Hiding the Fox's Tail
Reaching Dalos Island took more than the seven-hour flight. Without a moment to adjust to the time difference, you had to book a ferry that ran only two or three times a day and spend another five hours on the water.
Pop a motion-sickness pill handed out at the harbor, collapse in your seat, and listen to the tireless chatter of Western tourists until the destination finally appears.
But that was only the beginning. The harbor grew impossibly crowded as passengers from the luxury ferry poured out, leaving barely enough room to stand. One wrong step and a rolling suitcase wheel could crush your foot, turning the famous three-colored sea into nothing more than a noisy blue marketplace.
To enjoy the kind of dreamlike trip you saw in magazines, you needed an entire day just to get there. For Koreans with limited vacation time, it was a destination with a very high barrier to entry.
“Want to touch it?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I’ll give you a good price. Special discount, just for you.”
“I’m fine.”
Whenever the ferry arrived, the harbor filled with people and horses. Vendors carrying fans and silk scarves circled like hawks. Because it was an eco-friendly island, the only allowed transportation was bicycles and horse carts. With my parents each bringing three suitcases, walking was never an option.
Dalos Island was a paradise for snorkeling and scuba diving, yet the complicated journey made it an unlikely choice for anyone who simply wanted to enjoy the water. It certainly wasn’t the kind of place my mother—who believed comfort came first—would ever pick.
This wasn’t a trip to enjoy the sea. It was a trip to find their daughter. Honestly, three months was already generous given my parents’ personalities. My father, with his constant anxiety, had probably reached his limit after the first month.
“Make sure you get roaming or whatever it’s called so you can answer the phone right away, got it?”
That had been one of the conditions he’d attached before allowing the trip. Any call from my parents had to be answered within forty seconds. “You’re our only child,” he’d said. “What’s the point of having a daughter if we don’t even know whether her parents are alive or dead?”
“Mom!”
They’d also insisted I use my father’s credit card whenever possible. Even though cash was more common here, if a charge didn’t appear for even a single day, the phone would ring immediately. Ordering a latte with his card at a café was my own quiet way of sending a letter that said, I’m still alive. All of it had been pointless struggling, meaningless flailing. Despite three months of following their unspoken rules, they had still shown up at the island harbor—my mother in a Hawaiian shirt, my father right beside her.
“Song Eun-dam! Oh my!”
Spotting me waiting at the harbor, my mother took off her sunglasses. My father, who had been standing in the immigration line, turned his head at the sound. Amid the tall Westerners, his sharp, mushroom-like scowl softened into something almost gentle.
“Eun-dam!”
My father threw his arms wide and let out a piercing yell. Every head turned. Standing in front of the darkened pub, I lowered my gaze in embarrassment.
“Don’t you move from there! You hear me?”
He paid no attention to the stares, stamping his feet impatiently while he waited his turn. Less than a minute later, he snatched up the suitcase that barely reached his waist and, with my mother whose eyes were already brimming with tears, charged straight through the crowd of horse carts.
“Our Eun-dam!”
My father, now the same shade of red as the shirt I was wearing, pulled me into a crushing hug. My mother bowed her head and sniffled as if we were a family separated by war. While I hugged him back, I met the eyes of a nearby fan vendor who was openly staring. My earlobes burned with shame.
“Dad? I get that you’re happy to see me, but there are a lot of people here, you know?”
“Look at this kid, she’s lost weight. Honey!”
“You’re right. You said you were swimming every day, but what’s this? What happened?”
I pried my father off, though he still sniffled as he was pushed away. Seeing an old man wipe his nose made guilt settle heavily in my chest. He must have lost weight from the stress of his only child’s first long trip. The thought that he—who never skipped a meal even after a root canal—had worried enough to lose weight filled me with both guilt and a strange question: what exactly was the relationship between Korean parents and their children? No.
What was the relationship between the middle-aged couple living in Bongjang-dong, Seoul, and Song Eun-dam? One side wanted to pour out endless love and money carved from their own flesh, while the other side wanted nothing to do with it. I hoped that, even without their child around, the two of them would find plenty of happiness. But if I kept refusing, I would become the bad daughter—the heartless one who only cared about her own life and never understood her parents’ hearts.
“Eun-dam.”
“Oh! Uncle.”
I had almost forgotten. After the dramatic family reunion, my mother’s face crumpled as she caught the smell of horse manure. Behind Aunt Suyeong—whose husband’s professorial air always suited him—stood Uncle, holding two suitcases in his hands. He looked pitiful, already sweating in the blazing sun he clearly wasn’t used to.
“Can we catch a taxi here?”
“A taxi?”
Uncle clearly had no idea how things worked here. My parents must have sweet-talked him into taking the ferry with their usual gift of gab. The harbor was a chaotic field of people, the air filled with the jingling of horse-cart bells and vendors shouting for customers. I remembered how dazed I had felt the first time I saw this messy marketplace that called itself a fantasy island.
“Uncle, did you already book a place to stay?”
“I heard they did.”
“My parents made the reservation?”
My mother, who had just realized the foul smell was rising from the dirt, let out a shriek and started hopping in place. Her white sandals were never going back to their original color.
“Mom, come over here.”
“Oh my, why is the ground so dirty? Where’s the sidewalk?”
“There isn’t one.”
“There isn’t?”
She had no right to be surprised. I had already reported every detail about the hygiene and inconveniences over the phone. Only restaurants inside hotels or newly built places were clean; the ones locals frequented were battlegrounds between flies and food. And of course, there was no air conditioning to escape the stifling heat.
“It’s been a while, Eun-dam. You’ve gotten even prettier.”
Aunt Suyeong, fanning herself behind Uncle, greeted me with a shy smile.
“Hello, Aunt.”
All of my mother’s friends were “aunts” by default. Among them, Aunt Suyeong was her oldest friend and best friend. How the overly emotional, dramatic mother and the timid, bookish aunt had ever become close remained a mystery to this day.
So these four people were the entire group.
“Mun-ho said he already booked the accommodation. Eun-dam probably knows the area best, so she can guide us.”
Aunt Suyeong, weak to the heat, made the decision in a slightly irritable tone. My mother, who had been putting on and taking off her sunglasses while exchanging complaints with my father, looked relieved at the suggestion.
“It’s called Koran Villa or something. Do you know where it is, Eun-dam?”
Of course I did. It was the most expensive resort on Dalos Island. Even the horse-cart drivers charged double the usual fare if you said you were going there. Their logic was simple: anyone staying at that villa was rich, so overcharging was fair game.
“I know where it is, but you can’t walk there. You have too much luggage, and it’s a twenty-minute walk. In this heat, Mom and Aunt would collapse before we got there.”
I could already picture their reaction if I tried to take a shortcut through the back alleys. To adults used to high-rise apartments, the narrow paths where the islanders lived would look like an expedition into the wilderness. They would conclude that the seaside road leading to the harbor was the only clean route. I had enough trouble taking care of myself here; I had no confidence in escorting four adults through that maze.
“Let’s take those first. Two people per cart should be perfect. Just tell the drivers ‘Koran Villa’ and they’ll know exactly where to go. The prices are fixed, so there’s no risk of being scammed.”
The adults, average age fifty-two, stared with open mouths at the line of horse carts. My mother shrank with every step the enormous horse took, looking as if she had only ever seen such animals on Jeju Island. The realization that their daughter wasn’t being very helpful slowly spread across their faces.
Wait.
“Mom, Dad. I’m going to ride my bike to the villa later, so I’ll see you there.”
I felt some sympathy for Aunt Suyeong and Uncle, who had followed without any information. But I didn’t want anyone—including my parents—interfering until my self-imposed travel deadline was over. The only way to make that happen was to make them regret coming here instead of on a nice, safe package tour.
“I’ll help you get a cart.”
Uncle, who had been struggling with the suitcases alone, looked immensely grateful. Even smart people wanted to rely on others in unfamiliar places. As he rummaged for his wallet to pay the fare, a question I hadn’t been able to ask until now lingered on my tongue.
“Oh, um… everyone came today, right?”
Uncle’s eyes widened as he loaded the luggage onto the front cart. I did my best to look casual.
“I was thinking of making a dinner reservation.”
“Ah, right. It’s just the four of us today.”
“Oh!”
After the short exchange, I quietly bit my lip behind Uncle as he focused on the luggage. If I looked too happy, everything would be exposed in an instant.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
“All right, Eun-dam. Thanks for coming to meet us.”
I gave a small bow and slipped behind the cart. Handing the adults over to the cheerful driver, I turned and walked in the opposite direction.
The person I had half-expected wasn’t here.
He wasn’t coming.
They said heaven helps those who help themselves. Above my head, a clear blue sky spread out like a blessing.
I was safe.