The familiar. How would you define it, exactly? That feeling of knowing something (or someone) fundamentally? Recognizing it for what it is and what it is not. There is a certain comfort in that, in the knowing. We are able to make sense of that thing. We can put it in the appropriate compartment in our brain; catalogue it with the correct label and emotional significance; tag it in a convenient manner for ourselves and for others.
Korea was not familiar to me. Not in its food, its language, its rhythms and pulses, its weather patterns, its modes of transportation, its music or its culture. Not in the way it looked, or smelled, or sounded, or tasted. All of it, to me, felt unknowable when I first arrived two short months ago. During those blustery days in early March, at times, I experienced the unfamiliarity intensely. It was overwhelming. I was prepared for it, to some extent. But in those first weeks and months the unfamiliar struck me in a very particular way: as loneliness.
A week ago, I was on the eastern side of the Korean peninsula, in Gangneung, with my girlfriend, who was visiting from DC. It was a crisp, spring afternoon and we sat on the beach looking out at the glassy waves, as they reflected the tangerine glints of the setting sun. As the light faded and the temperature dropped, we got up from our bench in the sand and walked underneath the canopy of pine trees that divided the beach from the street, past the seafood restaurants, one after another after another. In front of each stood aquariums full of abalone, and king crab, red snapper and rockfish, and many other creatures that I cannot name.
We walked into one of the restaurants and were taken to a low-standing wood table. We took off our shoes and sat on the floor. The restaurant walls echoed with voices and laughter, indistinguishable sounds; the air buzzed with movement, hostesses and wait staff shuffling about; in their hands they held either plates of raw fish on beds of thinly-sliced Korean radish, or bottles of soju.
We ordered maeun-tang, a spicy seafood stew, which was recommended to me by a couple of my students. When the waiter brought it out, we gazed at a bubbling cauldron of red broth, filled with chunks of crab, scallops, clams, and shrimp, and topped with leafy greens. I’d never seen anything quite like it. I proceeded with caution, not entirely sure what I had just gotten myself into. I blew gently on my first spoonful and hoped for the best.
I’ll spare you the details. But by the end, my grey Mason hoodie was speckled with tiny red dots. It was one of the most memorable meals I’ve ever had.
As many of you prepare for semesters into the unfamiliar, to Fairfax, I wish you all the best. Try to embrace the unfamiliarity. It isn’t always easy, that’s for sure. Some days will be cold and quiet and lonely. But also, there will be flickers, moments when the unfamiliar sketches a memory into your brain, one you might cherish forever. You’ll find your maeun-tang. I’m sure of it.
PJ Magellan | Assistant Professor
pmagella@gmu.edu
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