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The inside of the ttalgi café is adorable. Literally everything on the menu is related to that one particular fruit—strawberry milk, strawberry bread, strawberry muffins, strawberry ice cream. The seats are even covered with a red berry pattern. I love it and want to take it home with me.
Boyoung is next to the far wall with her head bent over her phone. She’s always fifteen minutes early. I hurry over to where she is standing by the wall and we go together to the counter. I allow her to order for me but shove her lightly out of the way so I can pay.
Boyoung helps me navigate the checkout process. When the transaction is complete, Boyoung takes a small electronic disk from the clerk, which I assume lets us know when our order is done. We find a small table near the windows and from my seat I can see the protestors. “What’s going on outside?”
My friend leans back to get a better view of the older people. “They are protesting the building. The owner wants to tear it down and build something bigger. The current tenants don’t want that because it will mean a disruption in their business and higher rent. Protesting is a Korean hobby. We will protest anything from our favorite yogurt drink being discontinued to ousting a corrupt president.” She shrugs lightly. “It works and so we keep doing it.”
“That’s not a bad thing.” It’s kind of cool, if you think about it. Actual voice-of-the-people stuff.
“It is not a bad thing,” she agrees.
I want to whip out the photos and ask her to start the search now, but that seems rude. Back home, there were always things to talk about. I was eager to learn more about Korea and Boyoung never lacked for enthusiasm on the subject. She loved and hated it here. She hated the classism, where everyone was judged by where you went to school. She loved the culture and the food. She hated the misogyny, where sex crimes against women were practically ignored and women were paid a fraction of the dollar men received—even less than in the States. She loved her family and said that the company she worked for was the best ever. But now that we are here, in Korea, she seems distant and uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because the social formalities that I never knew about matter to her now that we’re in Seoul.
“What year were you born?” I ask.
“Ninety-four.” She sets a small electronic disc on top of a painted strawberry. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re not Korean.”
I try not to wince. But you are Korean, Yujun had said. I think Boyoung is right, though. To be Korean, wouldn’t I have to speak the language, know the customs, actually have lived here? “Right, but I’m in Korea now and while I don’t speak the language, I can at least observe the customs. So you’re my unnie?” I struggle to remember the correct word for older girl.
Boyoung nods, looking half-impressed. “Where did you learn that?”
“I went to Club Dance last night in Incheon with my flatmates. I picked up a few things there.”
Boyoung’s eyes widen. “Club Dance?”
“I was tired of being a sad sack.”
“A sad sack?”
Boyoung’s English doesn’t always extend to the weird idioms in my vocabulary. “I didn’t want to bring down the mood of those around me. Plus, I needed something to distract me.”
“Ah, the photos. Did you bring them?”
Yes! I don’t pump my fist in the air, but I’m cheering inside my heart. I pull the pictures from my purse and fan them out on the table. “There are names on the back. I looked them up on the internet, but nothing appears.” Actually, that’s incorrect. There are a lot of results but none that mean anything to me. “Or, at least, nothing that I can decipher.”
“You should use Naver,” Boyoung says absently as she picks up the first photo. “Also Facebook. Lots of Koreans have Facebook even if most of them don’t use it anymore.”
She flips through the photos, hesitating when she gets to the third one.
Excitement spikes. I lean forward. “Do you recognize her?”
She shakes her head. “This will be very hard. Do you have any papers? Anything?”
“My mom had stuff from the adoption agency. Like how good of an eater I was. That I could use a spoon. That I smiled when I was around other people. I played well.” The documentation from the orphanage wasn’t extensive. Mom said it was because it was a private adoption and they weren’t required to keep many records, so my file was thin—a half dozen papers and a few pictures. One of them made me look like a prison inmate—if babies were in prison.
Boyoung grimaces slightly. “You were so young.”
I shrug. “It’s fine. I mean . . . it is what it is. I don’t think it matters if you’re given up when you’re two months or two years. It’s all the same.” I’d come to terms with it long ago. I was abandoned by one woman but chosen by another. You can dwell on the shitty parts of life or the good parts. I opt for the latter, although . . . does poring over these photos really mean I’m looking forward and not back? No. This is more like a genealogical study than anything else. A data-mining operation. A fact-finding mission. Cold, impersonal facts.
