seasoning travelers

When I left India I felt like I could do anything. I felt like if I could fall on my ass at the train station while wearing all the shit that I’ve schlepped across the subcontinent for a month, be on trains for twelve hours without food because I still have the shits, successfully bargain with taxi drivers at eleven at night in Dehli, and then get from JFK to my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn with all the shit that I’d schlepped across the subcontinent for a month (while still having the shits) and yet have gotten from point A to point B alone, then nothing could ever intimidate me again.

But it took me four weeks in Chuncheon to finally go to a coffee shop because I was too afraid to face a menu in Korean.

I am pleased to report that my mediocre espresso tasted fabulous and that not only does Red Sky have a menu in English, even the Korean is English: 아이스 티–“ah-ee-suh tee,” 카프치노–“kah-puh-chee-no,” 카라멜 모카–“kah-lah-mael mo-kah,” and they have a club card that I am unlikely to fill during the short time I have left here.

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