The fishing town he drops us off at is just waking up to the day, delivery trucks and motorcycles weaving through the small streets as merchants open up metal shutters with practiced ease. Street vendors set up their wares on the sidewalk, and the smell of rich bone soup boiled overnight fills the air.
An old lady with her white hair bound into a neat, low bun carries a basket overflowing with gimbap on top of her head. When she reaches an empty spot by a lamppost, she shifts the basket, preparing to put her load down. Ethan reaches her side in a blink.
“Here,” he says in English. “Let me help you.”
“Eh?” She squints up at him.
“We’ll help you, halmeoni,” I repeat in Korean.
“Ah, thank you.” The grandmother smiles, watching Ethan place the basket on the ground with a hand pressed against her lower back.
“You’re here again?” A gentleman from the produce store behind us rushes out with a small plastic stool. “Your fancy businessman son sends you plenty of money from Seoul. I don’t see why you insist on keeping this up.”
“This is what I’ve done all my life. What else am I going to do? Lie around at home and wait to die?” The old lady sits on the stool behindher basket of gimbap—rolls of rice and seaweed filled with marinated meat and seasoned veggies.
“You’re as stubborn as they come,” the store owner grumbles with affectionate exasperation. “Come sit in the store for a bit if it gets too hot out here.”
She scoffs and waves her neighbor away, then smiles at us. “What a beautiful couple you make—and kind too. You’ll have beautiful children.”
“No, no. We’re not ...” I wave my hands frantically, my cheeks burning. “We’re just friends.”
The halmeoni chuckles, obviously not believing a word.
“What did she say?” Ethan says close to my ear, making my blush deepen.
“Nothing.” I stare at my shoes.
“Here, take some gimbap for the road. I made them this morning.” She loads a Styrofoam plate with beautiful disks of sliced gimbap and wraps it up in a black plastic bag.
She pushes it into my hands and clicks her tongue when I try to pay. Not wanting to disrespect her, I put away the money and accept the gimbap with two hands. Even after a hundred years, I still remember my manners.
“Thank you, halmeoni,” I say and bow from the waist.
Ethan bows as well and repeats in hesitant Korean, “Thank you.”
I ask her for directions to the small mountain we have to cross to get to the beach on the other side. The mountain with the burial mounds at the top. The halmeoni is surprised I know about the burial site but gives me clear and concise directions.
“Make sure you pay your respects at the seonangdang at the base of the mountain,” she warns. “There are some old spirits up there you don’t want to offend.”
I thank her again but don’t pay much heed to her warning. The seonangdang is probably just an old tree the townspeople used to prayto back in the day, forgotten by the younger generation. As for old spirits, they’re harmless ... for the most part.
I put away the gimbap in my backpack and walk into the produce store. After buying some bottled water from the gruff store owner, we head for the mountain.
“Man, my Korean is so awful.” Ethan grimaces, scratching the back of his neck.
“You were born in America.” I shrug. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“I was actually born in Korea,” he says. “Ben told me I was like a day old when we flew to the US.”
“A day? I’m sure he was exaggerating.” I roll my eyes. “You wereat leasta month old. In Korean culture, new moms aren’t allowed to leave their beds for a month, other than to use the bathroom.”
“What?” His face goes slack with shock.
“And they even get their meals—seaweed soup and rice—served to them in bed. Three times a day. Every day.”
“Miyeok guk for a month?” He sounds horrified. “I mean, I love seaweed soup. But I can’t imagine eating it for every meal for a month.”
“Right? Anyway, like I said, you had to have been at least a month old.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Which is still not long enough for you to have picked up Korean.”
