So, I broke my camera last week, therefore I will have a word album in which I will describe things I have done and people I've met. This is just a slim number of my new friends. But, no worries, I tend to write about my friends a lot. So, you will probably get your just desserts. Vibrant shock of platinum hair, round beautiful face, and a wit that would shame Beatrice, herself. A name which suggests both bold curiosity and complex emotion. Daphne. Head thrown back in mirth at something or other that tickled her fancy. Peter. Fancy cap, always a blazer and one of those tee shirts that suggest subtle, high brow nuance. So much like me. Stubborn. Strong willed. Yet, compassionate. Equally as Guilted, Irish Catholic never really leaves you. He gesticulates broadly to prove one point or another. You listen because it's hilarious, and usually you have no choice. Then, Jenna, who brings me most to home. She reminds me of my best friend in elementary school. She starts off shy, and a bit reserved. Expertly soaking in the big personalities with with which she surrounds herself. But everything she says and does has meaning and a point. Every moment spent with her proves an amazing revelation. Curled into herself, she waits for someone to help her become open.
Wednesday night. 11:00 pm. Early for the midnight showing. Meet a fidgety Peter in the subway. Like a golden retriever, happy with what's now, but so excited for what's next. There's time to spare. We climb his building and find the secret door that leads to a wonderland. Up on the helicopter pad, the fog is so dense. Buildings 50 meters dissolve without clarity, and the fog cloaks us with invisibility. Three minutes we stare in wonder. Then, the WBC building comes into focus, as if we were the lens of a camera. This is no fog. We live, breathe, become a cloud. It spritzes our face with the purest droplets. Untouched by the troublesome atmosphere. Saturday. Afternoon. A lazy walk meandering from street to street. Enjoying the company of a new friend. I suppose all friends here are new. But, newest. She's new. Just came yesterday. Her life stories entertain. We revel in past mistakes and fortunes of childhood antics. Bleaching freckles, icing sled runs. We reach the beach. Dip our toes in. The surprising chill contrasts the heat. We watch the kite boarders in awe of their skill. And wonder, how the hell they rise after they fall. Saturday. Night. V-day comes late in Busan. The Vagina Monologues still resonate after countless times of seeing them. A new piece this year. A duet of women. One wears red leggings and a black dress. The other a traditional han bok. The red screams across the black. They harmonize the horrors of Korean Comfort Women. Korean language washes over English translation. Eyes shine with sadness. Arms quake for retribution. Or even recognition. Their voices entwine. They speak with equal desperation. Equal contempt. Equal hope. They speak as one.