A Streetfight in Seoul, South Korea

It was a Wednesday; a normal workday, save for the fact that I had misplaced my apartment key earlier in the afternoon and so. . . was locked out of my place.  Irritated after another long, frustrating day of futility at my ESL job, teaching disrespectful, passive-aggressive, *Confucian-fucked, kimchi-eating, shit-headed Korean adolescents, I had little patience for the current predicament.  I got home that afternoon defeated and ready for a nap. My landlord, who was refusing to answer his smart phone, didn’t enliven my spirits any.  I guess mismanaging tenets was his primary occupation.  I began muttering profanities under my breadth and stringing together quite impressive slews of poetically vitriolic soliloquy rants about the nature of my life teaching ESL and convincing myself ever so eloquently as to why Korea is indeed a god-forsaken, xenophobic, sexually repressed, backwards-ass squatting shithole of a rice eating Asian country, when it occurred to me: I usually leave my window open!  Mid vitriolic tirade a synapse fired and I realized that I usually leave my back window ajar with the lock unlatched.  Although, this small epiphany was also followed by the realization that said window does sit ready and willing for entrance, yet on the third floor of a brick building with no easy access.  The modest villa that I lived in, Hans Villa, as it was so named, was a four-story red brick box of an eye-sore.  

Quickly surveying my options I decided to go gung-ho and scale the backside of the building.  Never mind that I am a foreigner living and working in a very conservative Asian society, that I am white, 6 feet 3 inches tall, with broad shoulders, and a semi menacing shaved head.  I quickly jumped in a limber Bruce Lee-esque fashion up, one, two bounds on the wall - gingerly shimmying myself up holding onto a bolted gas line, using the space beneath as a toe-hold, I began to climb slowly, Spiderman-like up the wall.  At this poignant moment of my bad-decision, my fellow Hans Villa resident Kevin from Tennessee happened by on his way home and from beneath understatedly delivered a quietly audible rhetorical question, “Hey man, what are you doing?”  

With Kevin giving me directions from below, as well as, a bit of a visual spot, I managed, in vain, to heave my braced ninja stance from the cleaving precarious position on the gas line there three stories up and onto the window awning, which worked, but left me in a full upper body strong-arm position, just long enough for me to realize that my broad shoulders wouldn’t be able, with the best of dislocating decompression, to be squeezed thru the 45 degree opening.  So, in a another quick full swoop, I swung back to the wall in a fluid motion off the ledge to the ninja toe hold on the gas line and then shimmied back down the face of the building.  Kevin continued to watch with subtle head-nodding incomprehension and slight bemusement at the predicament.  It was obvious what I was doing and why I was up there and after hearing me bitch about the landlords’ lack of a prompt reply, told me that I could crash on his floor for the night, if needed.  I said I appreciated it and that I would if he didn’t get back to me – and of course, he didn’t. 

Anyway, we grabbed a small stock of beers to inform our evening’s conversation, before heading up to his 4^th floor closet space of an apartment.  We only occasionally saw each other, as we had drastically different schedules.  He worked at a hogwon (a private academy) and I was at a public school.  Yet, we still managed to catch up with each other for a drink or a run down the small stream that ran adjacent to the Olympic Park quarter of southeastern Seoul, where we both had been assigned.  Aside from my failed attempt at breaking and entering my own home and the unplanned evening guest for him, we had a decent chat.  We hadn’t seen each other for awhile and so it was good to air employment grievances, rap on about personal problems, cultural annoyances, girls and the like.  As an ESL teacher in a foreign country, it’s amazing how much you cherish a conversation with someone that you may or may not share much in common with, as you get to depths of communication in English that you’re bereft of so much of the time.  Fortunately for us, Kevin and I had enough in common to banter about over beers.  He was articulate and abreast in current geo-political affairs in Asia, and was also a fairly disciplined athlete, as was I. 

Anyway, on about the third beer, he mentioned that it was his birthday.  So, I gave a “Cheers!” on that unexpected note and we cracked another.  Halfway through that second I offered up that, even though it was a Wednesday and it was starting to get a bit late, that we should head out and grab a night cap.  I mean, it was his birthday after all.  Nothing crazy, but the thinking was that we were in Asia after-all and how many birthdays does one get to celebrate proper in Asia? 

So, with that charming little aside we pushed out the door.  I threw on a nice black sports jacket from his closet over my favorite collared button up and we were off.  It was fall but the air was beginning to crisp and a few leaves had fallen.  With the breeze sort of keeping us at attention on the curb out front, we flagged an orange cab and headed for Sinchon, a university party area that can be fun on most nights. 

We started at a franchise in Seoul known as Ho Bar.  I know, I thought the same thing when I first got here:  That it’s either what you think it is or it’s one of the most egregious errors in translation on the streets of Seoul.  Well, it turns out to be the latter, although I’ve never actually confirmed this.  Regardless of that name, which, as I said, isn’t in fact what you think it is, (although I have scored in one of these places and it WAS memorable), we headed inside.  These places are nice little dens, usually tucked away in large expansive basement spaces.  It feels like a club when you walk in, the pulsating laser neon lighting, the stroebing, state of the art digital effects, and thumping dance music that you can usually hear from the street.  Despite the clubbing vibe, it’s actually just a modern Korean pub.  The only thing fitting about the name Ho Bar is that it IS usually packed with exclusive tables of four or five Korean girls getting hammered over the Ho Bar special:  a liquor set-menu, usually Vodka, sometimes tequila, usually trading shots, sometimes using a mixer. 

As we entered, there were, as predicted, about three tables of strikingly attractive Korean girls strategically located in all corners of the space, and a twosome talking at the bar.  And no dudes.  Asia.  So staying with the thematic fengshui of this, we grabbed a strategic table as well, the location? Well, naturally, right in the middle of the four groups.  Closest were the two tables against the back wall, but both tables within ear shot from our table.  We sat down, got comfortable and then impressed the cocktail waitress with our elementary mastery of a cocktail order in Korean:  “Heineken du byoung erang Tequilla shot du gay joo-sae-yo” and took a deep breath.  It’s always that first sip at a bar that is the best, no? 

Well, we ended up, as you could probably guess, staying for more than the first.  Loosening up there at the table, Kevin got pretty drunk and started aggressively telling me that I was like a brother, in a way that I think that only maybe Southerners can relate to.  It was an endearing sentiment that he was bestowing on me in that basement and I appreciated it but I wasn’t ready for it.  He was so intense that I broke into a laugh at one point which I regretted but his single-mindedness on repeatedly telling me in absolute earnest confessional style, that I was like a brother to him was just too much for me to handle for some reason.  I was a few Tequila shots and beers deep, mind you.  His sentimental barrage, combined with the fact that he had ear-buds in from his iphone that made him look like some sort of almost military personal or a mercenary of sorts, eventually brought me to an uncontrollable burst of laughter.  He was physically fit, athletic and attractive in that every man sort of way.  And his sentiment was just a bit over-the-top for me.

So, anyway, the Tequila, the Heineken, and I found it funny; funny in that same way you uncontrollably laughed in church as a kid during serious prayers.  We were on our third or fourth Mexi-German tango at this point.  Despite my laughter and lack of reciprocity to his initial sentiment, somehow his earnestness was undeterred. 

Looking back on the night, I understand where his mind was.  His brother, a happy hard-working father of three, back in Tennessee had just tragically passed away the month before, apparently crashing his work truck into a telephone pole at about 50 mph after falling asleep at the wheel early one morning commuting to work.  I wish I had showed better decorum during that conversation but the liquor was working against me. 

Anyway, to distract Kevin back to the present moment became ever more challenging.  At this point I knew something had to be done.  He wasn’t as lucid as me, nor was he as jovial.  I attempted to approach a set of girls.  Kevin followed suit.  They offered us a seat at their table.  We sat down, engaged them and we were having a decent chat.  But despite the girls’ surprisingly open reception, he was still not in the state of mind to be a fun lover with me, instantly setting them on edge.  The table’s mood shifted quickly.  I knew that I needed to diffuse the situation, and get him into a better spirit.  I remember taking stock of the situation, as I am not one to want to hang around long with a buddy who is showing hallmark signs of loose-cannon.  It has happened and I’ll support them to a certain distance, but I’ll also cut and run, no second thought. . . it was completely unnecessary and a bit unexpected the way his demeanor quickly shifted on me that fourth round or so.  It was about that time that I tried to redirect his attention and thought to change the scenery.  He still wanted to drink, so I suggested leaving and grabbing a street beer in the alleyway, as it’s always inspiring as a Westerner, the neon glow of an East Asian alleyway, especially Seoul, at night.  So, we paid up and left. 

Outside we walked just briefly down the alley and picked up a couple more Heinekens at a GS25, Korea’s 7-11.  We posted up not far from the Ho Bar where we just were, on a corner, swigging on our beers, and still shooting the shit.  Kevin seemed to have calmed down a bit.  Enjoying the crisp autumn air, whatever storm was tormenting him downstairs seemed to have passed with the change of scenery.  Speaking of which, is always remarkable. 

Seoul, South Korea

The girls in Korea are stunning.  They walk in heels like militant femme fatale troopers.  They show leg all year long.  In the summertime, it’s daisy dukes, high-waisted, form-fitting shorts, or a coochy-cutter variety hidden strategically beneath a long-sleeved shirt or hoodie, making it look as though they stepped out of the house forgetting to put on pants.  And of course the heels!  Let’s not forget about the heels.  Rarely do you see a Korean girl without them.  If you do, it’s either a school girl, or a cute dressed down girl with sporty running shoes or knock-off Addidas soccer sandals, cute feet sporting cute animated and brightly colored ankle socks.  In the wintertime, you’ll see everything from fur-lined ankle boots, knee-high stiletto leather heels and mini-skirts, attire that Lucy Liu might have worn in Charlie’s Angels, and always lots of skin tight black pantyhose, leggings, etc.  Plenty of slender, fit, Asian gams to gawk at.  We had a good seat for the evenings street fashion show.  Beers in hand we watched the parade of beauties catwalk down the neon-lit alleyway.   Street stalls wafting the appetizing smells of tteokbokki, (떡볶이 - rice pounded glutinous spicy rice cakes that are slathered in a fiery red pepper sauce), which will snap you back to if you have gone over the brink and are swimming in an unfavorable swirling eddy of blood-alcohol.  

Taking poetic observations there on the corner and waxing about the novelty of living and working in Asia as ESL teachers and relishing the first world privilege of being able to take exotic paid vacations around the globe, put us into a pretty good collective mood and put Kevin’s head miles away from his cynical turn downstairs.  But about this time, completely oblivious to most of the women around, immersed in our camaraderie, our collective attention rip-chord was jerked.  We turned an about face towards an outdoor Soju tent (a tented Korean bbq joint) adjacent the alleyway from our Jay and Silent Bob post-up.

Just across on the opposite corner from us sat two elegantly beautiful Korean girls, visibly drunken, yet playful with intent on garnering attention, “From us?” I thought, somewhat incredulously.  They did seem pretty over-the-top with their cute little exaggerated mannerisms, probably sort of slightly smitten that there were two decent looking foreign guys in ear shot who hadn’t yet approached them or even noticed them really.  I convinced myself after a few more minutes of watching their cute banter and slightly over-performative-theatrics; that they seemed to be, beyond a reasonable drunken doubt, setting a pretty big target for us there, creating an easy way for us to approach and initiate.  So, resolved in that special way you get while deep into an evening of spirits, I waited for one of them to make eyes with me and when she did, I gave a soft and subtle yet knowing smile, and charmingly nodded my head and gesticulated a “you want me to take a picture of you two?”  She coyly responded with a smile, giving a cute nervous laugh, head nodding yes.  Her friend noticed the brief telepathic reaction, saw me approaching and giggled in a way that Korean women sometimes do, covering her mouth with a groomed conservative demeanor that only Asian women seem to possess, that, at first appears childish yet on further inspection, is also extremely sexy and endearing, especially when you realize what jealous rages, kimchi tempers, and fiery attitudes in the bedroom that they are capable of.  

As I approached them from across the narrow neon-lit alleyway, Kevin followed behind.  I reached over their table and she handed me the camera phone that the two of them had been taking selfies on for the last 10 minutes.  It was a large touch screen smart-phone, a newer Samsung Galaxy model, too big to fit in a man’s pocket.  I took it, stepped back a pace and a half and snapped a photo of them.  No big deal.  I counted to three, using my best Korean, “Hanna, Deul, Set.” snap.  Coy yet eager to see the result, the phone’s owner reached in towards me, grabbed the phone, turning the screen towards her to get a better look.  She wasn’t pleased.  She demanded that I take another shot, saying, in cute broken English, “it not good.”  Their demeanor's still flirty, eager to stretch out Act One a few more verses.  So, obliging, I stepped back and took a few more shots. After taking a series of about three shots, I still didn’t receive their approval.  So, now being a little more charming, playful and engaged, I took the phone back for a third round of shots.  This time I knelt down and sort of took a couple of more artsy angles from a down up view and to the side. 

Well, as I was there on one knee propositioning a third round of playful photos from the girls, I sensed a presence approaching rather quickly to the side of the their table down the alleyway to my 3 o’clock.  And before I could get my head fully around to ascertain the sudden aggressive movement, a strong arm swung at me and smacked the phone from my hands, knocking it violently from my grip.  A Korean kid, a little younger than me, built sturdy but not menacingly beyond my means to confront confidently, is staring down at me from above as I’m there on one knee.  In a rapid fire succession of immediacy, my drunken, second-language improvisational intuition using pigeon Korean, yielded something like. . . 

“Mianhamneeda.  Nogah yuhjah-cheengo. 

Algeutsumneeda.  Woori kasaeyo.  Mianhamneeda.” 

("I’m so sorry.  That’s your girlfriend.  

We understand.  We’re going.  I’m sorry.") 

Yet, my honorific use of his language didn’t deter his belligerence.  It was here that I stood, and hands in the air, holding to a posture of non-confrontation, not staring him in the eyes, and turning to walk away, asserting yet again my initial apology, that he, with absolute incisive Soju-face aggression, plants a strong forearm across the full width of my chest, landing it with as much pure force as he could muster.  He knocked me back with a stupid assertiveness.  Crossing any decency and completely disregarding my gracious attempt at civil diplomacy, my anger mounted in a fury of self-righteous indignation.  Adrenalin surge dropping  a usually sleeping alpha male psychology from neutral into 1^st gear.  Jaw tightened. Face flush.  Heart pumping blood in a rapid flood of frenzy; recruiting pulsing muscles with instant oxygenation.  Capillaries restricted.    Chest out.  Eyes seeing red hot rage.  With a commanding posture, speaking English now, in a deeper more authoritative tone, I tell him we are leaving and that we are sorry.  Yet the Soju-faced belligerence of this little Korean man was not to be thwarted.  He popped me again with the same force and in the same dismissive manner as he did the first blow.  And while striking me, said something about Korean women and Korean being number one.

“Hangookin ill-bahn!  

Waygookin erahng Hangook yuhjah ahn-day!” 

("Korea is number one!
Foreigners and Korean women, I don't like it!")

I saw red.  I remember in a flash of absolute maddening flurry, time perception beginning to blur, saying, “You wanna fuck with me, you stupid motherfucker?!” and grabbing him by the upper lapel, push-shoving him forward, knocking him off balance so quickly and explosively, while simultaneously sweeping his feet.  Using his momentum against him, I heaved his drunken hostile body to the pavement in one blindingly explosive, fluid, Judo throw.  Kevin remarked to me later, that he couldn’t believe the velocity to which this man’s body hit the ground, and the sound to which his head made careening limply off the blacktop, making a loud dense smack.  I repeated my initial profanity laced outburst in an aggressive manner while in a sort of mounted position over him.  Unfortunately, in a drunken state, and full of adrenalin and rage, one doesn’t often utter the wittiest of lines.  I’d take liberties here and exaggerate my eloquence but I’ll spare you the Hollywood rendition of the encounter.  It was a stupid street fight - just two drunken stags locking horns over a couple of doe’s – but there I was – in the most common and idiotic of situations.  It felt surreal. 

While on top of him, still a hold of his upper lapel, I picked his shoulders up off the ground again, without much memorable resistance, shook him and planted him back down firmly into his nest of submission on the pavement.  During this mounting session somehow the girls whom I was just carrying on with, making eyes with, and flirting with, completed an absolute about face.  They came up from behind, slapping, clawing and grabbing at my clothes, assisting their fellow countryman, trying in vain to pull off the foreign aggressor, yet only succeeding in ripping each of the buttons clean down the front of my favorite shirt.  Still in a position of dominance, despite the maylay, I got up, ripped shirt showing a hairy (yet athletic and well-formed) Sean Connery chest beneath a stylish sports blazer and say, 

“We’re FUCKin LEAving dude!” 

It was here that a quick glance down the alleyway and to the sides of the gogee restaurant and outdoor seating joints that I notice a solid contingent of spectators and stragglers beginning to collect.  Their interested eyes show nothing but looks of “what did the foreigner do wrong?”  Before I could get more than a good 5 steps down the street from this Korean racist raggedy-Anne whom I had so thoroughly just embarrassed in front of his coveted countrywomen, that he somehow managed to get up and head me off.  Assuming a position of, what appeared to be some sort of martial arts inspired stance, he blocks my exit from the narrow alley.  In the “land of the morning calm”, there is no shortage of Korean d-bags that have studied taekwondo, otherwise known as the most useless of martial arts to any man outside of Korea.  Anyone who has seen an MMA fight knows this much to be true and painfully self-evident.  Allegedly, it was concocted by retarded twats during the Goryeo dynasty (13^th century) to enable the Korean foot soldiers to kick Ghengis Khan’s invading legions of horsemen from their steeds during battle.  History tells us how that ended.  Yet despite the historical futility of the asinine art-form, most Korean men think that they can fight because at age 15 they were awarded the top belt from one of a myriad of private academies that their parents sent them to, which only really serve as surrogate afterschool babysitters. They are equally as ubiquitous as Korean corner stores and about as rigorous as an annual physical by a blind doctor. 

So, there I found myself.  In the middle of a neon-lit alleyway in Seoul, South Korea surrounded by nationals and about to fight a belligerent Soju-faced raging Asian bull of a man.  We squared up with hands at attention, ready for the other to make the first move.  While toe to toe, I briefly laughed audibly and incredulously to myself at the absurdity of my predicament, just before leading with a left jab, to which I catch my Soju-faced sparring partner square in the nose with.  His head snapped back quickly as my hand touched off the square of his face, making a sound that resembled a clap track for an old Kung-fu movie.  Stunned, he came in hands dropped, after me, but I caught him with another before he could find his wits - a big right hook on the side of his head.  Before I could get another to his head, I was taken off balance blindly by another dude that came in to help the obviously disadvantaged taekwondo master.  Grabbing me from behind, and holding my arms back, I was drug-pulled from my opponent.  “Where was Kevin?” I thought, before being thrown to the ground in a tangled mess of a pig pile.  It was 4 against one at this point.  The tag team had me down and the girls came in from the perch on the sidelines.  No one was able to land anything worthwhile but I was caught with a flailing feminine limb which somehow found its direction in the may-lay, and caught me in a back-handed fashion hard in the face, drawing a dribble of blood from my nose.  

Down on the ground and growing tired with the sheer amount of energy needed to move 4 bodies around in such a manner to avoid the more precarious submissive positions, I glance up and notice the looks in the eyes of the men on the fringes.  The looks were all cold - bereft of empathy or concern for my predicament.  It was here that I gave one last heave of a Hulk-esque throwback and lifted my tangled legs and limbs from the back-alley Twister match and began walking at a steady clip backwards, facing the attackers:  One block. Two blocks.  Soju-face was still down on the count but his silent side-kick countryman was up, as were the two Jeckyl-n-Hyde Korean dames, and were still avidly pursuing me.  Kevin, still somehow miraculously with me, turns and says,

“Dude, this is fucked.  We’re fucked.  
Cops come, we’re going home man.  
They’ll extradite us no question.  

Fuck this.  Take off dude.  I am.”

And with that, bolts down an alleyway at a ferocious sprint.  But I, still somehow sporting too much pride for another half block, begin only a slow retreat.  Back peddling, still responding to the girls now shouting, “Hey, stop!” at me, more eager to recruit negative attention from the onlookers than actually getting me to stop, my pride began to waver and my options became clear:  Run.  I finally yielded to a jog and then slowly and begrudgingly to a sprint.  Not quite out of the neon-lit village, I peak back to gauge the distance created between me and my hot pursuit and notice that the Korean dames are actually out front now and in an all out sprint, galloping in heels like James Bond villains.  Not far behind was Soju-face and his trusty xenophobic sidekick. 

As I reached the main thoroughfare, I hesitate a half-second at full Usain-Bolt-speed to assess the imminent pedestrian death by taxi collision, before I enter a Seoul thoroughfare 10 lanes wide, crisscrossing a dense bottleneck of honking orange metered taxis, not even sure if it was possible to breach to the opposite side.  Still at 400 meter-dash speed, and bobbing and weaving through heavy traffic like an athletic fullback through a line of scrimmage, I have my second ill-timed hearty laugh of the night, prompting a big angelic smile to slowly descend across my face, and I raise my arms out slowly and start to bank left and right as if flying an airplane.  The surreal quality of the situation; here I am in Asia, shirt ripped wide open blowing in the early morning hour autumn frigid air, my white chest broad and visible, as I dodge thick taxi traffic across an impossible 10 lanes of a gridlocked 2 am mess, just made me feel ridiculous enough to elevate the absurdity to a grand new height.  And I think I achieved what I was going for.  As I bounded upon the sidewalk making it acrobatically to the other side of the urban Asian jungle, I noticed that I had finally given the shake to my relentless pursuers.  But unwilling to stop running for fear of a second go or worse; a police encounter, I continued on another 300 meters or so.  Finally stopping after my dry mouth had parched my throat, chest searing, legs like rubber, I knelt down to catch a breadth.