Coffee,” I request, “I’d like a coffee please.” The woman behind the counter at Gimpo airport says something I don’t understand, so I repeat my order, adding, for efficacy, “Hot, with milk but without sugar.” She nods, pushes some keys, accepts my recently converted wons, and bustles about under the countertop, to hand me a plate of cling-wrapped kimchi. By now I’ve learnt that in Korea it’s best to go with the flow, having almost missed my connecting flight from Seoul to Gwangju, instead of to Guanghzou, as some attendant assumed, causing me to stand in a check-in queue at the wrong airport.
Which is how I found that that cabs here are scarier than those in Delhi. Stuck on their dashboards, right next to the steering wheels, are TV screens that beam soaps 24x7 to which all drivers appear addicted. They also use their mobiles a lot to ask for directions, in spite of GPS systems keeping their TVs company, but traffic at least moves smoothly, almost soporifically. If at all Koreans shriek or talk loudly, it’s only on television — in real life they’re soft-spoken and polite to a fault.
Polite, I learn, but hardly efficient. The Internet in my hotel room isn’t working, which requires a host of non-technical staff to try and revive it or at least commiserate at my misfortune. The room itself is an oddity. You take off your footwear to enter the bedroom — everyone keeps taking off and wearing their shoes after first seeking my permission, which is amusing since I’m barefoot myself. There’s no place to store those shoes, or for guests’ bags and clothes, however, because the furniture consists entirely of mock shelves and cupboards. The phone isn’t kept on the bedside, the TV is wall-to-wall, the complimentary toiletries are super-sized for repeated use by guests, a condom is left thoughtfully by the pillow, and there are cans in the refrigerator with all their contents written in Korean.
Which can be your undoing should you choose to use a public washroom. The toilet seat has an impressive armrest with more choices, in Korean, than a television remote but adds to my sense of apprehension as, taking a chance, I press one, then another, then with increasing panic all of the buttons, hoping to turn off the sensor-guided water pipe that keeps swivelling to spout water in my direction. Having a shower is fine but having a bath when dressed is not, and being doused by a pipe from a manic, robot-controlled toilet would call for ritual cleansing back home.
I look around for a fork with which to have my rice noodles at the buffet dinner but there are only chopsticks — I should really be thankful I had the kimchi at the airport after all. Champagne is served in disposable glasses, which does little credit to the impressive banquet even though it’s served, strangely, in a souvenir shop. Back at the hotel I can’t open my room with my key card. The gentlemen at the reception pronounce it working and say all I need do is follow the instructions — in Korean, of course. When finally someone comes up to assist, it turns out all I had to do was pull instead of push — just as it was written, he says logically, suspecting I’ve had a drink too many.
It certainly feels like I could use a sundowner but dare I trust myself to a can from the minibar? What if it turns out to be a laxative instead? I don’t think I have the confidence yet to brave a second trip to the lavatory. Maybe I’ll just stay thirsty and hungry till it’s time to go home, or I could learn to read what’s written — in Korean, naturally.
