Itaewon today. Usually we go on Saturdays but this weekend Dave needed to pick up the custom-made shoes he’s been waiting (and waiting) for and the guy said to come on Sunday.

It was doomed from the start. Dave almost stopped and called the whole thing off, but as is often the case with early warning signs, they are too subtle and harmless in and of themselves and are only recognized for what they are in the post hoc analysis:

Dave couldn’t decide what to wear. I don’t know what the deal was. I guess it wasn’t hot enough outside to wear the black t-shirt and he didn’t have another shirt to go with the green shorts he was wearing. He does have shirts that match, but Dave is really particular. He walked around the house in his shoes, finally sitting and hmphing. After a few minutes he took his shoes off because he thought he’d change into pants, but when he came out of the bedroom he had instead just put on another pair of shorts and a polo shirt. The combo didn’t look like it was any warmer than the last outfit he had on and I said so. "A huge difference," he replied. Shrug. Whatever. All that while, I had been occupying the shoe pit area because I had my shoes on and I was ready to go. I thought about getting mad at him. It seemed like such a stupid thing to be worried about matching since all of his clothes pretty much seem to match each other. But then I thought better of it, remembering that sometimes I do the same exact thing. It’s enigmatic how some days you just can’t find anything to wear in that closet full of clothes.

We waited forever and a year for the bus, even though we live nearby the terminus of the route and we saw one pass by on the other side of the road just as we arrived at the bus stop. Normally, such a sighting would suggest a 5-minute wait, but we waited a good 20 minutes before it finally pulled up. The driver must’ve taken a serious pee/smoke/snack break.

A couple of weeks ago I accidentally dried a white stretchy tee and it shrunk bigtime. We stopped first at the place in Itaewon where I bought it. They didn’t have it. I did, however, buy another white shirt but it’s just not the same.

There are things I need to get for people in Seattle. One of these things is a fake Cartier watch. They’re all over the place, but while Bob was here we stumbled across a little shop that seemed to be rockin' with customers and had a good selection of fakery. Tag Heuer anyone? It’s in a tiny basement with a narrow entrance just like all the other narrow entrances to all the other basements along the main street. We had to walk up and down the street a few times, watching our heads each time we ducked down into a basement to check to see if that place was the right place, which all of them but the last weren’t. Obviously. The counter was busy, as usual, and the guy running the show wouldn’t give me the time of day because some other yakuza-type guy (who was smoking the most obnoxious cigarette) was there buying, like, $1000 worth of fabricated timepieces, wrapping them all in tin foil so that he might trick the Customs people in Japan. I got a Cartier for $28. Is that good? I have no idea.

Shoes. Not done. The man begs, "Just two more days." Oh please. Well, we have no choice but to come back. What a loser. In case the saga has not been clear, it goes like this: April 19 Dave gets measured and orders a pair of dress shoes. The guy says they’ll be done the very next weekend, but we are scheduled to go to Japan and tell the guy we will come by on May 9. We’re there, May 9, but the shoes are not done. Dave chews out the guy because he had a whole extra week. The guy promises they’ll be done by May 16. And they are. But this time they’re too small and hurt Dave’s feet. He takes them home anyway. I don’t know why. I thought he should’ve just left them there, but I guess he didn’t want to hassle. But when he wore them around the house and I heard him ahhing and uhhing because they’re so painful, I was like, Dude you gotta take them back. So he does on May 23. Guy says it’s not a problem to make them over in the right size and tells us to come back May 31. Today. There you have it, the whole sordid tale. We will go back next weekend.

Black market: Dave is dying for baked tortilla chips but there are none.

Then things take a turn for the better. We decided to take a taxi to Puffin Café and we got this guy who totally loved Americans and totally loved Dave even more because he is an American who can fling the local lingo. The driver chatted with us the whole way, smiling and laughing the whole time. Lunch at Puffin was great. It’s been a few weeks since we’ve been there and I’ve really missed the veggie panini sammo.

Later I flagged down a bus - I mean I really had to flag it down as it was barreling in our direction with no indication stopping. Even when the driver saw my arm out, he hesitated, jerking the wheel left and right at each turn of his mind as he thought, "I’ll stop. No, I won’t stop. I’ll stop. No, I won’t stop." I saw him swerving back and forth, then finally turn fully toward us and slow; I told Dave it was going to be an interesting ride. And boy it was. He was all over the road frightening other cars. From our elevated view in the back seat, we saw cars swerve in panic. He hauled ass, even passing other buses on our same route. The bus driver honked constantly, even when we were at stoplights and no one was moving. We postulated that he was so accustomed to honking that he doesn’t even realize it when he does it. But the best part was that he wouldn’t stop to pick up anyone. We whizzed by bus stops where people held out their arms trying to flag him down. We could turn around and see them staring after the bus wondering why it didn’t stop. He would stop to let people off, but then he wouldn’t wait for the people who were queued to get on. We saw them chasing after the bus as it started to pull away. He even made a really, really old man run to catch us. At our bus stop, the driver decided not to stop at the designated stop, but at the stoplight just up ahead. The people waiting at the stop saw this and started running. As we were getting off, the bus was already moving again. One of the runners, a guy, was just about to the door - he was so close - but the bus continued to pick up speed. The runner guy was so pissed that he punched the dented metal shell of the bus, but all he got was a diesel fart in the face. Now what's the point of a city bus that doesn't pick up passengers?