Beth Salerno

Lost and Found

April 13, 2008 Author: Beth Salerno

In a few days I will post a blog about the amazing trip I took this weekend.  I intended to stay one night, which turned into two.  Benedictine monks are very hospitable.  But after two days in the same clothes, a three hour train trip, and a smoky taxi, I really just wanted to be at home.  So when I reached my door and could not find my keys, I had to take a deep, deep breath to keep from losing it.

Living in a foreign country gives you few chances to just lose it (but many chances to lose things).  So when a thorough search of everything I had with me turned up no keys, I had to figure out what to do next.  Go to the apartment office?  Closed on Sunday.  Call the University?  Closed on Sunday.  OK….now what?  Figuring I had nothing to lose (and nothing else to try), I entered the little room near the apartment office that was full of pople.  How does one explain this situation without the words for “key” “lost” or “locked-out”?  I used a little Korean, a lot of English, some full-body acting and a pleading look - which would have been much harder if I had reached anyone by phone.

By sheer luck I had run into a group of apartment building staff cooking for a large picnic on Monday.  They had no access to keys, but they knew all the right people to call.  Within 15 minutes, they had tried the owner of my apartment (not home), the University (nobody there), and a locksmith; the last arrived within the hour.  Thank goodness I had not locked the security lock, which would have been a $150 charge.  For $10, the locksmith basically picked my lock (which was depressingly easy - guess I’ll be locking that security lock in the future!).  I paid him, entered the apartment, and in the safety of anonymity, sat down and cried.

But I knew I was not done yet.  I pulled myself together, went to the nearby market and bought three kinds of fruit (cherry tomatoes count as fruit here).  I walked back to that gathering with my thank you gifts and was warmly welcomed.  “You are home, now?” they asked in Korean.  They cleared me a spot on the floor, made me tea, and offered me food.  Then I began to understand what they had been telling me earlier, but I could not hear through my worry and frustration.  Almost all of them had seen me before, and all knew me.  I am one of the only white foreigners in my building - I’m hard to miss.  But according to them I am the only foreigner who smiles, who tries to speak Korean, who bows when meeting elderly men - I am the “good American”.  While they probably would have helped any one who looked as bedraggled and frustrated as I did, they were particularly glad to help me.  When I finished my tea, I thanked them again and headed back to my apartment.  Then I cried some more, but for a different reason.

One could probably learn many lessons from the day’s events (other than the most obvious:  get some spare keys made and put one in my wallet!).  I was reminded how hard, how frustrating and how confusing it is to live far from home, where I do not know who to call or even the words I need, and where I only understand half of what I am told.  Yet, I am also struck by how easy it is sometimes, how good people are, and how little they want from a “good American”.  This whole day will be pretty darn funny in retrospect - it began at 4 am with an overflowing toilet, which should have warned me right there.  But at the moment I am simply grateful for a big problem made small by good people, smiles, and bows. 

Entry Filed under: Language, Apartment