The importance of a 22nd

As some of you know, the 22nd of every month is important to me. It is the one day of every 30 or so that I can claim my own. For some reason, while I studied abroad in Italy it became a staple of life that consisted, if not readily but steadily, through my life. Why? Simply because the number 22 is my favorite number. It isn't lucky, but merely a reminder to keep life interesting. And the 22nd day of every month is that day.

This 22nd, the first of 2009, was one for the books. It started out like any other. I was rushing to work but still stop by for coffee anyway, the excuse being that it was the 22nd (at the risk of work not understanding). My classes were great, the new kids I have are mixed with a handful of older ones making the classroom dynamic comfortable and fun. One six year old is Jim, but I call him Jimbo (after that burly foundry professor with the rough voice and a mustache to match). I joke with them, they serve it right back to me in drawings, responses to "How are you?", and rough English. I expressed my love of Obama, taught them the phrase, "Obama Mama," even though it had no real merit in their English learning or lives in general, just cause it sounded funny. They are easy to please, a few rounds of "Eeny, meany, miney, mo" to decide who will read the part for role-playing shocks and awes them. After reciting the date I tell them about my favorite number, 22. We spend the next ten minutes talking about favorite numbers, great lesson.

From there the 22nd day of the year took me to the thrift store. Lisa introduced me to a great thrift store run by the Catholic Group Home right around the corner from our apartments. There I bought some cheap frames needed for the blank walls of my apartment. I then took the alternative route home in search of white spray paint. Didn't find it, where is a Wal-Mart when you need one? Well, there is one in Seoul (seriously, there is). No luck with the spray paint but I head home to ready myself for some live music in PNU, a university part of town with an open mic night, a good open mic, every Thursday. The music was good, the crowd tamer than usual. However, like every 22nd it wasn't quite ready to end at midnight. Therefore we go on to explore what the early hours of the 23rd have to offer.

What did we find? Unsuccessful at first we only find a salsa lounge called the Che bar, lights were off, it was closed. It was then that we cross the street where we came across this tiny place that looked straight out of Switzerland. We peak in the windows, it was a quaint little Alpine nook with three Korean men. Karen braves the door, it was open. She disappears, I wait on the street. She reappears to invite me in. The owners are welcoming. But they are so much more than that. Upon entering our world is transformed to a place that makes little sense being in Busan. We find ourselves with a yodeling champion (and owner, Mr. E, pronounced 'mystery'), a classically trained Italian opera singer, and some random Korean man that was their friend. We exchange pleasantries with all three Korean born men then the show begins.

With some prodding Mr. E first beings to play the guitar, on which he strums an American country song. He is good. More surface conversation is exchanged when the man in the glasses says he speaks Italian. It was then that I learned that I lost most, if not all, of the language that I had studied over the past three years. Damn shame, who would of known it would prove useful in Korea?

When I say this place was out of place it seemed so because every thing in the tiny little restaurant/bar/music hole did not scream Korea. It is hard to be in a restaurant (no matter what they serve), movie theater, even the middle of the woods and forget where you are. In this small place there were no signs aside from the faces of the three men sitting around us and the cheap beer we drank. The restaurant was about the size of my apartment, small. Only three tables, two of which for costumers the third covered in instruments. The rest of the floor space was filled with a heater and various upright stringed instruments. The left wall covered, from floor to ceiling with a mural of the Alps on the left wall. The back wall a bookshelf filled with hundreds of records and following the cow bells to the right wall which displayed traditional laderhosen and the feminine equivalent hanging in dry cleaning bags. Just to the right of these was a picture of our man Mr. E playing an accordion in that there lederhosen to the left. Below the picture, sitting on the third table, the same accordion.

We ask him to play. He picks it up, HOHGEN is written in all caps close to where he puts his right hand. Near his left, ATLANTA. The number 22 was speaking to me through this German accordion named Atlanta. But, WHAT DOES IT MEAN? He finishes one song then goes to the next. Singing in English then Korean. He plays folk/country/bluegrass songs on a beautiful mandolin ('Amazing Grace' being one of them), banjo and the Swiss horn. It comes in three parts, this Swiss horn. I'm still not sure of the correct name, while Mr. E's yodeling was of champion level but his English pronunciation was rough, much less his Swiss French.

However, he worked that horn like he was a Swiss, it was as if the little place stuck in Busan, South Korea was really Bern. As if the mural to the left of us sprang to life. As if this little Korean man was playing on the Alps.

The classically trained Italian Opera singer, who studied in Rome and now teaches in Busan, was up next. Mr. E had a calming voice, like a soothing folk song. I wasn't sure what to really expect from the Italian Korean man. He seemed so unassuming in his baseball cap and horn rimmed glasses, until he began. The force and strength of him voice seemed enough to blow the little Helen-esque hole out of the wall. It was beautiful, he was extremely talented. After hearing a few more songs and giving apologies for not being able to show off any singing talent we walk out the door. We're back on a quiet street in PNU, find taxis (and a fantastic mirror someone was throwing away!) and head home.

There are not many experiences that have made me forget every other thought. Usually I am always, constantly, preoccupied with something else on my mind. However tonight, when the 22nd became the 23rd, I experienced just that. The culmination of my life, references from major parts, wrapped up in strangers stumbled upon in a Swiss bar in Korea. Folk songs reminded me of home, the atmosphere of the bar was like being back in Bern, the Italian felt just as familiar and all of these were manifested in a small place with the people of Korea. Here I was sitting with a Korean man, communicating in Italian next to another Korean man that spoke fluent folk and instrument across form my Canadian friend. It was a good night.

We'll see what China has to offer, I leave tomorrow.