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.

"That is decidedly NOT funny Lucy." I unplug the router. "Give it back, or internet for anybody."

He is Old Daegu, which means he has the regional accent, and I cannot understand a word he says.

I've finally figured my wife out– she loves platitudes. I think it is because she doesn't pay attention to what other people say.

I get up and go for a run on Saturday morning.  It is just past 5am, the sun is coming up.  As I run past the karaoke bars on my way to the river, I see three young