Community

Today, I visited the local Kimbap restaurant to purchase my lunch and dinner for 2,200 won (roughly 3 dollars); Kimbap is essentially a fat and delicious roll of seaweed and rice that you dip in a light soup broth. Inside, you find local egg, radish, carrot, greens, all sprinkled with sesame seeds and, since I need my protein, I ordered Chamchi kimbap which is the most exquisite tuna you have ever tasted.

Ironically, Mr. Kim owns Kimbap and works during the day, while his son, Mr. Kim Jr., works in the evening. Jr. is a 37-years-old Korean man who doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, and practices his English with the teachers who frequent his store on their way to work.

Being that this is my third visit to his establishment in one week, Mr. Kim determined that it was time for introductions.

“You American?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes.”

“What state?”

“Indiana.”

“Very pretty? Very green?” He guessed.

“Yes. Beautiful. But no mountains.” I made a sad face.

“Our mountains are beautiful…YOU beautiful. How old?” Mr. Kim was beginning to politely flirt with me.

“ Twenty-five.” I winked at him.

“OH! So young! Too young for Mr. Kim.” He laughed a deep-bellied laugh, all the while making my food right in front of me, his rhythmic hands chopping carrots and folding seaweed.

We talked for another ten minutes, and I could tell that he was purposefully taking his time hoping that I would stay awhile longer.

I didn’t mind.

“2,200 won.”

I handed him payment.

“Thank you very much! Will I see you again?” He handed me my kimbap and gave my a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Yes,” I promised, “very soon.”

“Every week?” He looked hopeful.

“Every week.” And, giggling, I gave a deep but girlish bow of respect before walking out the door.

Mr. Kim is literally three minutes walk from my apartment. My school is five. Everyday I pass Kimbap, as I pass the same mothers and children running their errands and being carted from school to school. It took them some time, but the children now greet me in English, saying “hello” or “how are you today?” The mothers, who ignored me before, now smile shyly or, occasionally, point to my dress and give me an approving look. The women here appreciate style and fashion.

In the evening, we venture to a local restaurant, The Grill, owned by the father of one of our students. Eugene is extremely accommodating; when we arrive a table is waiting for us, and we are typically serviced at the end of the meal with complimentary beer or french-fries. I accuse Eugene of trying to make me fat, and he sheepishly laughs.

To work, live, eat, and recreate within five miles of your home. To know the citizens of your town: the shop owners, restaurant managers, tailors, sports instructors, and the parents of your students. To see the same friendly faces on a weekly or even daily basis fills me with the most warm, loved, and familiar feeling. I could not put my finger on the appropriate term until I left Mr. Kim just today.

The word is “community.”

And I am a part of it.