The Custom Is Always Right?

On a recent trip to China, I met a 31-year-old man, let’s call him Sung Ryo, upon de-boarding my 2.5-hour Air China flight from Busan to Beijing. I had noticed him watch me in the Busan airport as I frantically tried to stuff my spring coat and reading material into my checked in luggage before checking in. I couldn’t tell if he was fixated on my appearance or rather how crazy I was acting (why would I put my plane-reading in my luggage rather than my carry on? I honestly don’t know the answer to that question either), but in any event, I was aware and familiar of him when I boarded in Busan.

We landed in Beijing in the early afternoon. As many of you know, Beijing has a new terminal full of tacky and amazing sights, and so many passengers, including Sung Ryo, got off the plane, pulled out their sleek Samsung powder pink cameras, and began snapping images of the graceful ceiling architecture and grand moving walkways of Terminal 3, the biggest building in the world. As I got off the walkway connecting the plane to the airport, I saw Sung Ryo awkwardly attempting to take a picture of himself with the new terminal. I walked up to him and asked (in Korean, all of our interactions were in Korean): “Do you want me to take your picture?”. Shocked that this doe-eyed (yes, I’m like a doe) creature could speak Korean, he immediately inquired “Are you Korean?” to which I responded, “No, I am American. But my mother is Korean and my father is American”. I suppose a simple “I’m American” answer could have sufficed in other places, but in Korea they remain inquisitive until they can understand every component of your background. Especially when you look as “confusing” (a Korean called me this once) as I do.

Anyway, Sung Ryo and I mounted this massive moving walkway and talked about these things in this order: how old I was, where I lived, what I did, and why I was in China. Five minutes of conversation was enough time for him to decide that he wanted my phone number, and so he asked—and observing that he was cute, well mannered, and funny, I gave it to him. He then asked to take my picture with his pink camera, and I shyly said “no” to which he responded with a giggle. He then told me that he would soon come up to my little town, and we would rent bicycles, ride them around a lake, and have a picnic of Korean sushi in the forest. Such a thought—of forced memories and frills--immediately sickened me, and though I am unquestionably both alone and horny, I suddenly wished that I had not given my number to Sung Ryo. Getting involved with a cute Korean boy was fine with me in theory, but in practice it would mean experiencing a whole new dating culture that was completely alien to me.

Korean dating is far less casual than American dating—and the act of giving him my phone number was indication I was seriously interested in becoming involved with him. Though I thought I had been acting reserved and shy, simple acts—such as waiting near him at the luggage carousel—had created a situation in which I was undeniably on the path to girlfriendhood as we parted ways at a busy Beijing taxi stand. He even said to me in Korean “we have only three months left together, but it will be wonderful”, a statement that shocked me twenty minutes later when I had finally translated it accurately.

I thought he had been pouring it on a bit strong just to charm me, and so I relaxed in China, somewhat excited (but also a bit concerned) about coming back to Korea for my first date/marriage with Sung Ryo.

When I landed back in Korea, I turned on my mobile to find three missed calls from him. “Wow is he enthusiastic and sweet!”, I thought to myself and planned to call him when settled back in my apartment, located about 1.5 hours away from the airport by shuttle. I fell asleep on the shuttle, and when I awoke there were yet another three missed calls from him as well as a text message that translated basically as “Do you know who this is? Why are you avoiding me?”, and a Multimedia text message with a photo of him making a heart shape out of his two hands. Oh blergh, whaaaaaaaat the fork. WHY?! Why can’t he just calm down and wait! WHY was he expecting a response immediately? WHY was he already being accusatory? WHY was there a picture of him in my inbox? WHY was he making a heart shape with his hands?

In the amount of time I took to process this (I slept on it), there were phone calls every other hour into the wee hours of the morning and text messages that become gradually more offensive. Most of the time he called and I was busy socializing with my host family or teaching in class, but sometimes I was actually not busy—and I saw his number calling, flipped out, and threw my phone under my pillow to drown out the ringing.

Sung Ryo had scared me on two interrelated fronts; one of which was excusable and the other, to me, was inexcusable. He scared me because he wanted to introduce me to a dating world, which was very unlike the American dating world to which I had been accustomed. The Korean dating world, of matching couples tshirts, rings, underwear, and proudly-naïve love made me want to barf. It was an experience soaked in dependence and smothering—two traits that I abhorred. However, being frightened of the Korean dating world (read: the unfamiliar) was no real excuse for me to avoid it, and so I probably should have gotten over my apprehension and at least given it a try. I didn’t have to marry the guy (though in his eyes, it certainly seems like we were headed down that path), nor did I even have to call him for subsequent dates. So this, in my mind, was the excusable front.

The second way in which he frightened me was, in some ways, typical to all Korean relationships—not exclusively dating—and this is the phenomenon of texting/phoning non-stop, and expecting the other party to reciprocate. In America, I am accustomed to waiting until I am free (or awake) to return a call, but in Korea, it seems, this behavior is considered very rude. Indeed, I was once watching a Korean talk show, and participants confessed that they bring their phones to the bathroom just so they can take any call that comes and respond immediately. Frequent calling would not annoy me per se, but it was the text messages that became progressively more offensive and accusatory that completely turned me off of Sung Ryo. Last night, he sent a message that warned me that if I did not call him back immediately, he would be very upset. He then sent me another text calling me very rude, and writing that my non-response was completely inexcusable and offensive. Following that was another text warning me that he would not be calling again. He then called twenty minutes later.

I understood his many messages and phone calls as desperate badgering, and I soon decided to ignore him all together by sending him a message saying that I already had a boyfriend in America, and I only wanted to be friends with him. Not an entirely mature way to handle the situation, I’m well aware, but I found no reason to get in touch with him when he had offended me with his thin threats and over-the-top persistence. Also, I was still scared about the Korean dating world, and this fear trumped all of my desires for companionship as I lead the lonely life of a teaching and research Grantee in the Korean countryside.

So how do you read this? Would he be undesirable in all cultures? Did I make a big mistake by even giving him my phone number? How could I have handled this better? Were my problems with Sung Ryo just indicative of my problems with men around the world? (Admittedly, I am a bit messed up in that area, even in America), And finally, after this column, could I be considered the half-Korean interculturalist Carrie Bradshaw?

Let me know what you think. More from me coming soon.