Before I got on the bus to Osan today to order some custom cowboy boots, I ate lunch at a tiny Korean-style cafe in the bus terminal. When I went to pay, I didn't have enough money, so I begged the ajumas' patience while I stepped out to withdraw some cash from the ATM right outside the door. An ajuma is a middle age, motherly Korean woman, and there were three running this cafe. When they saw the ATM not cooperating with my request, they kindly repeated, "Daum, daum," next time, next time. They even helpfully motioned me out the door. It was endearing.
But I had a secret. I recently bought an emergency keyring cash capsule where I store a spare 10,000 won bill (about $10). As I resisted their charity and reached into my pocket, they were confused and their forgiving reassurances increased in pitch. "Jahm kuh manyo," I had to repeat, motioning them to calm down, as I retrieved my keys, unscrewed the capsule, and withdrew the spare bill to their approval. "O-ah!" they cheered in Korean fashion, taking the capsule from my hand to inspect it as they nodded in understanding and explained to each other what magic I had wrought.
Noticing the clock, I had to go, but I couldn't resist a departing flourish to my captive audience. "Sa-ee pen issoyo?" I asked, feigning nothing to write with as I grabbed my chest and pockets searching for a pen. "Issoyo!" one woman cried, reaching behind her for a pen. "Aniyo," I assured her, reaching for my keys again. I removed the matchstick-length telescoping keyring pen I bought the same time as the cash capsule, extended the pen, and demonstrated its purpose to their renewed oohs and ahhs.
Then I grabbed my bag and exited the stage, er, the cafe. Performing is fun.
