Neatly-boxed rows of orchids and umbrella trees glide by as the disembodied voice of the Incheon airport advises me to maintain contact with the rail while passing through quarantine video screening. Watching the smartly-dressed strangers move serenely under the cool, clean light, I’ve never felt more barbarian. I step out onto the disinfectant mat. ~~~“Here, let me put some pants on… There’s a little love motel down the way.”
Standing like a totem, backpack-laden and soaking in the center of the living room, I watch this stranger hop into his jeans. A slight Japanese girl weaves around, collecting rubbish and sports paraphernalia while a group on the couch curse in Korean and crane to see around her.
“It’s real nice - I had a mate, lived there two months. Just took off though.”
“Hey thanks man. But I think the hostel'll be just fine.”
“...it’s too bad - we’re a man short now. Hey, do you play rugby?”~~~I tread cautiously, jacket over head, down the steep, narrow alleyway. Water courses around my feet. A motorcyclist slithers down on my left while an old woman climbs slowly, sideways on my right - umbrella in one hand and a bucket of crabs in the other.
~~~The beers crash from the table to the floor, but the boys, still dancing, grab hold of the chandelier for balance. The house lights pulse from purple to green to blue and with an outburst from the crowd, the DJ hits up a disco remix.
Clock it: 3 hours and 45 min in Korea. Right on schedule.
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