I jinxed myself when I told Nina, “I don’t understand how people miss flights. Just show up to the airport early. Yes, it’s boring to just wait around. But, you know what’s worse? Being stressed about a flight.”
My taxi got stuck in traffic. The airport was stuffed, as it was January 2nd, the day after New Years Day and the beginning of school vacation. In check in line, I leaned on my suitcase, the lone foreigner in a sea of rice cooker boxes. I had never seen more non-suitcases on suitcase trolleys. The line inched forward as the kind and professional Korean ladies processed the Tetris stacks of Korean appliances heading to Vietnamese kitchens. Then I waited in a line to get into security, constantly checking the time on my phone. Then I waited in security. Then I waited in passport check. Then I sprinted to the gate, and the guy waiting gave me a high five, saying they’d been waiting for me.
I flopped into my seat and took a deep exhale. There were two old Korean ladies beside me. I said, “Annyeonghaseyo” to them, and they widened their eyes then giggled at the white kid speaking their mother tongue. Then they whispered to each other, which sounded like two Tinker Bells playing tennis. As I swiped at the seat screen for a movie, I got a tap on my shoulder. One of the old ladies had Papago, a translation app, open and asked, “Where are you from?” The other lady laughed at her friend’s attempt at English. In Korean, I said I was from Canada. and I had been a teacher in Busan for two years. This was a mistake. Old Koreans think there are only two levels of Korean speakers. Either you know nothing, or you’re fluent. Assuming the latter, they ripped off a series of rapid-fire sentences then leaned in towards me, giddy to hear my answer. I understood 2% of what they said, so I meekly offered a sentence I’d had plenty of practice saying: “Sorry, I only know a little Korean.”
The plane growled, getting ready for the runway. I looked around. The grandmas had their eyes closed; one of their heads rested on the other’s shoulder. Past them, to my left, was a mother with her son. The son looked out of the window, quietly singing, “Go, go, go!” His mother stared at him with intensity, as if she trying to mentally record his first flight facial expressions. On my right was another parent-child moment: a scared daughter holding hands with her mother. Surrounded by sustainable love, I felt lonely. My support was west, in Toronto. My support was here, in Korea. And I was heading south without a hand to hold.
I read The Corrections during the flight while occasionally getting interrupted by my seat neighbors. The grandmas couldn’t seem to understand that the touch screen froze whenever the cabin crew made an announcement. Every time it froze, a grandma tapped my shoulder in a panic, hoping that my knowledge of English would be able to unfreeze her screen. And she continued to ask for help no matter how many times I pointed to the speakers and made an “X” sign with my hands. Translating food orders was my other chore, as the Vietnamese crew spoke in English, not Korean. I’d spent the last three years in a near constant state of alienation and shame due to my limited Korean, so this was a funny role reversal. I didn’t mind offering my services to the old ladies, though. The halmeonis of Korea had always taken care of me. Even though their marital counterparts, the old men, were some of the oddest humans I’ve ever met, the old ladies of Korea were heartwarmingly generous.
It was game time when I the plane wheels touched Hanoi. I felt like a man on a mission, and I felt ready for any situation. If I had to hustle around the airport for a spot to print my E-Visa, I would do it. If I had to get on the phone with someone from the agency, I would do it. If I had to stay overnight, I would find a café with a charger and write for 20 hours. I headed to customs faster than all the families and suitcase luggers. I entered the visa checkpoint and scanned the collection of Vietnamese people holding up white papers with printed names on them. Then I saw mine. I walked up to the guy, and, in a hazy blur of events, I handed him my passport and money, waited in a line. My heart soared with relief when I saw him returning. He discreetly handed me back my passport, and, on one of the pages, I had a Visa.
I rode a tsunami size wave of relief for the rest of my flight. Beer at the airport? Sure. Ice cream? Sure. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood? Sure. While everyone anxiously waited for their bags and rice cookers in Ho Chi Minh, I was in a chair with my feet kicked up on a trolley, bobbing my head to music. I danced my way through the endless calls for a taxi, sim cards, and/or a city tours. I got in a Grab car. I looked out the backseat window while we cruised through schools of scooters next to open-faced restaurants. I got out the cab, and there was Eli, waiting on a bench. We both put our hands in the air, as if we’d just won a championship, then hugged each other. We got tacos. We got beers. We tossed darts. And I told him about how, 20 hours ago, I had been a complete mess, but, now, everything was OK.