The cement ground beneath my feet suddenly feels soft—a comforting sensation of sinking into the earth. It’s because someone chopped up discarded Christmas trees and scattered them along the path. Every year, households buy these trees, adoring them with glittering ornaments, only for them to be tossed aside once the season ends. Now, those trees have become a fragrant carpet under my feet. In time, they will crumble and return to the soil, but for now, they release a defiant, lingering scent. Wrapped in that aroma, I felt as if I were wandering through a deep forest, and my mind drifted back to my youth.
I remembered a Christmas Eve during my freshman year of college. My best friend, Miya, and I were selling tangerines in front of our favorite clothing shops in Myeong-dong. Since I grew up in Namsan-dong and she lived in Hoehyeon-dong, Myeong-dong was our playground. Couples held hands to the rhythm of carols, and shops were packed with festive crowds. We had swiped tangerines from gift boxes at home and neatly packed them into baskets. With Miya’s bright, rabbit-like eyes and charming sales pitch, people couldn't help but stop. Our pockets grew heavy, and we eventually dashed to a Chinese restaurant in Sogong-dong.
"Jjamppong or Jajangmyeon?" we’d ask. It was our ritual: one would always order the spicy seafood noodles (Jjamppong) and the other the black bean noodles (Jajangmyeon) so we could share both. After filling our bellies, we’d head to OB’s Cabin for a beer, our steps light with the excitement of youth.
During middle school, we were always the shortest in class—numbers 5 and 6. Our shared height brought us together, and by college, we were inseparable. Growing up with parents who were merchants, we were savvy with our money and always ready for an opportunity. In the spring, we’d hike mountains with nothing but spoons tucked into our back pockets. Hikers would ask, "Where are you little girls going?" and we’d follow the kindest-looking groups, knowing they’d eventually offer us a meal. I remember watching in awe as a mountain of spinach wilted down into a tiny pot of soup—it felt like magic.
As the years passed, our lives were defined by fleeting romances and the search for "the one." Miya was always the popular one, and I often felt like the sidekick, but I didn't mind. I remember a blind date where she swapped our numbers in a split second because she wanted the "romantic nerd" type I had been eyeing. That nerd eventually went to New York for studies, leaving Miya heartbroken.
Meanwhile, I was dealing with my own "on-and-off" suitor—a man who appeared and disappeared like the wind. When Miya eventually married a "replacement" suitor to save her father's face, I felt a profound sense of loneliness. I realized I couldn't stay in that stagnant cycle. I studied hard, passed the teacher's certification exam, and eventually decided to leave Seoul behind.
"I’m going to New York," I told my father. He encouraged me, saying that even just standing in the middle of Manhattan for a few months would change my life. I boarded the plane, leaving behind the "on-and-off" man and my dear friend Miya.
Decades later, I still live in New York. When I visit Seoul, Miya and I still share Jjamppong and Jajangmyeon, though the scenery has changed to Gangnam. We complain about our in-laws and laugh about the past. My husband, a painter who doesn't like to share his food, is the polar opposite of the romantic nerd or the musical suitor I once imagined. I recently Googled that "on-and-off" man and found he had become a famous pastor—now balding and plump, a far cry from the romantic image I held. I realized then: God truly protected me from that path.
Back on my walk, the scent of the pine needles pulls me back to the present. I saw a woman walking ahead of me, bundled up in a mask and hat, walking with that distinct gait of an older Korean woman. For a moment, I almost called out "Sister!" thinking I was back in Namsan. But as she hurried away, I realized I was still here, 40 years away from that home.
The forsythias are hesitant to bloom in the biting wind, looking as though they regret coming out so early. I feel a chill in my bones and start to run toward the Hudson River. The water flows according to the Atlantic tides, changing four times a day. I watch the current move toward Columbia University and slowly keep walking. I’ve moved past the "main highways" and "side roads" of my youth. Now, I simply move on, one step at a time, along the path in front of me.
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