Tired from running back and forth between the post office and the Foreign Exchange Bank's Wonju branch, we strolled down the market in search of a restaurant for dinner. Pizzerias and fancy restaurants were out of options as we had to spend most of our money on our university application fees, and surprisingly, it took a while before we found a restaurant that met our demands.
I do not recall exactly what it was called, but it was a shabby, family-run place. Upon opening the door and entering, the first thing that caught my eyes was a drunk man sprawled across one of the tables with his face buried in newspaper sheets and snoring loudly. I suspect that he was the proprietor. A middle aged woman, presumably his wife, shook him awake and noticing our presence, he staggered up and hastily beat a retreat behind the kitchen curtains. This, with the general appearance of the restaurant, immediately made me regret having set foot in the place. I glanced at Ji Ho and from his eyes I could tell that he was having seconds thoughts too. Still, we took a table since we had had enough of walking and it seemed rude to leave.
The menu was a little strange; bits and bobs from various styles of cuisine. At least the food was reassuringly cheap, so that we did not have to worry about the bus fare back to school and the money for returning to Wonju the next day (I had missed the bank's closing time that day and I could not submit my application without a cheque). A champong («��) for me, a chajangmyun (¥���) for Ji Ho and a fried pork cutlet to go between us. We did not have to wait for long to be served as the only other customers were a pair of girls who apparently were in some way acquainted to the landlady.
"Man, my chajangmyun's greasy or what," grumbled Ji Ho in a low voice lest the landlady should hear him, and drew a slight frown. My champong was unusually greasy too and had almost too much spice, but I was content because there was a lot of seafood in it; I counted seven large prawns and four mussels, as well as numerous smaller shellfish pieces. I wondered if the restaurant made any profit from my bown of champong at all. The portions were also larger than we had expected and we could barely finish our meal.
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I took a trip to Wonju again the next day, alone, and this time I finally managed to obtain a cheque and arrive at the post office without any paperwork missing. Having mailed my application, I rushed to the bus station in the vain hope of arriving school in time for dinner, only to learn that the next bus for Sosa did not leave until almost two hours later at twenty to seven. Inevitably, I felt hungry soon and so started searching for a place to eat. Although there were several small diners lined up just outside the waiting room, but only one was open.
Within were several old women. One of them asked if I wanted soondaegook or haejanggook and I replied I would like to take a look at the menu first. In the end, I had a soondaegook anyway as the alternatives on the menu were mostly light snacks and side dishes. The soup was pretty standard, and I proceeded to wolf it down.
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Of course, it is nice to eat outside the school every now and then. Anyone who has been in a boarding school or the army should know what I mean. The swimming coach I met for the Provincial Athletics Competition had once been in the Korean national squad, and told me that a cheap bowl of ramyun outside the training camp always tasted better than anything they were fed in there. But there is another reason as to why I enjoy eating out.
I have been secluded from the world in boarding schools for a long time now; so long that I have almost forgotten what the world is like outside. Not the I have any problems at school, but sometimes it just feels good to be reminded that outside the school, life goes on, for everyone. It is kind of comforting, in a strange way, to observe time float by and the people with it from an unfamiliar table, eating at leisure. As I swirled my champong with my chopsticks, I listened to the pair of girls chatting about school and homework and TV and friends and things. The old women were gossiping away, over some roast sweet potatoes, about gas bills, about their sons in the army, about a newly wed couple. A mechanic dropped by and he joined in the conversation, this time about buses and business; they called him a 'doctor of cars', and laughed over it. One could never get this in those fancy, clean, and also impersonal, restaurants.
I think these days that life looks a lot like those wavey graphs one sees often in maths or physics. Life oscillates about a point, and any ups and downs are temporary, because life goes on. Including mine. Everyone, or at least almost everyone, has something to worry about or be merry over. What is important is to make the best out of even the most ordinary days.