Sophie and I climb into the backseat of the car Young Jo drove to pick us up from the airport, and Jason gets into the driver’s seat. Sophie leans forward and turns on the radio, cranking the volume to an eardrum-shattering decibel. But I’m not complaining.
As Jason drives us down the narrow streets and Sophie belts KPOP at the top of her lungs, I’m swallowed by a surreal feeling, like I’m dreaming. I peer out the window, watching the blur of lights and people. I’m probably overthinking the situation, but I can’t help feeling grateful—for Sophie, for Jason, for them welcoming me into their home. I know Momma would never allow me to bring a friend home, and Dad would tell jokes behind Sophie’s and Jason’s backs about Asian people. Because that’s the kind of guy he is.
Sophie bumps my shoulder with hers. “Sing with me!”
I realize then that American pop music filters through the speakers. Laughing, I join her, throwing as much dramatic emotion into the lyrics as possible. By the time the song ends, we’re gasping for breath and Jason has parked the car.
We all file out, and Jason pays the parking fee. He pulls his scarf up higher so all I can see are his eyes, and he pulls on a slouchy knit hat that covers his ears and most of his hair.
“You look like you’re getting ready to shoot up the place or something,” I say.
He narrows his eyes but says nothing, then falls into step beside me, close enough that our elbows bump every few steps.
This part of town is busier, the streets crowded with couples and groups of friends. Street vendors hawk food to those who pass by, and cars rumble down the street, beeping their horns at pedestrians who don’t mind the crosswalks.
We turn off into a building with a foggy plastic or glass roof that, from the outside, reminds me of a train station. But when we enter, I realize it’s some kind of bazaar. Open shops are built into the walls lining the long hall, and they show gorgeous displays of traditional Korean costumes and expensive fabrics. A musty smell hangs in the air, and voices echo off the metal walls. I linger in front of one of the stalls, running my fingers across a blue silk.
Jason comes to a stop beside me. “Do you like it?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe. “All of them are.”
“This market is famous for its textiles. Mostly silk.”
The vendor, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and a thick black coat wrapped around her plump middle, approaches us with a polite smile. She inclines her head and says, “Ahn nyeong ha se yo.”
“Hi.” I bow my head in response.
The woman holds up the fabric to me, and I shake my head. “No, thank you,” I offer, then take in her uncomprehending expression. “Aniyo uhh … kwenchanayo.”
Jason takes over for me, saying something to the woman in Korean, and she nods. They launch into a conversation, with me listening to the flow of words rushing between them. She smiles at me again, then reaches under her makeshift counter, which is covered in a myriad of fabrics. She pulls out about half a yard of yellow silk embroidered with white flowers and holds it out to me.
“What? Oh, no! I don’t want to buy anything.” I try waving my hands in a gesture I pray translates into my declining the offer.
She says something in Korean and presses the cloth closer to me, her lips falling into a slight frown.
“Take it,” Jason says. “She wants to give it to you.”
Hesitantly, I take the silk from her, the fabric cool and smooth, like water in my hands. I bow again, and because I have no idea what else to say, toss her a quick “thank you.”
I stare down at the fabric now resting in my palms. It’s gorgeous, but what am I going to do with it?
“She said my American girlfriend is beautiful,” Jason says.
“What?”
His eyes crinkle, and I know he’s smiling. “She wanted to know if I was marrying you for an American visa.”
I sputter unintelligibly, my body unable to process coherent thoughts, let alone articulate sentences.
He shrugs, sarcasm dripping from his voice when he continues with, “I told her you were desperate for a Korean visa, so you were only dating me in hopes of getting one.”
My brain recovers enough for me to slap his arm with the back of my hand. “You should have told her the truth.”
“Maybe, but then you wouldn’t have gotten the free fabric. She was adamant about us using it somewhere in the wedding—we’re getting married in June, by the way.”
My cheeks flame at this unexpected banter, and I turn away from him. Sophie’s talking to a vendor farther down, and I make a beeline toward her, praying my face will resume its normal hue by the time I reach her.
“Ready to move on?” She glances down at the silk. “Wow! That’s gorgeous. Did you buy it?”
I hear Jason chuckle behind me, but all I say is, “Umm … sort of.”
The passage opens up to a long hall filled with more vendors, selling all kinds of food. The smells mix in the air to form a scent I’ve never experienced before. I recognize fish, garlic, onions, and mushrooms, but they mingle with spices and other ingredients I can’t name. My mouth starts watering.
In the middle of the hall is a long line of picnic-style tables with benches that are almost all full. Naked bulbs hang above the tables, heavy with food, and the fires from the stalls make this part of the market warmer. Steam rises up from the sizzling pots, and a bustle of voices surrounds us.
We meander along the rows of cooks, who are mostly women. Some have long lines in front of their booths, while others call out to potential customers, holding up their products. I peer down at a table laden with different kinds of fish, lobster, and still-writhing octopus. The next stall has different kinds of spices, the next, a selection of vegetables.
Sophie motions toward a nearby vendor who has a long line in front of her cart. The woman fries up thick yellow pancakes with meat and something that looks suspiciously like kimchi inside it.