A Korean rest stop

When we were in the car, Yu-Gyung’s brow furrowed by thought. “Ah! Grandpa,” she realized. Suddenly her fingers flurried over the keys, and she again handed the phone to me. “Hi Grandpa,” I said in Korean. He then proceeded to interrogate me about my school, whether I learned anymore Korean, I told him I understood a minimal amount, my mother, if she still with to mass, and how my father was doing. Even then, it was a short conversation, grandpa wasn’t one to waste breath very often. My cousin then retrieved the phone from my hands and once more her fingers flurried over the keys. Before I knew it she was holding the open flip phone in front of my face. Two screens appeared, one small square with live video of the two of us, and in a larger square above appeared a petite young woman in her late twenties with large eyes and a big smile. It was like Skype but as a phone application. I took this moment to mourn the poor comparison of America’s technology to South Korea’s up-to-date, electronic, and automatic everything. My cousin Autumn greeted me with a big wave. “Bianca! Hi!” I waved back. She asked me in Korean, “How was your plane trip?” “Good,” I said. She then told me that I would see her soon, and to have a good trip back to grandpa’s hometown. A few minutes passed inside the limited edition white Kia Carnival minivan. My two cousins were lightly scorned by my uncle for not trying to speak English to me. This was then followed by a few weak attempts. Inquiries were short lived. After a few hours I nodded off to sleep, and woke up when the car stopped. I looked around, and realized where we were. Euphoria struck every nerve in my body. Oh dear God, was it true? Could it be? We were actually at a South Korean rest stop. I thought of my friends reactions back home if I told them that one of the things I missed so much about Korea was the rest stops. I’d would’ve probably gotten stares that accused me of insanity, but oh no. This wasn’t just any “rest stop” in the American sense. These glorious institutions did not house stale chips and juice with a thousand preservatives in a rarely stocked vending machines. This place didn’t strike fear in the people that needed bathrooms, for these bathroom were a place someone looked forward to using! Fresh and constantly stocked in soap and toilet paper, but even the enjoyable bathrooms could never distract from the real attraction in these rest stops. These places were food Meccas. My cousin was the only one left in the car with me. I looked at her, and hopped out of the car. She followed as I ran indoors to the middle of all the food vendors. I stopped, closed my eyes, and inhaled. Pure bliss. Smells and sounds pulled me in a thousand different directions. I quickly realized I’d let my memory fade too much. All the aromas I had been missing in the past year had come back and crashed down all me like an intense and unforgiving waterfall. All the classics were there. Rice cake, sweet potato chips, fried bread stuffed with brown sugar, cinnamon, and peanuts, noodle dishes of every kind, California rolls of the Korean variety. While I was marveling at all the vendors my uncle found us. He asked if I wanted anything but I was too polite to accept any offers. He frowned displeased with my refusal, and then started walking away motioning for us to follow. He went to the “Kwik-mart” section of the food court and stopped in front of the freezers. My uncle smugly asked me, “Want ice-cream?” My uncle only remembered too well the one thing I could never say no to, my number one weakness, my vice, the epitome of my food happiness; Korean ice cream. Whenever I refused my uncles overly generous behaviors this is where he went, this is where he knew I would always lose the constant battle of hospitality between me, and him. As I stared into the freezer full of sugar and cream filled packages, my heart rate accelerated. There goes my diet, once again. All of them were individually packaged and on a stick, which would’ve technically made them popsicles, but this was an understatement. These treats were far more decadent than their name implied. Their flavors ranging from melon to chocolate to sweet red bean. This flavor and variety, I knew, I would never get in America. One of America’s shortcomings I knew I could never get over. He picked up a classic red bean popsicle. While this flavor might’ve seemed odd to most non-southeastern Asians, it was well missed by myself over the past year. My favorite. He tossed it at me while my cousins contemplated snacks to take on the way home.