that it had cost her almost 100,000 won. And if they were to ever find out how much it cost, their heads would explode and they would think that she was not only criminally wasteful but obscene.
Miho pries open the lid and sighs with happiness—the deep square box is packed with neat rows of absurdly perfect-looking blush roses. The fragrance that arises from them is startling and lovely in the stale bus air. Sujin and I look at each other—I’ve never seen an arrangement like this before, but it’s obvious they are monstrously expensive. And flowers are the worst possible gift to get people like us! Miho should know this and not waste her money! I start sighing again, and Sujin jabs me with her elbow.
“They are beautiful,” Sujin says. “That tumble didn’t hurt them one bit.”
“They’re supposed to be able to last a year, can you believe it?” says Miho. “Hanbin’s mother had the chemical technology patented in Korea last year.”
I sigh and smile at her and hope that she got a discount from her boyfriend at least although I highly doubt it. There is really nothing else to do but turn to the window. We are on the highway now and it is unbelievable how much construction is going on even as we speed further and further away from Gangnam. Each building is topped with a gargantuan orange crane reeling large beams and planks through the air. The scale of these new apartment complexes takes my breath away—I cannot imagine them all filling with people and furniture and light. Hundreds, no, thousands of apartments, so far away from the heart of the capital, and yet I will never be able to afford a single one, no matter how much I save all my life. In a way, I will be glad when we are almost home and the scenery will turn into rice fields and farm plots, and I will be reminded of how far I have come, instead of what I cannot reach.
* * *
—
AT THE TAXI line at Cheongju station, we have to wait half an hour for a car because no one likes to work on New Year’s Day. I read somewhere that many of the drivers who work on holidays are ex-convicts who cannot go home to their families because of shame. Fortunately there is a bench by the taxi stand and we huddle together for warmth, Sujin and Miho giggling at the hostile looks we are getting from the occasional passersby. “Home sweet home,” says Sujin, theatrically. It’s true, no one in Gangnam would give us a second glance—green coats and pink hair and all. Just the fact that we are waiting at the stand marks us as “other”—the rest of the disembarking passengers had cars and family members waiting on the curb with eager smiles.
After three years of being away, it’s hard to believe that this dinky two-story building the size of a chain grocery store back in Seoul is one of the main transit hubs here. When I was young, it had seemed to me that the rest of the world was compressed into this bus station, the people with the quicker steps and large travel bags heading for darkly glamorous lives.
A lone taxi loops around the deserted street and we load ourselves in with sighs of relief while Sujin gives the driver the address.
“There’s a big hanok estate around there, right?” says the driver, taking another look at us in the rearview mirror. “I heard they film a lot of TV shows there. That actor Lee Hoonki came a few months ago, my buddy drove him there once. You girls live in the area?”
“No, no,” says Sujin. “We just somehow are staying there for a few days because we know some people.”
There is a silence, and then Sujin abruptly starts chatting up the driver again, which is unusual for her. I wonder if she is remembering what I am remembering—that we are going to pass The Arch on the way to my house.
* * *
—
MAYBE IF I THINK about it hard enough, I will arrive at the conclusion that I didn’t come home for three years because I didn’t want to walk past