This is not an exit

There are three bars foreigners in Cheonan frequent. On Saturday all were empty. The tumbleweed tossed off the backs of the train tracks as we pulled out of town. Our party ballooned through dinner, drinks, then dancing, new familiar faces oft walking through the door.

We settled into a downstairs dive club and brought a party to the empty place. We shook to new and old hits, arms flailing with the rest. Picked up five Koreans who poured tequila down our throats.

Sweaty we climbed back up to open air, hunting gyros on the street. Round the corner to the singing room, twenty beers, nine couches, and the biggest songs on blast. Then sometime round sunrise we rubbed our eyes at the gray-lit street.

Seven thirty the train pulled back in, a quick fifteen-hour trip. Welcomed morning rain, tugging hoodie strings. Hailed cab and said for one of the last times: Buldang Joong-hayko.