Warm Rooms and Cold Air
Though April is drawing to a close, the air on my commute is still bitingly cold.
This morning, the sky was a brilliant blue, so I left home in light clothing. By the time I reached the station, though, I knew I'd made a mistake. I shrugged my shoulders slightly as the cold air crept around my neck.
My apartment faces south and gets excellent sunlight. What's more, thanks to the housing situation in Korea, the indoors are surprisingly warm. Immersed in the warmth of my room, I often forget the harshness of the outside world.
I remember the considerable cold indoors during winter when I lived in Japan. Winters inevitably meant retreating into the sanctuary of a kotatsu, refusing to emerge. My skin still remembers that cold.
One of the things I appreciate about living in Korea is the warmth of the homes during winter.
This might partly be due to the structural reason that most residences are apartments. Window frames are thick, and the glass is multi-layered. It's likely designed to withstand the cold climate. Additionally, being surrounded by other units above, below, and to the sides helps block out the cold outdoor air.
It occurred to me that people living on the top floor might feel a bit colder. Pondering such trivial thoughts, I shoved my chilled fingertips into my pockets.
A Sense of Boundaries
Arriving at work, the usual bustling atmosphere greets me. My position as a marketing specialist often involves mediating between various parties.
My Korean is perfectly adequate, and I rarely have trouble with work communications. Yet, at times, I feel as though I'm standing behind a transparent wall.
When those around me are passionately clashing or getting caught up in their unique 'vibe,' I observe it from a slight distance. That comfortable distance feels just right for me now.
There's no need to completely assimilate and become too deeply immersed. Living with a moderate sense of detachment, positioned on the outside – that's something like my survival strategy here.
However, even with such a detached perspective, I can be caught off guard in unexpected moments.
Lately, as I get older, there are nights when I can't help but long for my life in Japan.
It's not that I'm dissatisfied with life in Korea. In fact, I've grown accustomed to the pace here and the interesting dynamics of human relationships. Still, deep down, a part of me wishes to return to 'the other side.'
I don't think it's merely a feeling of homesickness. Perhaps I'm just recalling the comfort of having this 'outsider's perspective' when I was on 'that side' – the perspective I hold now.
The Quiet Way Home
I clear the piled-up documents on my desk and leave the office.
It's still cold outside, but the sky was beginning to tint a pale pink. I feel as though my body hasn't quite caught up with the changing speed of the seasons.
From tomorrow, I'll prepare a slightly thicker coat. I've indulged enough in the warmth indoors, forgetting the reality outside.
On my way home, I buy a warm drink at a convenience store and walk slowly. It's precisely because of this cold air that the warmth of returning home feels all the more vivid.
Even so, I really think Koreans are incredibly resilient to the cold. Even on a day like today, I see people walking around in just a thin short-sleeved shirt. Personally, I can't help but shake my head. It looks freezing just watching them.
Speaking of which, everyone in cafes orders "Iced Americano" as if it's the most normal thing. Even in the dead of winter, probably 99 out of 100 people will get an iced one. I always think coffee should naturally be a hot drink if nothing is specified... but here, if you order silently, the atmosphere implies, 'You mean iced, right?'
So, I always have to say, 'A hot one, please.' There have been several times when I've forgotten and received a cold Iced Americano, momentarily stunned. It's my own fault, of course, but that small sense of defeat in that moment is something else.
Perhaps having such inconveniences and discrepancies actually helps one feel more human.
