She starts muttering to herself about kimchi. "I don't think we have enough kimchi." "It's okay," I reassure her, " I don't really eat so much of it."

It's an old moist smell-- familiar but I have trouble placing it.

Dropping off the key on my way out, I ask the lady at reception if there are any pharmacies nearby. "Yes, of course." she answers, "What do you need?"

They are like dandelion stalks breaking out of a glass prison.

An older man, early 50s, is just ahead of me as we get on the escalator. He looks a little unstable. A little scared.

A lady gets on at Osan and asks me to let her get past to here seats. I am ready for this. I am up in a tinkle and let her in.

Every time I go in to a bank to do anything in Korea, be it initiate a new card, exchange money, or just sit in the air conditioned waiting room, I have to fill out my name and address on at least one form.

In kitchens all over Korea, there are little lines of grubby blue plastic sticking out of sink drains, cupboards, and stove-top grease hoods.