Page 61 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

“There’s a collectivism here that works well in times of trouble but can also cause problems. It’s hard to create social change when we’re all stuck thinking one way or another. It’s like steering the whole Titanic away from the iceberg.” He hands me a small paper box. “Like with every society, there is good and bad. I think the good outweighs the bad. You have been here a week. What do you think of Seoul so far?”

“It’s big, busy, beautiful.” I think back to the locks of love. “And romantic.”

“You are missing the best parts. Summer is the worst.”

“What’s the best?”

“Hmm.” He ponders for a moment. “The cherry blossoms bloom in late April and all couples love the cherry blossoms.”

“So I should come back in the spring?”

He separates a pair of wooden chopsticks and places them on top of the box. “Not necessarily. Fall is beautiful. The leaves turn and the skyline looks like it’s on fire from the color of the changed leaves. They line the paths up the mountains and through the forests like a patchwork rug. But then there’s winter, and it’s said that if you confess your feelings when the first snow falls, you’ll stay together forever.”

Two cans of beer appear between us. Yujun’s paper bag is the equivalent of Mary Poppins’s carpetbag and I’m as enthralled as the Banks kids. Yujun pops open my box to reveal a seaweed-wrapped roll. Is this sushi? “What’s the least romantic season in Korea?”

“This is gimbap. There’s seasoned rice, bulgogi, spinach, egg, and a little radish. As for the least romantic season, it would have to be now. Summer. It’s hot and sticky, and who wants to hold hands with anyone during the humid season?” He pops a slice of gimbap into his mouth and stretches out his long legs far enough that a thin line of skin appears below the hem of his jeans and above his sneakers.

Summer is the least romantic season? I think as I stare at the reveal and wonder when I developed an ankle fetish.

“I came in the most unromantic months of the year? I’m destined for spinsterhood.”

“An ahjumma, then,” he teases.

“What’s that?” The word sounds vaguely familiar. Last night hadn’t he said I shouldn’t ride the subway at night so as to avoid the drunk ahjussis? The radish banchan is delicious, crunchy with a slight sourness to it, offset by a tiny bit of salt and sweetness.

“Hallyu skipped you by, didn’t it?”

“Hay who?”

“It’s the spread of Korean culture. Dramas, sheet masks, BTS?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them and they’re amazing, but . . .” I trail off. I hesitate. How do I explain to this beautiful Korean man who speaks so lovingly about his country that I spent my whole life trying not to be Korean? It’s embarrassing.

“But Americans think Asians are funny people, with funny accents, weird-smelling food, and almond-shaped eyes?” he fills in.

“Yes.” I’d forgotten that he’d lived in LA. “Iowa is very homogenous. I think my mom doubled the Asian American population in the state when she adopted me.”

He chuckles. “There are more Asians in LA than anywhere in America, and it has the best Korean food in the country, but Malibu has a distinct flavor. My aunt changed her entire name to Sue, remember?”

“Right.” I get his aunt. “It’s odd when you grow up around people who don’t look like you because you start to envision yourself differently. When all you see are blondes or brunettes with high bridges and deep-set eyes, you start thinking that’s what you look like, too, and then it’s a huge shock when you catch your reflection.” I hated reflections—and pictures—because they constantly served as a reminder of how I didn’t quite fit in. Although I guess the one good thing about being the only Asian in school was that it was never hard to find me in the group photos. “Anyway, it’s dumb. I feel like I’m complaining about dumb stuff here. It’s not like I was afraid I was going to be profiled. I was never followed around a store like one of my classmates.”

“Sometimes small cuts cause a lot of pain.” He gives me a half smile and another piece of gimbap disappears into his mouth. “We need to make you some seaweed soup. Usually we serve it for birthdays but I think your first visit to Korea is like a birthday.”

I put my chopsticks down.

The ever-intuitive Yujun asks, “What’s wrong?”

“My mom used to make that for me.”

“Oh really? But not anymore?”

“No. I made her stop.” I’m ashamed.

“What happened?” It’s a gentle question.

“About fourth grade, I think, I had some friends over and one asked why it was so stinky in the house. I don’t even think it was the soup that smelled but the kimchi Mom served with it. Someone else said that it was my hair since it looked like seaweed. After that, I wouldn’t eat it.”

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