I'm walking through a building on campus where there are workers doing renovations. A fellow is singing as he polishes the floor. "Careful," he sings, making eye contact, "sharp bits on the ground.
People walk around campus in December with big sticks and knock the mo-gwa out of trees. Doesn't matter if they bruise when hitting the ground– nobody is eating them anyways.
"How ribald!" he says again joyfully, apparently I had misheard him. "I didn't expect such ribaldry from you."
More than just pretending he doesn't see me, he wants me to know he is pretending.
"Let us never attribute to race what is more easily explained by stature." admonished Brian, always trying to come off as the the voice of reason, but well known for his shortist prejudices.
"Just thirty seconds," I hear the DJ announce as we are hurrying to find a space at the top of the mountain. "The sun will be up in thirty seconds."
Chwi-namul doesn't really have a common English translation, but from its latin name, it is sometimes deliciously translated as Aster Scaber.
"So I took it to the old tailor lady near the park and asked her how much it would cost to alter it." she continues, "She's cheaper because she spilled Kim-chi on the shirt I took her last time."
