Friday August 26: 7:00 am
Cheonan

It’s a bright, shiny morning the day of taking off. The pool of late summer rainy season runs dry as the sky paints pale blue round clouds regularly wide open grey. Cab back to shuttle bus and airport check-in, the last site of Incheon out of an Aeroflot flight bound for Moscow. Leave stamped immigration card in official clutch. Planes taking off.

The Russian tin roofs shine in the hot sun like so many sequins sewn on a bodice. 5:00 pm local time, 10:00 pm at the last locale, 9:00 am at home. Thirty-five days to get the six hour refund, wait it out with so much stolen leisure.

The monitor is hazy white, puffy clouds forecasting where the world will sink itself in, swirls of dark blue shadows sliding by like ink splotches on The Comedian’s mask. The Watchmen can’t save us from this plane crash, won’t save us from this war.

Good night, good afternoon, good morning. God bless.

The end is nigh, good Korean friend. So it comes with sunrise.

I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.

The Leaving Song: Part II

New beginnings never end, so on goes the Leaving Song, to a new apartment warming party for a friend from the old country. Two weeks in we walked along the walls of ancient palace, lost in a new city, he unsure he could take the twelve months before him.

Time went by and new contracts signed, I’m out the exit six months before him. A sangria toast to that and all happened in the interim. Two more friends for dinner, one Winnipeg, one Toronto.

To the park where many beers were drunk, soju from the bottle. To the favorite furniture museum for one last tall, expensive beer on a summer patio. Back to the first bar found in Hongdae, Exit.

Plug in iPod to speakers and lean into the alley with a crowd of pretty strangers. Say goodnight some time before sunrise, knowing none again will ever see you.

The Leaving Song: part I

The last bite of beef is taken before nine. Galbi, Korean BBQ, will miss you, dear friend. Crack the final bottle of Fort Garry Dark, saved in its spot for such special occasion: the end.

Down to Dujeon Oasis wine bar, squish in dozens on the rocky floor. Take over the front of house, edging out all the locals wondering when North America flew in. Buy out the cheapest dry red, and leave the second the first expensive bottle is spent.

On to our preferred basement dive to watch the newbie derby blonds grind up a stripper pole. Insist too many drinks be bought in the name of the hour, then threaten to knife the white guy going after your Korean girl friend.

Grab the hand of the oldest ally and fall into sweatpants, two to a single bed. Closer, closer, wind it down. The end, the end. The end.

Street Art Insadong

Hongade is the go-to place for street art, but it’s not the only. Other areas of the city are covered in tags and mural pieces. One place graffiti has been invited in is the stairwells of Insadong’s open air market.

Down one side you’ll see a spray paint Michael Jackson. On the other, a gaggle of DeadMau5ish bunny rabbits point guns and two scribbly rose sculptures. Follow the stems down to a lovers’ lair. There cartoons and sharpie hangul list the crowd of infatuated patrons.

Leaving some local cred on the tourist neighbourhood, a heart from the ever-present Nana. A skip away we find a torn up old home converted to a multi media installation. Outside that is a row of inspired stencils.

And back in Hongdae the final snap. Spotted: Miss Marilyn.

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.