped a level. 

“Are you a pitcher?”

“Slugger.”

I had noticed earlier his highly developed arms, biceps, and all the other in-between parts. He was a powerful man.  He was a slugger. 

I nodded, face impressed, showing my admiration. 

Korean spices created an eye watering mist, while the diners danced in a Pagen joy, walloping back death defying drinks. The drunkenness got deeper.

The girlfriend was in a joy of her own at having put up with the Big Guy’s ego. She loved taking shots at him in English that he didn’t understand.

Stupidly drunk, I played along, with simmering, succulent seafood dishes in front of us. Suddenly the Big Guy caught the scent of deception. With the power of smashing a home run, of hitting a four-bagger, he grabbed his fork, spun it in his fingers, cried out in Korean. Words that silenced the room. Silenced me. Silenced the girlfriend. His fork stopped inches from my face. My eyes. I could see it clearly. 

Heaven knows how, I kept completely calm. My calm didn’t make the fork withdraw. The room waited. I looked directly at the girlfriend. “Please apologize. I didn’t mean to offend him. We’re just having fun.”

Her Korean was calm. Her reach was towards him. His look was watching a baseball flying at him. He could knock it out of the park. The room waited. I was immovable. ‘Dude, keep cool, there is nothing wrong here’. I don’t really think I thought that. I didn’t think at all. I kept my eyes on him.

A swing and a miss. He lowered the fork. It was a long time for me. He nodded. He listened to the girlfriend. Something in me slithered away, but it didn’t get far enough away.

The room returned to life. Spices sung and stung. Conversation hummed. 

Again, I apologized. But the girlfriend was in her own world. Drinking soju? 

He kept looking at me as if I was at short stop and he was at bat. He was going to blast it past me.

The next time I had no idea what set him off. Obviously, I was not trying to incite him. I had planned to get home – back to my hotel – in one piece.

Again, he grabbed his fork. Again, he shouted at me in Korean. Again, the fork came fast to my face. The room went dead silent. If possible, even quieter than the first time.

Again, I didn’t blink. You are doing this again? Calmly I turned to the girl. “How do I explain to him that I only respect him. I wouldn’t insult him for the world.”

I put my chopsticks into the seafood. She put Koren words into his ears. There was a sharpness to her words that every husband knows. She was indeed his wife, not just a girlfriend. And she played this role. 

His face changed as if he’d just struck out. For a second time.

He apologized. He apologized profusely. He bowed his head to the table. He bowed his head to the table. I began to thaw.

The room came to life. Waiters served drinks. Life returned.

I knew it was over. I had slid out of the slime. Did I deserve to? I don’t know. Probably not. But there are few people I disrespect – and he – though he had young man fervor, young man bravado, I had the utmost respect for. How could I not. A professional baseball player. He had achieved something I never would. Never could.

But my body, something deep in me, came to the realization of where I might have been, where I was, where I wasn’t. I began to shake. I couldn’t control it. I didn’t want him to see it. 

I didn’t want to see it.

I breathed. In a decent time I said, “Thank you for the dinner. I really should be going. I have an early flight tomorrow.” I was looking at the Big Guy, but I could see the girlfriend/ wife, nodding. He was glad to see the last of me. I was standing up. I shook that powerful hand. I nodded to the lady. She was something I would never touch. 

I almost said too much on my way out. But my way out was my way out. 

I left the sea of seafood spices. I gulped in the Seoul night air. Neon lights diming. I was still shaking.

 I got out of there. I thought, “That was an experience! Amazing!” I pumped the air.  The street was quiet. My hotel was close.  

Over the years I have often wondered. What happened to him? Did he become famous in Korea? Did his hard edge make him play at a great level? Or did it result in dumb ass mistakes that cost the team runs or games? Was he now a manager? A respected player of the game? Or has he become forgotten?

All these years later, I know that I’ve made many dumb mistakes, but from that night they became fewer as I realized that what I thought was funny wasn’t always funny to others.  

Thanks to the Internet I believe I’ve found him, and his career. I couldn’t remember his name, if I ever did know it. But the face that glared at me on the other side of the fork made a solid impression. When I saw his picture on the web it sent shivers through me. I had no doubt that it was him. The story on the Internet seemed to totally fit with the personality I knew, when he was famous all those years ago.

In the picture he is holding chop sticks – to me – so appropriate. What else would a Korean be holding? Other than a baseball bat? Or a fork?

I am happy that he did have a solid career.  He was generous and outgoing, and I still feel I owe him a meal and more than a few drinks.

*From Bob Dylan’s Desolation Row Verse 5

You would not think to look at him

But he was famous long ago

For playing the electric violin

On Desolation Row

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