Lessons from the Backroads of Korea

When I was eleven, we lived in Korea for a year. I remember my dad telling me we were moving there and having a vague idea at best where Korea was on the map. It seemed a world away. And basically it was. That was my first flight—an international flight that lasted a seemingly neverending 13 hours. (My second round of flights were to Europe. Is anyone surprised I hate flying?)

While we were stationed in Seoul, my mother taught English at our home to a handful of Koreans, one of whom was exactly my age. I was still young enough that playing transcended language and eventually her parents would let her stay for a bit after her lessons to play with me. Then we would drive her to the military gate, where her parents would pick her up and take her home. We became best friends, as eleven year olds do. Her handle on English grew and we were able to communicate somewhat. One afternoon, her parents asked mine if I could spend the night.

Looking back, I’m rather surprised my parents let me go. I don’t know that I’d make the same decision, especially in a foreign country. But, I, uncharacteristically, agreed excitedly. (I have never been one for sleepovers, much preferring the creature comfort of my own bed and have always hated staying up late.) The day of the sleepover arrived and I rode with my mom to the military gate. This time, I got out of the car with my friend and climbed into her car.

I clearly did not think this through. I was eleven. But I had no idea how far her family lived from the military base. I supposed I thought it was ten minutes, give or take. But we drove and drove, and the city gave way to the countryside of Korea that most Americans will never see. It was stunning…and also very far from home in more ways that I could count. My excitement slowly gave way to fear and anxiety and a large dose of homesickness. Because on the ride to her home I realized that while my friend could navigate a small bit of English, her parents spoke no English at all.

We arrived at her house after dark and I followed my friend upstairs to her bedroom. She gave me some time to get ready for dinner and went downstairs to help her parents. I was alone in her room and the nerves and homesickness took over. I sat down at her desk and began to cry. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me. It was my friend’s father. I felt badly that he found me crying; after all they had been so kind to have me.

He started asking me questions, but I couldn’t understand. He looked down at the desk at my mother’s English Korean dictionary she had sent with me. I picked it up and found the translation for homesick. His face held an expression of compassion. I manage to fumble my way through expressing gratitude. He held out his hand for the dictionary and so I gave it to him.

He started thumbing through the dictionary and making notes of words. Slowly and clumsily he expressed compassion at my homesickness, the difference in cultures, but assured me they understood and were looking forward to showing me the unseen side of Korea. Though his words were few, his understanding and compassion transcended langauge again.

For about twenty four hours, my friend and her family showed me the beauty of Korea. By far, the best food I had in Korea was around her family’s table. They prepared so much food and we all sat around the short table as bowls of food were passed around. If you have ever an authentic Korean meal, you know there’s numerous small bowls all over the table. They drove me to Korean temples that had stood for ages and my friend shared the history as best she could. We drove from there to the shopping mall and ate more food. We drove through the countryside on the backroads of Korea. The view was like nothing I’d witnessed. The countryside was a shade of green I’d never seen before or have since.

I went home so grateful. I had experienced an intimate side of the country that not many get the privelege to. I was served the best food I had tasted in that country. But more than that, I learned that kindness is universal; compassion transcends words. The kindness my friend and her family showed me that weekend has stayed with me.

I still think of my friend. We lost touch, as eleven year olds do. But I wonder what happened to her, if she thinks of me. Korea is a long way off, and despite social media I am not sure I could find her. But I’ve never forgotten how kind she and her family were. Because not only does kindness transcend words, but it also transcends time.