"Souvenirs" written by SHANNON TYO
GUEST POST: A homecoming-foreign tourist-seeker encounters Seoul.
My friend, actor and writer Shannon Tyo, recently took a very significant trip to South Korea and I’ve asked her to share some of her recent experience with me and my readers. Please welcome to the Substack stage… Shannon Tyo, with this guest post entitled, “Souvenirs.”
On the 9th day of my 10-day solo trip to Seoul, South Korea,
the place of my birth,
from which I was adopted at 4 months old,
to which I was traveling for the first time,
I had lunch in a restaurant across from my Airbnb that served Japanese-style Italian food.
Aesthetically, the place was “midcentury atomic chic”, as if the Jetsons were minimalist restauranteurs. After eight days of Korean food, I was craving Western food but also curious what East Asian pasta was like (now’s probably a good time to say I was raised by Italian-Americans).
Lunch was a small ceramic crock of spaghetti covered in red sauce and melted cheese with a small hamburger patty on top in lieu of meatballs. On the menu it was labelled as “hamburger spaghetti”, the unapologetically literal name being the most Italian-American thing about it. It came with a side of sharp and spicy American-style cucumber pickles. Suggested condiments for your pasta included desiccated parmesan and Tabasco-brand hot sauce. I used both. Honestly it was a kind of good.
I ate my hamburger spaghetti against a backdrop of early-aughts American R&B classics and the white noise of torrential rain. My friends in the know had said Korea in August was going to be very hot, crazy humid, and pouring rain. Turns out I do not associate with meteorological hypochondriacs. I had dyed the tops of my white leather sneakers a gentle blue from getting my jeans soaked with rain earlier in the week, so after I paid the bill, I knew enough to double-cuff those indigo bleeders well above my ankles. I secured the hood of my rain jacket around my face before stepping out. I looked like a real nerd. Who cared, though, I knew no one in this city. Except perhaps my entire biological family. Maybe we had stood shoulder to shoulder on the subway, holding the swinging straps next to our heads, the water dripping off our umbrellas joining to make one large puddle between us.
My plan for the day was to make my way to an antiques mall. I love looking for antiques. I love walking into the chaos of wood and metal and cloth and rust. I love when the shelves are situated so they form secret little nooks. I love finding beauty and significance in an everyday object from a bygone era.
So, antiques?
From the place of my birth?
From the ancient and mystical land of my forefathers?
A tangible connection to the history of my history?
Fuhgettaboutit.
Standing under the awning of that retro-American-styled Japanese Italian restaurant in Seoul, I began the multi-stage process of finding directions. This process (much like me for the entirety of my trip) relied heavily on a translation app on my phone called Papago. The icon was a bright blue parrot that I began to see as a delightful companion named Papa Go who would squawk warmly before showing me his work.
One day, I will learn Korean. One day, I will be Papa Go.
I made my way to the subway, tapped my transit card, and followed the signs towards my destination, conveniently labeled with both colorful numbers and crisp English (Papa Go, put your feet up).
I emerged from the subway and continued on foot towards the antiques mall. The rain had slowed to the occasional fat drop. I was able to lower my hood and umbrella well before I found the building. It was a squat, rectangular, industrial-looking place, with not a soul coming or going.
Inside, the floor was divided into rooms of varying sizes, none larger than a corner store, nor smaller than a doctor’s exam room. Some were crammed with no apparent system, some were neatly curated and displayed. Large cabinets, wooden doors, and statues lined the hallways that connected the rows of rooms.
My favorite kinds of antiques are metal things, heavy wood things, thick pottery. Things with use. Items that hold the entire history of the owners and the land in its form.
This describes the entirety of the items on offer.
In my head and heart, “Holiday for Strings” by David Rose began to play.
I made my way through every inch of the place.
Inside each stall was a man or woman, median age 75, usually watching TV, occasionally asleep and snoring. They had electric fans, snacks, cash boxes, and time. I walked into each room with careful steps, my shoulder bag clutched theatrically in front of me as a show of awareness, that I wasn’t about to swing around drunk in my American greed for Oriental treasure and knock a 16th century relic to the floor.
(You can cut the music off now, if you haven’t already.)
The proprietors would greet me briefly before returning to their show, or ignore me entirely. A few attempted further conversation, at which time I would have to sing them my #1 Korean hit, “죄송합니다, 저는 한국말 못해요.” (Papa Go: “sqwaaaak- ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Korean.’”) They would smile apologetically and I would smile apologetically and we would be two silent Koreans in a room surrounded by our history.
What does it mean to look for antiques in an ancient country inhabited by the hearty survivors of multiple occupations?
Ooh, spoons.
What does it mean that you truly cannot tell when any of this is from?
Oh, those are locks, for cabinets, shaped like fish.
What if you buy something thinking it’s Korean but it’s actually a Chinese knock off from 2010?
That’s wood, that’s clearly old wood, you can’t fake the look of that.
...right?
I walked into a room that hit just the right mix of cluttered and curated. The proprietor had light brown hair, almost blonde. It was permed within an inch of its life, frizzy in the humidity. He looked about 80 so I can only assume he was 110.
We greeted each other. I commenced my gazing and slow touching of goods with only the pads of my fingers. He said something to me. I sang him my song. But this time, instead of ensuing silence, he reached for his phone, mumbled something into it, then held it out towards me as a polite lady robot asked, “are you looking for anything in particular?”
I was, in fact. So I pulled out Papa Go, and the lady robot and the friendly blue parrot had a nice conversation while the man showed me around the room. He was patient and gentle. I really wanted to buy something from him. He asked if I was Chinese. I told him no, I was born here, but adopted when I was a baby, and it was my first trip back. He told me I was very welcome.
I made a purchase. Something small I could pack in my suitcase, something made of solid dark wood that looked hand carved, something he had directed me towards. Papa Go asked how old it was, the lady robot replied it wasn’t that old, only two hundred years or so. I laughed and Papa Go said, “I’m from America, that is old to me.” I did not attempt to haggle. The proprietor wrapped it with bubble wrap and scotch tape and slipped it into a sturdy old Givenchy bag. Like a good Korean, I accepted it with two hands. The lady robot relayed that the man who had given the proprietor this antique said it was special and hoped it would go to someone who would care for it.
When I got back from the trip, I described what I bought to a friend from Korea. She paused, then gently said, “I’ve heard stories about people, they go after the war and get wood from ruined houses and make fake antiques out of it, so it just looks old.” That was her generous way of saying, “you got ripped off, kid.”
I felt sad, and a little embarrassed. Taken for a chump in the Motherland. The antique sits on my dresser where I look at it everyday- beautiful, baffling, and of questionable origin.
Maybe it’s not a very old antique. Maybe it’s just a pretty thing I got in Korea. A souvenir. And what’s a souvenir other than a tangible reminder of where you were when you bought it, how you felt when you bought it, who you were when you bought it. All things I do want to remember.
I didn’t see it anywhere else in the mall, or anywhere else in the city, so if it is a fake, at least it’s not mass produced. Maybe it’s the kind of fake my friend told me about. Maybe, right around the time “midcentury atomic chic” was at the height of its popularity in America, a desperate Korean climbed through a demolished house to retrieve a splintered beam. Maybe they carved that beam and sold it to some rube, saying it was from the early Joseon dynasty. Maybe they took the money from that fraudulent sale and fed their family, and somewhere down the line their family turned out to be me.
Me and Papa Go and my spaghetti with Tabasco, overpaying for souvenirs, visiting from America.
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I really enjoyed this. Has she written other stories about her time in Korea?
Wonderful