The Rain

This was meant to be a short trip. A taxi from my hotel to the bus stop, then from there to the train station, then another taxi to Cold-Springs Childcare. That was all I needed to do. That was what the map read, if I could translate the images as well as I thought. Well… to the bus stop I went.

It was a few miles away from my hotel. A little exercise would not hurt if I walked the rest of the way there. So, I stopped the taxi, just ten minutes to the bus stop, and about forty-five minutes from my hotel. The sun looked promising, the fresh morning breeze, not too hot, not too chilly, just immaculate, and I wasn’t going to miss it. Whoever said Seoul had terrible weather? Well, they couldn’t be more wrong.

Or was I wrong? That was what I thought when the first thunder strike silenced the noise of the bustling city. Was that rain? I was only halfway there. I could make it to the bus stop in just a few minutes. The rain wouldn’t start now. That I thought, and again I was wrong.

I didn’t understand how it suddenly turned from a bright, welcoming morning to a gloomy and raging one. My bag, my phone, my shoes, were all I thought of as I ran, but before I could get to the bus stop, I was soaked, as wet as an abandoned dog, and freezing. How was I going to make it to my destination looking like this?

I was meant to visit an orphanage today, which was the last thing on my bucket list, before my flight back home tomorrow. This was my last day in Seoul, and it just had to rain.

I squeezed the hem of my dress as I attempted to reduce the amount of water dripping from it. I couldn’t meet anyone now. Not looking like this? I couldn’t go back either. I needed my… phone! I reached for it in my bag, bringing it out, I tried turning it on, but it was blank.

Fuck, no!

I tried again, only for the black screen to stare back at me. It was not working, and with that, I felt my chest squeeze as I had squeezed my dress earlier. My eyes stung, my throat went dry. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, I kept repeating as I shook my phone up and down, attempting to remove the water from it.

This wasn’t happening.

I tried powering it up once again, as if to say my phone would miraculously come back to me, and for the first time today, Seoul proved me right. My phone was dead and gone.

What next?

I knew my map was also gone, and there was no way in seven hells I was going to get to my destination without them.

Well? I reached for my map, took it out, nodded as I found it unrecognizable, and squeezed just as tight as my chest did. I looked around in search of a trash bin, of course, it was a few steps away from the shelter of the bus stop, say thirty to forty steps give or take. I was already a walking waterfall, what did I have to lose? I removed my shoes, kept my soaked bag on the bench, and walked to the trash bin.

I should have taken the leather bag. Why did I choose a tote bag over it? Damn my stupid fashion sense. All I had to do now was get back to the hotel. But how? I need my phone to translate. The hotel’s name was not even an English name, and my Hangul vocabulary started and ended with only two words, ‘ gomawo and annyeonghaseyo’.

Classic isn’t it? Just classic. I could just wait the rain out and…. SPLASSHHH.

The splash from the puddle raised by a speeding car cut my wandering thoughts off.

“Joesonghamnida!!!” A lady in the passenger seat screamed as they sped away. As if I knew what that meant.

Well, the dirty baptism destroyed my optimism. I tried to laugh, tried to, but once I began, all I could do was cry. Thanks to the rain, I could wash it off quickly, and no one would know I was crying. Well, who would? I was alone. It was just me, the bus stop and the freaking rain. So, I stood under it. I didn’t know how long it was, I just stood and cried. When the bus arrived, I paid no attention to it. When I heard its low humming sound as it drove off, I didn’t look up, didn’t bother to ask for help. What would I say? How would I begin? I just stood in the rain. It was warmer now, and I would rather stay wet than stand in wet clothes.

When I felt like I could cry no longer, I wiped my face and smiled at the dark humor. Well, time to start my walk, back to the hotel, or until I find a taxi driver who understands English.

I looked in the direction of the bus stop.

And froze.

The bus stop was constructed with transparent plexiglass. A man standing there, dressed like a grim reaper I had watched in one of the K-dramas, what was the name? Ah!

“Goblin!” And worse, he was just…staring at me, not moving, not smiling, just staring.

I had many questions. How long had he been standing there? Before the bus? After? Who was he? Why was he staring at me? Why did he have an umbrella? And why didn’t he offer it? Should I run? To where? My bag and shoes were next to him. Should I just leave them behind? They were of no use to me. I turned back to assess the distance. That was a long run, his legs were long enough to catch up. Well? What did I have to lose?

Breathing in deeply, I held it there and walked to the bus stop. If I’m planning to run, I need my shoes.

The steps felt endless, like a journey of a thousand miles. He was still staring. Why? Was it because of my skin color? Or my afro hair that had melted in the rain?

“Yes, I’m black, deal with it,” I screamed in my head without looking up at him. I finally got there and slowly reached for my bag. Why did I feel like a child caught stealing candy? This was embarrassing.

I slowly wore my canvas back, at least they were white, expensive, and flat. Hanging my bag over my shoulder, I held it tightly, readied myself to sprint. In three, two, one…

“Need help?”

I froze. Was… was that real? Was… was that English? I quickly turned to him, hoping, wishing, praying it was from him, and I wasn’t hallucinating, and for the first time since I stood under the bus stop with him, I looked at him.

“You… talk?” I asked.

His laughter was long, deep, and warm.

“Of course I talk. Where are you headed? A hotel? Which one? I could take you there, if you don’t mind. My driver will be here shortly. I meant to meet him at the factory just thirty minutes away, because I had to go to a farm about an hour west of here, so I took the bus. I already informed him of my whereabouts and the… change in plans….”

He was still talking. All I could do was watch his lips move. I knew that was English, but the thing was, just like my Hangul vocabulary, my English vocabulary was very limited, although not as empty as Hangul.

I was French. A 26-year-old black French lady, spending my two weeks’ vacation in South Korea because I loved BTS.

I could understand some words, but couldn’t keep up with his speed, so I just stared, waiting for him to finish up, to try and explain. I think he noticed because he suddenly slowed down and finally stopped.

“Did you um… understand anything I just said?” He stared, and I stared back. Silence rushed through us, and I smiled. This was why I needed my phone.

“No English?” He asked, this time slowly, and I nodded.

“No English, yes Français.” I smiled. I felt chilly, maybe from the utter embarrassment or the piercing wind that struck my damp clothes.

“Oh… joesonghamnida, um I meant, sorry. I figured you would be an American or English.” He wasn’t staring anymore, maybe I wasn’t the only embarrassed person standing under the bus stop.

I rubbed my arms to warm myself up and nodded at his apology. America and English, stuck. Did he think I was American? Well, it happens, the misconception.

“Je… non… I… go to… hotel.” I smiled, maybe he would understand. I used basic English.

“Oh, you are going to the hotel? Okay. That’s good. Which one? You… call … taxi…?” When he turned to me, he frowned and looked away again.

I think he meant I should call a taxi. I would have, if I had a phone. What did he take me for?

I shivered as I spoke, “phone…no… taxi…non. Mon téléphone ne marche pas bien.” I hoped he understood what I meant, at least the first part.

“You don’t have a phone?” he asked.

“Yes! Oui!”

“Okay then. I will have to take you to your hotel. I can’t leave you here or with a stranger when you don’t even have a phone. You know, there are a lot of psychos out there….”

What was he saying?

“no taxi…” he said.

—I nodded during his sentence. Yes, I couldn’t call a taxi.

“...I… no taxi either … I take you to… hotel.” He said, breaking his words apart as if it would make me understand him better. Well, at least he was talking slowly. I nodded.

He was calling a taxi. He reached for the phone, I saw him dial a number,

“Yeoboseayo, ne, ne….” After a while speaking a language I couldn’t understand, he hung up, then looked back at me with a smile, “Let’s go to the factory first, then to the hotel. I’m late for an emergency meeting and can’t call it off. Is that okay?”

Let’s… go…hotel, was all that registered. Maybe he plans to accompany me to the hotel, to make sure the taxi takes me to the right place.

“Vous êtes très genti. Gomawo.” I replied.

He smiled, “At least you know one Hangul. My driver will be here shortly. In the meantime, what hotel are you going to? What’s it called?”

Again, I was lost.

“Damn it. Um, hey Bixby translate to French. What is the name of the hotel?” We both waited, and once the phone had translated, it dawned on me.

My keycard. I searched my bag for it, dammit, I left it behind.

Taking his phone from him, I spoke into the speaker.

“J’ai laissé la clé de ma chambre à l’hôtel et mon téléphone est cassé.” I waited for the translation.

“Joesonghajiman, jal ihae haji mothaesseoyo. Dashi malsseumhae jusigesseoyo?” The phone said I looked at him, and he shook his head.

Why was he shaking his head? Trust me, I’m disappointed with myself too.

“That’s not how it works. You’ll have to tell it to translate to what you want... before talking." He held my hand and dragged it to bring the phone closer, dragging me along with it. Clicking the screen, he spoke, “Hey, Bixby, translate French to English.”

He then let me go. “Say.. it… again. Répéter.”

Oh, it didn’t translate. I nodded and repeated myself. And this time he nodded.

“That’s alright, I know where you stay. I saw you this morning at the reception and dining, I just wanted to be sure.”

What did he say? I fiddled with the phone screen to find the translation key, but everything was written in Hangul characters.

“Just so you know, I don’t usually do this. Most of the time, no one does this, but you are freezing and literally dripping, so…” He removed his jacket as he spoke, stretching his hand, he offered me his jacket, interrupting my search for the translation key.

—"wear it. I don’t want you dying in a foreign country.”

I didn’t need a translator for that. As I took the jacket, a black sedan pulled up.

“He is here.”

I understood that, too. Was that the taxi he called? What kind of service did he use?

“Are you waiting for someone? Come.” He said, standing in the rain under the umbrella, and I followed, jumping into the car with my wet clothes.

I sat quietly as Mr. Stranger and the driver spoke in Hangul. Sometimes he would look at me and smile, other times, he would check his phone, and the rest of the time, the silence of the rain was all we heard.

He spoke English and Korean fluently, and I spoke French and understood barely anything in English and nothing at all in Korean, therefore, there was nothing to discuss. Thinking about my situation, I was desperately stranded and alone, abroad, no phone, no keycard, the only person I knew was him, and I desperately prayed he wasn’t a serial killer or something like that.

“You know, we have some factory clothes that could fit you. You could change into those when we arrive, while my driver takes yours for dry cleaning. He will be back by the time I’m done, okay?” He had the phone on translate this time.

Factory? What factory? And this was his car? Not a taxi? What meeting?

“What? I don’t understand?”

Fear washed through me. What was I doing in a car with two strange men on a rainy day in a country miles and miles away from mine?

“Didn’t it translate right. I knew Bixby was broken.” He frowned at his phone as he tapped his screen.

“It translated it perfectly, tell me why not the hotel. Where are we going? You are a trafficker, right?” I didn’t want to be unclear with my words, not now that there was a translator between us. If he said yes, that was it, I would jump out of the moving car. I would rather be half dead than let him sell me off.

I read that criminals always revealed themselves when they were aware they were in the safe.

He laughed.

“Of course, what do you take me for?”

That was it. My eyes turned cold, blood hot, and my body followed. I reached for the door, I guess he read my body language because as I swung the door of the speeding car open, he dragged me back.

“What the hell are you doing?” He shouted, anger swelling his voice.

I screamed, clawed, kicked, “Laisse-moi partir” I screamed, let me go.

“Let me go.” I heard his phone’s translation.

“Lock the doors. Stop the car.” His driver hit his brakes immediately, and I jerked forward at the hard break.

“Laisse-moi partir, Please.” I begged.

“You must stop fighting first. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you suicidal? Is that why you came to Seoul? To kill yourself? That’s your business, but please do it after I have dropped you back at the hotel. Okay?” He controlled his breathing as he spoke, then slowly released me.

“Min Jo. Take us to the hotel. I’m calling off the meeting.”

“The hotel?” I looked up at him, desperately fighting my tears.

“Yes, the hotel. Where else did you have in mind?”

Confused, why was he changing his plans? Criminals didn’t act that way.

“You said you were taking me to the factory.”

“Well, thanks to someone, plans have changed. The meeting can wait.” He dialed a number, waited for it to ring, and when the receiver picked up, he switched to full Hangul.

What meeting? I didn’t understand anything. Had he told me about the meeting, the factory, the change of plans?

The whole time he was on the call, I watched him, his driver, and the road. It was lengthy, as if he were having his meeting on the phone, but I wasn’t going to let my guard down.

“What should I call you?” He asked.

I was half asleep when he spoke and didn’t notice the call had ended. Today was eventful, short, and frustrating, and it was barely 3 pm. I was exhausted, and I was ready to go back. I felt sick and had no strength to fight anyone.

“Isabella.”

“Well, Isabella. We are here. Welcome.” He was smiling again.

I looked outside the window to see we were parked in front of the hotel, my hotel, how did he know? I didn’t care. This was my last chance to stop this madness, so I quickly opened the door and jumped down.

Once safe on the floor, I knocked at the window,

“Thank you so much for bringing me back despite my…um… behaviour… earlier.” I finished, and he only bowed.

“Um, one more thing, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Uriga dasi mannamyeon, neoneun nae ireumeul alge doel geoya” his slips curved mischievously to the left.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Goodbye Isabella… Let’s go Min Jo,” he said before the car drove off.

“C’est quoi ce bordel?” I shouted after him.

“He said, if we meet again, you will know my name. Literally.”

An elderly lady standing behind me with a man who looked like her husband translated in French. She smiled at me and then at the man.

“Merci” I said.

“Je t’en prie!” She replied. At least, that I understood clearly.

I walked into the elevator and, seeing my reflection on its golden spotless reflective walls, the day’s events that felt surreal rushed back to me.

Seems I would find out Mr. Stranger’s name after all, for I still had his jacket on.