She never called so I finally called her around 10pm.
"Meet at the Shilla, 10 o’clock."
"In the lobby?"
"Yes."

It was on. Some part of me wanted it canceled, but that had to be forgotten now. I washed the white polyester shirt I’d worn the other day and hung it to dry. I ironed the black pants, putting creases in the legs, front and back. I got out the red blazer, but it had been dry cleaned after the last time I wore it and I didn’t need to iron it. Alright! Less work than I thought. The iron was on, so I ironed dry the polyester shirt too, erasing the lines that formed even though polyester isn’t supposed to wrinkle. From the top of the closet, I pulled down a dusty Prada bag containing the Prada purse I’d bought for cheap on the black market. I’ve never used it because I’m Backpack Girl, but occasions like this shunned that kind of practicality.

I showered first thing after I got up. Then I read email with a towel wrapped around my hair. After awhile it was time to start getting ready. The hair takes the most effort and time, so I started there. I combed it out and ran some Smooth through it. I wanted to control each strand today; I wanted no stray hairs, nor any strands turning curly in the rain when I had the mass clipped into a French Twist. Oops, I put on a little too much Smooth. That’s OK, this is Korea and it’s common to see women with too much of everything. Just in case, I added two little rhinestone barrettes on either side near the back, for the bangs that didn’t quite reach all the way around.

Next I painted my face in the usual way, only using slightly darker colors. Makes it look like more when it is really only different. I got dressed and started adding jewelry.

The phone kept ringing. I didn’t answer because the caller wasn’t leaving a message. I had told Mrs. Chung the day before that if she were to call, she should leave a message or I won’t pick up. I had a hunch, and picked up anyway.

"Helen? This is Chung Chungja. I’m sorry but… there is not room for you… I’ll take you next week."
"OK."
"I’ll call you back."

Damn. All dressed up and nowhere to go. I decided to call Christine to see if she wanted to go to Tongdaemun. Ha! Dressed like this in the grungy market? Oh well, somewhere is better than nowhere. My face was already painted, my hair already Smooth-ed.

The phone again.

"Helen? This is Chung--"
"Hi."
"I’m coming to get you…where do you live? … I’ll be there at 10:30."
"OK."

Got the red blazer on now, standing near the Maebong station subway entrance. People keep looking at me. The rhinestones must be reflecting light in their eyes. I had tried to take out cash to fill my little black purse, but the machine wasn’t working. Slight anxiety had settled in: I had no cash whatsoever - not even change. Just my Gold Card, which is just useless plastic out in the Korean countryside. It’s just bad not to have any money.

Finally, Mrs. Chung flags me down: She’s running down the sidewalk toward me, hand raised. We pile into the Korean Sport Ute where I meet Mr. Lee, mountain climber cum antique dealer. We go South, past Seoul and toward Dave’s office. We turn East at Songnam, leaving large roads for smaller winding ones. I feel lost because I couldn’t find my way here if my life depended on it. All the roads, all the hillsides, they look the same. In Kwangju, we start stopping at little shikpooms (mom & pop groceries) looking for bread snacks. No one has any, it seems. Then we roll on.

"That’s Mr. Shin’s house," she said, pointing to a building that looked like something smurfs lived in. The structure was square, with windows whose top sides were arched. The roof, mimicking a Korean thatched one of old, was made of wood or plaster or something else besides thatch that had been shaped into the roundness of the straw. Thus, smurfdom.

"His house looks like a mushroom."

Just a little further and we found ourselves at a restaurant called Ongwhasanbang. The owner, a woman, has been collecting old earthenware Korean pots, called hangaree, for 20 years and now her collection decorates the restaurant inside and out. Traditionally, Koreans stored all of their sauces and kimchees out on the jang terrace in these pots. A large household would have dozens of these outside the house. Some are so large a person can fit inside and others are so small they seem almost useless. But they are all so beautiful.

This is where we met the group. I forget who they are now; I think they call themselves something like the "Child Welfare Society." I’m not sure. I thought the US Ambassador’s wife was coming, but she did not. Instead there were only three other Americans among the six or seven Korean women. All of these women - the whole group - live in a different socioeconomic class than I do and all of them are old enough to be my mother. I hated that.

I hated that when Dr. Kim greeted me, her eyes assessed my social standing up and down. I felt her pause on the collar of my white polyester shirt. She did so long enough for me to complete the thought that she was noting the fact of polyester instead of silk. I thought she noticed my blazer wasn’t cashmere, that my black pants were just slightly less black from machine washing than the recommended dry cleaning, and that my hair was just a little too Smooth. At least she couldn’t condemn my purse!

Oh, I didn’t want to be there! It was a beautiful restaurant in the country but I just hate being scrutinized and always being out of place.

We sat in a large room on the floor. I sat at one end of a long table (because I was not a formally a part of the group), facing a large window that let me see a courtyard with a pond. One duck rested on a rock on the edge of the pond and a cute creme-colored puppy played within the radius afforded him by a short rope connecting his neck to the dog house. The women coo’ed and fussed over the taste of the food and the presentation. I wasn’t happy with the presentation. I thought the meal was too concerned with appearances than actual substance. Sort of like a Korean nouveau cuisine. The etiquette was tough too. I guess I’ve learned how to eat in the way commoners do so I had to watch others eat before I tried. Meat was offered to me and I declined. Mrs. Chung explained to Dr. Kim that I was vegetarian.

"Oh really? You don’t eat meat? Do you eat fish? No?" Then, turning to her friends, "Helen is a vegetarian. She doesn’t eat meat." She repeated it in Korean. They oo’d and began discussing it at the other end of the table. I became a novelty.

I escaped by looking out at the puppy, who despite having to sleep, eat, and shit in the same little space found a stick to gnaw on and play with. He jumped up and down, with his ears perked, sometimes testing the limits of the rope, which held strong and jerked him back into his defined space just as he was almost free of it. Out of the conversation rising above our heads, the topic of vegetarianism turned first into how food is caught and butchered and then into those animals for which different cultures feel affection; I heard, "We Koreans love dogs."

Is that so? It’s like some rule that the length of rope used to keep a dog confined be no longer than the length of its body. All over the country, dogs are tied to dog houses with a bowl discolored from old red kimchee sitting nearby. Unanimously, the little doggies pull and pull for freedom always getting jerked back. The dogs used for such delicacies as poshintang are kept in cages no bigger than the length of their bodies. Several are kept in a row. It reminds me of the way veal is nurtured.