It All Seems to Work

I shall paint for you the picture, two stories below, upon which I now so languidly gaze. Over a wide gutter I see a narrow alley, rendered even narrower by such indiscriminate vehicles, new and old, as sluggishly line the street, facing both directions regardless of on which side they sit. A bright red sign is directly opposite. Its cleanliness renders conspicuous the single screaming Konglish word it sports: LOTTERIA. Three men sit on the sidewalk immediately below it, drinking beer. Across the alley way, to the right, a smartly dressed woman with a new bicycle stands in front of the "Palace Donut", a little brick-pillared, yellow and red establishment, with frosted windows and smiling pink flowers in a quaintly designed wooden flower box outside. To the left is a bakery filled with fresh, warm, sweet breads of all sorts. These three apartments are each pressed down and squished between, behind, and beneath countless others. Each sports it's own goods with more of desperation than taste, instinctively responding to the necessity to either outdo it's neighbor, or be smothered and crammed into a state of oblivion. Drooping in front of and between and behind everything, tangled electrical wires hang carelessly from one pole, here and there gathered into hasty bundles to take up the slack, before being fortuitously scooped up by the next pole, and the next. Some few people (and they are indeed people, despite my instinctive inclination to view them as 'Koreans') mill about, aimless and purposeful by turns. A man stands not too far distant, with his arm raised, pointing out some ambiguous object to the girl in hot pink who hangs on his arm. Two or three pastel colored umbrellas hide the faces of their respective owners below, despite the blueness of the sky. The green bus '02' winds its dexterous way through and around pedestrians, parked cars, and bicycles, followed by two taxis. Altogether it is a picture of jarring contradictions and inconsistencies, as every age and class and station deliberately wends its way through the scene with a clarity and ease that astounds. The business man in his spotless, pressed suite; the toddler in his dirty jumper; the elderly with his stooped shoulders; the drunk with his liquor; the street vendor with his wares; the student in his crisp uniform; the beggar with his cup; the millionaire in his sedan. This alley belongs to each individually; no person or establishment or vehicle lends any togetherness to the scene. None of it fits. Yet, in some vague and incomprehensible way, it all seems to work.

The little coffee shop from which I view this tight panorama stands out distinctly for it's simplicity and taste. It is filled with perhaps a dozen small tables, each boasting two facing, pink love seats, comfortable albeit worn. Flowers, fresh and dried, stand at each table, and occationally small green trees and bushes. A white lattice screen here, a watering pot there, natural light, tastefully soft music, and a dozen other trivialities lend the place a comfortable, lazy atmosphere. The coffee is expensive, so I won't come here often. But it's nice to get out of the house for a while. The girl who made my coffee looks to be about my age, and speaks a little (very little) English. I feel inclined to get to know her a bit.

Today, Thursday, is my day off, though I must apply the same adjective to this that can be applied to every other aspect of my life right now: temporary. I'm enjoying relaxing…really relaxing. I don't have any classes to teach tomorrow, so I don't have any prep to do. I can just sit back and enjoy. Also, yesterday I received some information about my current living situation, which greatly relieves the anxiety of not knowing one day what the next holds. I will certainly move upstairs in a week and a half, after the Dubes move out. That will be my home until Mom and Dad visit in November. After that lies the unknown. But it's such a relief to know beyond tomorrow, that I haven't the inclination to worry about December just now.

Last week I visited with the Dubes for several hours. Upon going back down to my apartment a later, I was surprised to see a different table in my kitchen. My first startled reaction was to suppose that I had entered the wrong apartment, but there were all my things, on this new table, just as I had left them. The chairs, likewise, had been replaced. This table was just as nice as the other had been, though perhaps smaller, so I was at a loss to know why the switch had taken place, or who, indeed, had effected it. To this day I it puzzles me, though I am rather inclined toward bemusement when I think on the situation. I contradictorily proceed to be even further bemused by such inclination. Oh well, such is the caprice life!

Think of me often,
Elisabeth