Return to the palace

They said they’d pay both ways. We all accepted the bribe and headed towards the city on the weekend. They told us it was all about team-building, which we translated to not hating our jobs.

We’d take one more break a day, or one less pet-project instead, most of us said under our collective breath. But we shrugged our shoulders and took off to the palace with the promise of margaritas after the evening show.

The arrival came at during the changing of the guards. The color wheel of Korean silks marched from one door to the next, swords sticking to their backs. They beat the drum a thunder vigor and stood stoic for all the tourists photos.

We stared into the temple reflections in the early winter ponds till the grumbling for cigarettes and lunch led us to the gates. On to the next adventure, all on daddy's bill.

Smoke signals and other Saturday nights

It started in the park and led toward the smoke. A bottle of soju and two cans of energy to pass around, we flipped through his Grindr to find lurking homosexuals zero feet away. Suspicious steps towards ears covered by iPhones, we all placed our bets.

When the text made its jump to a quarter of a mile we swigged the last of the cherry bottle and started the search for another dive. Past the Museum we wound down a staircase into a smoking cave.

The ceiling curved into the walls and shot down two pillars in the centre, framing a DJ’s screen. We curled up in the top corner and lit the first hookah of the night. Sipped tequila and waited to get details of a tea date from a female friend.

The second hookah hideout was just as empty for all its sing-along eighties electro hits. Danced in our crossed legged seats until we turned our toes to the gay bars. When Hongdae’s dead the Saturday night sex fiends are sure to buy you drinks.

Lodged against a wall of strangers or dancing on stage, we closed down the night, and went to sleep face first on the floor.

Toy Story

At the entrance they ask for a thousand won. She says to me, “You’ll see why,” and as my eyes slip inside, I do. Fighter jets fly by Astro Boy, Spiderman droops from the cobweb ceiling, and comics lay on all surfaces, tucked between old toy boxes emitting grandpa’s basement smell.

This is where old toys go to die. Lined up under glass cages and hidden behind do-not-cross lines of string, they find new life alongside two-dollar gifts and postcards of old and unforgotten pop culture relics: Bruce Lee, Wonderwoman, and the Sailor Scouts.

The children in the store are dragged along the arms of their parents, snapping photos and tugging at seven-year-old sleeves, saying, “See this?!” All our childhoods dance round us, Power Rangers, Pokemon, Transformers, and the whole Simpson Springfield city.

In the far corner I find a mirror and a stack of masks. I hold up Astro and through two plastic holes I’m impressed with what I see. Stuff a bag of postcards into backpack and say to no one: “This is why I came here. To find the Astro Boy inside.”

Dear China: see you in the New Year

Sitting sculptures

The line of cars led from the centre to the exit of the park. We pulled cautiously past pedestrians hunting for a spot. Out of the driver’s seat college students played ultimate Frisbee, out the passenger’s a tot in a pink tutu clutched parental fingers, en route to the ballet.

We dropped off Andrea at an ice cream stand and headed towards the sculpture garden. The parking lot at the zoo was empty. We pulled in and popped the trunk; she put on heels and jeans.

We climbed on the bears and hid in exposed logs of granite wood, exchanged smiles with children on an evening stroll with their grandparents who tugged on arms and said, “Me next??”

Into the fountain we saw our reflections, gliding past green lilies. Sunrays ran through the flowers, sent what was left of the day into the trees. We walked back to the zoo, and booted up the engine.