24.09
Cigarettes & Espresso Martinis
For the past month, my evenings had settled into a familiar rhythm—nightly walks with Phillip and our dogs to the bridge and back after dinner. Three hours would easily pass in conversation, strolling along the Han River (usually also trying to sober up from dinner), before ending the night on the bench located between our apartments. Phillip would take his cigarette break while mosquitoes feasted on any exposed skin. The weather is still warm, though fall is slowly making its way in. On that particular Sunday, I don’t quite remember how I ended up at Phillip’s, sipping that espresso martini and then heading home with a Hydro Flask full of it.
By the time I got home—literally less than a minute from his place—the martini had fully kicked in. If you’re a Brooklyn Nine-Nine fan, picture Amy Santiago at “number three”: too confident, too energetic, and very chatty. I called my dad and then my friends, buzzing with bubbly energy at midnight—if you didn’t know, I am a very happy drunk (that is, until I pass out). And the thing is, I wish I could always be like that—full of energy, bright, bold, fearless. That drunk version of me is someone I want to be by default, minus the alcohol part, of course.
But that bravery doesn’t come easily. Does it for anyone? I get scared. I procrastinate. I avoid problems, even though I know they’ll stress me out. I hate that about myself. I can’t seem to face challenges head-on, and sometimes I can’t even manage to get the simplest tasks done. Writing is honestly another way I avoid what I should be doing. What am I so afraid of? Why do I get so timid and anxious? I try to push through, but more often than not, I feel defeated.
Feeling the weight of my own weaknesses, I keep thinking about how I ended up in Korea. Packing my bag and moving across the world felt like the bravest thing I could do, but was it? Was I being bold, or just running away? Did I leave home because I didn’t have the guts to stay and fight through my problems? Does moving cities, or countries, really change anything? Why do I miss home so much, yet hesitate to go back? I am torn. I feel like I’m asking these important questions too late because I was too scared to ask them before—maybe I am on the run, trying to get away from who I am, and from the people and places that shape me.
The past year in Jersey felt like a dream anyway—post-grad life couldn’t have been that butter-smooth, could it? Finding home, community, and comfort so quickly—it felt too good to be true. Maybe this is what adulthood is supposed to feel like: lost in the whirlwind, tossed into a new city, struggling to adjust and find your footing. Maybe I needed to feel lost to stop feeling stuck.
And now, I definitely feel that sense of lostness—to be straightforward, I don't feel like I belong here. Being back in Korea has me questioning what home really is—not where. The city that once raised me now feels foreign and distant. Quick trends, flashing ads, screaming commercials—everything feels inauthentic and ingenuine. Seoul feels cold. No one says “excuse me” or “sorry, passing through.” You just get pushed and shoved from every direction, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get swept along with the crowd.
But in the midst of the crowd, I try to find reasons to stay, I try to find little pieces of home—moments that make me pause. Like how the walking trail by Han River gets real quiet around midnight, and how the morning sun glistens over the Han River as I cross the bridge on the subway. And I’m starting to think, home really isn’t a place anymore. Home is people. It’s community. It’s who you’re with. Even though I can ride the waves of this city, the hardest wave is finding people who I can connect with—so far, it feels like there just aren’t people here for me. But who knows? In time, I might find home in this city. Just as I did when I was in Jersey.
But I will always miss the way the trees sway with the breeze in Jersey, the hustle of New York City, late-night drives down the Palisades, board game and potluck nights, food crawls through Chinatown. I crave the friendly small talks, smiles, and nods from strangers walking down the streets of New York and Jersey—not bodies bumping into one another as everyone here buries their heads into their smartphones. When Phillip said, “I miss your kind” to a passing foreigner on one of our walks, I laughed so hard, but deep down, I knew exactly what he meant. I miss my people too.
I am trying to channel a sober “number three” Amy Santiago every time I step outside into the streets. Mustering up the nonexistent courage I have to comfort myself, I tell myself I have everything under control, faking confidence, faking excitement, convincing myself I have so much to look forward to in the city of Seoul. Fake it till you make it, right? After all, this is my first September, my first fall in Korea in 11 years. There is, in fact, so much to look forward to. The weather will cool down, and the leaves will change color. I imagine how pretty the city will look. And if anything, I’ve terribly missed eating steaming hot fishcakes and spicy rice cakes by the bus station when it’s cold out, and seeing the foliage near Namsan Tower. I’m learning to adjust, learning to embrace this city—slowly, but surely (with a slight the exception for the bagels and tacos here, they’re not... what they claim to be.)
Yours always,
9.31 / 07:42 PM
I realize Phillip and I are both on our way back home—me on a bus coming back from work, him on a plane finally heading back to LA—after being here for almost two years, he’d literally been counting down by the hour for his return flight. As his clock counts down, mine counts up. I feel lucky that I had a month time with a childhood friend, a family friend, the familiarity of home—in. When I get home, I’ll finish the last of his espresso martini I saved in the Hydro Flask, paired with an awfully sweet leftover cronut earlier from lunch. I wonder when I’ll get to have Phillip’s martini again, but I guess I could always learn to make one myself. After all, I still have that bottle of Kahlúa and Baileys waiting for me back in Jersey.
And right about now, Phillip and I would have been on our usual walk, settling on our bench to talk about concrete interiors, paisley ties, and he’d also be re-explaining what suspensions and coilovers are for the fifth time—car mechanics feel like quantum physics to me—while smoking his Marlboro. And now, after having Phillip’s espresso martini, I’m tempted to head down to that bench and light a cigarette of my own. Apparently, post drinks cigarettes are supposed to be the best.
But here’s a little secret: I don’t actually know how to smoke, even though I ‘smoked’ in college. I smoked cigarettes like cigars. The only reason I did it was for the strange satisfaction of a flickering flame and watching the cigarette slowly burn—the sight of it catching fire, the weight between my fingers, and the lingering smell of tobacco on my clothes. I once half-jokingly asked Phillip if I should learn to smoke for real, but he just laughed and said, “It’d be cool, but no, don’t smoke.” And to be fair, it would be hypocritical since I tell him to cut back. Besides, if it's just about the flicking the lighter and watching the cigarette burn, I don’t really need to smoke—Phillip always lets me light his anyways.