Where the streets have no English

If your mother tongue is English you have certain expectations. You assume that when you travel you can make yourself understood. Surely there is always someone out there who can translate for us. Maybe if we spoke louder and more slowly?

Dash that expectation: you’re in Korea. There are signs written in English, but spoken English is fairly rare. (To the benefit of our economy: Korean students flock to the Philippines to learn the language.) Even in a modern and efficient city like Ansan, home of the vast Hanyang University campus, you will need your skills at pantomime.

It’s a challenge for those of us who relate to the world through language. Are we our grammar and vocabulary? Apparently not.

Just making a call with my Philippine roaming number was a test (turns out you don’t need the country code). Finding the metro station was easy enough — I had the name of the station and my hotel written down in Korean. “You are professor?” asked the taxi driver.

Dongdaemum is like Extreme Divisoria, only organized, clean, efficient.

“You speak English!” I could’ve wept, especially if I’d known I wouldn’t be hearing any for the next 12 hours. (The cabbies give you exact change, which would make commuters in Manila weep.) Just out of curiosity I asked how much a taxi from Itaewon — the foreign section of Seoul — to Ansan would cost (in case I got lost or missed the last train at 11:30 p.m.). He figured it out in the cab’s touch-screen computer: 35,000 won, not bad.

Still, don’t go anywhere without a subway map. You can get the English version at any Tourist Information Center. Taxis cost about the same as in Manila, but the trains are so cheap, fast and efficient that you have to use them.

Line 4 of the Korean rail system would take me to Seoul Station in downtown Seoul, 26 stops away. If I could figure out how to use the ticketing machine. After gaping stupidly at the screen I decided to ask a random stranger for help. He spoke no English, but he nodded at “Seoul Station” and punched it in. (All the strangers I accosted were very helpful.) A ticket cost 1,500 won (roughly P65); the deposit on the card is 500 won, which you can claim at refund machines in any station.

The train was full but comfortably cold. I wisely avoided the last empty seats, which turned out to be reserved for the elderly. Old people, I’ve observed, are the enforcers of Korean discipline. They’ve been known to yank whippersnappers out of their designated seats. There is a yellow line right down the middle of escalator steps — occupy more than your half and an old person will shove you away. Walk too slowly on a busy street and an old person will bump into you and send you sprawling. They can be as cranky as they want, they’re old!

At Seoul Station I was meeting a reader, Anne, a Filipino student of Korean. I waited for her at a Lotteria Burger, recommended enthusiastically by another reader. Upon arriving Anne handed me a small stuffed animal.

“You can use this to pay for subway rides and other things,” she said.

“A stuffed animal?”

“It’s T-money.” Inside the bunny is a chip that you can reload at metro stations. When you take the subway you put the bunny on the card reader and your fare is debited.

Anne took me to the markets of Dongdaemun, which is like an Extreme Divisoria, only organized, clean, and not as congested. At a store that sold only eyeglasses frames I found four that I liked. “10,000 won each,” said the shopkeeper in Korean.

“She’ll take them all if you give a discount,” Anne countered.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked her.

“Two months.”

“What shows do you watch?”

“Jewel in the Palace,” she replied.

I got all the eyeglass frames for 30,000 won.

 As we walked around the city Anne gave me a resident’s perspective. Basic commodities are cheaper than in Manila. If you do not own a house, you rent a place with a two-year deposit. At the end of the two years, your entire deposit is returned to you. In effect you’re giving the landlord a loan payable in two years, and he pays you interest in rent. So you’re not scrambling to meet the payments every month, your income is freed up, and you get your money back later.

If you’re looking for bargains on clothes and accessories, shop in the underground metro stations. We found high-quality silver earrings for 1,000 won a pair. (Unfortunately the station where Anne bought shoes for about P90 was closed for renovation.)

Koreans have really taken to café culture. When the big American chain opened here, local business responded by starting coffee shops like Caffe Bene. I have not had a bad cup of coffee in Korea. Most of the cafes in Seoul have free Wi-Fi or computers you can use for free. (You have to know how to switch to the English keyboard or you will lose your mind.)

We were going to Itaewon when I spotted a guy in a giant Garfield costume advertising a Cat Café. Could it be a café with cats? It was! The nightlife was forgotten as I spent the next hour hanging out with my favorite species and figuring out if a cat café would work in Manila.

At 9 p.m. Anne put me on the train back to Ansan. This time the train was packed, and I found out why the Korean rugby team beat the Philippines in their Division 1 semifinal: when Seoul commuters push, they defy the laws of physics. If I hadn’t been borne along by the crowd I would never have gotten into the train car (issues with personal space).

On the train almost everyone was listening to music or watching television on their phones. Baseball, mostly. No signal problems here, you can make calls in the subway. People mind their own business and if you get trod on it’s not personal.

Twenty stops — a little over an hour — later I was back in Ansan. There was a taxi queue at the station. The cabbie spoke no English, but I had the hotel’s name and address on a card in Korean.

Language problems notwithstanding, it was one of the most stress-free day trips I’ve ever had. I’ll wager I had an easier time than most Pinoys commuting from Quezon City to Cavite.

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Twisted by Jessica Zafra: Pumping irony since 1994.