POV: You just moved to Korea and you don’t speak Korean.

A 2nd person cautionary tale.

It’s your second day in Korea. It has been a long afternoon of cleaning your apartment and skipping lunch. Finally ready for a break, you walk downstairs and choose a random restaurant a block away. It’s mostly empty and smells like too many things at once. As you enter, you’re greeted by two staff members, an older man and an older woman. They say something in unison and bow their heads at you. You nod back. The woman motions for you to sit down anywhere.

There are two tables in the middle of the room with four chairs each, but the chairs don’t look very comfortable. On the right side of the room, though, are some red-chaired booths and a counter along the window. You choose the counter, closest to the door, so you can look out the window.

Once you sit and set down your bag, you realize you have to use the restroom. You stand up again, look around, and can’t find a sign or a doorway that might lead to a restroom. No matter how hard you think, you can’t remember anything about the word for “restroom” except that it has three syllables.

You get out your phone to look up the translation, only to realize you no longer have wi-fi since you’re not at home. You didn’t want to pay for the expensive SIM card at the airport and now you’re full of regret. None of the networks are open, but one (KT_GIGA_5G_0727) has a very strong signal and you hope that it belongs to the restaurant. You look up again and notice the workers staring at you from the back of the restaurant. There is a router above the man’s head, next to some giant words and numbers. A menu?

“Wi-fi?” you ask, pointing at the router on the wall.

“Wai-pai?” asks the man, also pointing at the router.

“Nii,” you say, proud of yourself for saying something in Korean. (Spoiler alert, you did not.)

The man says something that almost sounds like English, and must be the password, but you don’t catch it.

You hold out your phone for him to take. You stand there for thirty uncomfortable seconds while he taps on your phone, one character at a time. He says something else once he hands your phone back and you give him a nod of thanks.

Immediately, you re-open your translation app and type “restroom.” Three characters appear that you feel like you’ve seen before.

The man reads the word aloud. You kind of remember hearing “hwa-jaang-sheel” before, but you have no idea what he says next. He’s speaking at a million miles an hour and pointing outside of the restaurant left, then right.

He sees your blank stare and explains again more slowly, but not a single syllable sounds like a real word to your ears.

“Uhh…” You’re not sure what to do. You don’t want to wait for him to type each character into the translator. You don’t want to walk back to your apartment. You just want to go to a nearby bathroom and eat a nice meal.

The man ends up escorting you out of the restaurant. You pray that the Internet was right about theft being a nearly non-existent problem as you pass by the window, your bag looking at you from the other side. It wouldn’t make sense for the woman, the only other person inside, to steal anything, but you can’t help but feel paranoid.

The man guides you to the left, then down a hallway between the restaurant and A Twosome Place cafe. A dozen paces later, he takes a right. You follow and finally see the bathroom sign.

“Gum-sum-nee-daa!” you say as you speed walk toward the “haw-jaal-sheeg” or whatever it was.

Once you finish, you walk back into the restaurant as dignified as you can. The man, the woman, and your untouched bag were all waiting for you. You sit back down, finally ready to order some food.

You look at the menu and find there are no pictures. Panic sets in once again. After that man gave you the wifi password and walked you to the bathroom, you would feel awful for leaving. It’s only the second day of the rest of your life. You can’t already have a place to which you could never return without infinite shame.

The translator is of no help. It only translates typed text and you have no idea how to type anything in Korean. The somewhat familiar individual shapes (the circle, the square, the vertical line, the horizontal line, the one that looks like a gun) warp your brain when they’re all tied up in a single character. You can’t try to type, even if you want to, because you don’t have the Korean keyboard installed.

You take a deep breath of the somewhat stale air. The smell is so new to you that you still can’t describe it. The Korean restaurants back home don’t smell like this, but the Korean food at home was all delicious. Better to hurry, pick something, and hope for the best.

You convince yourself that you recognize the first item, four characters long, next to the number 7000. It must be good if it’s the first item on the menu.

Your stomach rumbles as you wait three more minutes for one of them to take your order. After remembering that service is different in Korea, you wave over the man and point to your choice. He asks you something else. You’re bewildered that, after everything you’ve been through, he’s still speaking to you in fluent, fast Korean. In the next moment, you feel guilty for being mad at him for speaking his own language in his own country.

All you can manage is a sheepish face and a, “Sorry, I don’t understand.” He speaks a little slower, but you still don’t understand. To avoid more awkwardness, you say, “Yes, yes,” and nod your head. You’re sure whatever he’s asking is about food, and if he’s asking about more, you definitely want more. The man can tell you still don’t understand, though, and he wracks his brain for the word, “Spicy.”

“S-pai-shee, o-kay?” he asks, holding up the “OK” sign on his right hand.

You’re relieved to recognize the word. You say, “Ahh, okay, yes, yes,” with a vigorous nod, because you like to try new things. You realize you could have said yes in Korean, but you were too excited.

The man writes on a piece of paper, leaves it on your table, and walks away. There’s a long list of words and numbers, but you see a “1” next to a four-character item and “7000.” It must be your receipt.

Before you can relax, the woman delivers a small plate that you never ordered.

You remember now, this is a “bun-jong!” (It is not.) It’s the extra free food that you get at every Korean restaurant.

You give the woman a “gim-sum-nae-da” and a nod. She smiles and answers with a “Neee.” The one-syllable word is drawn out into what seems like forever and drags up in pitch as she says it. She seems kind, though. You can tell she meant every second of the word.

She leaves for the back of the restaurant. Relief washes over you. You survived. And you already have food to eat!

But what food?

You know the right one is kimchi, but the rest is a mystery. It looks healthy, but it all smells so strongly. You try to put your nose over each food, but the smells mix together into one confusing blend. Might as well try one at a time.

As you look around though, you don’t see utensils. There’s nothing on the table but the menu and a box full of napkins. Does she bring the utensils with the hot food? But then why would she bring this plate now? You’re too hungry to think but too self-conscious to eat with your hands or bring out the translator again.

You push the plate aside and take out your phone, very thankful to your past self for getting the wifi password. Reading some new articles on Medium will soothe your nerves and distract from your hunger. Your favorite writers have been very prolific this week, and you love to see it. Other people sure do have interesting lives, but so do you. You’re in a Korean restaurant, in Korea, all by yourself, and you’re about to eat a delicious bowl of…

“Oh my gosh,” you can’t help but whisper when the man sets a bowl of bright, red soup in front of you. Within the soup, among the noodles, swim several tentacles, shells, and vegetables. The man says something else and walks away from your table.

Your stomach growls again and you begin to sweat as you stare at the giant portion of hot, spicy noodles that you can’t eat. The tentacles and shellfish stare back at you. You lean away from the bowl, back against the chair, as you consider your options. Your Epipen is in your bag, but it’s not worth wasting an injection and risking your life just to save face.

You jump in your seat, startled, as you realize someone is next to you. It’s the woman this time, and she reaches in front of you to a drawer under the table that you never realized existed. On the left side, there are a hundred metal chopsticks and on the right, a few dozen spoons. So that was where it was….

She pulls out a spoon for you and sets it next to your bowl. Before you can react, she also pulls out a fork from behind her back and sets it next to the spoon. You try to fix your bewildered face before looking up at her. She has kind eyes, a warm smile, and slower speech than the man when she says something to you. You don’t need a translator to know that she must have said, “Please enjoy,” or something like that. Everything on her face is imploring you to savor every last bite. She must have made it, just for you, with her own two hands.

Your heart sinks as you mutter “Gom-sam-nii-dah,” with a forced smile. She backs away and sits at a farther away table, where the man joins her. Your heart remains in the pit of your stomach as you come to terms with the fact that they will be watching you eat while pretending not to watch you eat.

These people are so sweet and accommodating. You’ve inconvenienced them in every way you could aside from throwing the death-soup in their faces. How could you not translate and ask for something without shellfish? Are you that selfish that you couldn’t learn more than two words before coming here?

You let out a heavy sigh and take out your phone once again. Your stomach roars and clenches as your shaking, jittering thumbs try to find the best translator-friendly way to confess.

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