Sex, identity and beer in Wangsimni

Nicky Bisquits is a big lad. One of those people who you have to look at whenever they enter a room. Like something passing through your peripheral vision or an evolutionary warning system kicks in. Yet, despite his size, or perhaps because of it, he’s one of the most mild-mannered English men you will ever quite meet. Everything is a smile, a handshake and a constant desire to accommodate others.

We were traipsing through Wangsimni one winter not too long ago, the drinking area around Hanyang University, looking for another pub in which to warm ourselves up, having already consumed far too much but not yet ready to head home. As it was well beyond 3 a.m., many places had closed up or were demanding that you order hot soups and hangover food when all our stomachs demanded was more alcohol. For a moment, it felt like our night of laughter and lager might be coming to a somewhat premature end.

And then a vintage looking wooden door caught my eye. It had no signs on it other than something that said “Bar.” A speakeasy perhaps. People smoking cigars. Whatever it might be, when I pushed the door open, I was greeted by bright lights and some stairs descending into what was undoubtedly a bar. Pleased with my apparent victory, I slapped Nicky on the shoulder and we made our way down, bouncing as we went, happy to be out of the cold and anticipating another warm drop.

It was only when we reached the bottom that I noticed it was not the bar we had expected. Well, it certainly looked like one at first. There were the usual row of geometrically aligned tables you find in Korean pubs, lacking all the randomness of Europe. There was a TV playing old music videos. There was one of those digital dartboards that make annoying sounds. Ashtrays with wet tissues inside them. And a fluorescent fridge with all Cass, soju and everything else.

But then a transgender lady appeared (this was the term we later found out she preferred). She looked rather sheepish but also smiled and welcomed us. Pointed towards a table for us to sit down. As she did, we noticed that there were three other transgender people in the corner at another table. Nicky and I looked at each other and two things kicked in immediately. One was the fact that it was mid-January and the wind was desperately cold outside. Second, was that inexplicable English custom to not want to offend anyone. The habit that demands that even if your food is brought to you cold and the waiter asks if everything is okay, you smile and say, “It’s fine. Thank you.”

And so, our culture kicked in. Not wanting to embarrass ourselves or them, we removed our coats and sat down, pointed at the fridge and asked for two bottles of beer. We gave each other the eye as if to say, “Let’s have one, finish it quick, smile and then we’ll move on.” And so we did. But we didn’t have one. We had two. Three. And so on.

Sometimes the beers would come with nacho chips and once or twice with some warm fries, given for free. They would often take turns bringing them over. Asking where we were from. If we liked the pub and so on. The music was definitely one reason we stayed. The soundtrack to izakayas and other pubs around popular drinking spots in Korea is generally loud hiphop or electronica. I don’t mind clubs or loud music, but when I’m drinking in a pub, I don’t really want 2NE1 and Zior Park playing at volumes that make it so everyone has to shout. Yes, I’m old. And this bar had The Ramones, Pink Floyd, Bill Withers and other white people music played at levels lower than the clinking of the pint glasses.

As it got late, three of them came and sat with us. We talked about music. Korea. Whether there place got very busy. I’m sure it would have made quite a sight had anyone else come in at that moment. Eventually, they told us it was getting late. (Actually it was getting early and it was one of those mornings where you have to walk past people on their way to work, the gym and church, feeling mightily sinful) We should be careful going home, they remarked. It was cold. Don’t get lost. The kind of things your auntie would say. One gave Nicky a scarf and wrapped it around him because his open shirt and chest hair looked like it would probably develop icicles the minute he stepped out the door into the minus whatever it was.

And so away we went. Full of smiles, greetings, promises to come again and all the other niceties. I never have been back. I’m not even sure I could remember where it was. But it’s something that comes up every time I meet Nicky: Remember that night we went into that bar!

For two lads from the south of England, stumbling into a place like that isn’t what I expected. I’m from a small town and there is nothing like that next to the cricket green or the bowling club. But here in Seoul, there’s a world that exists beyond the tour guides. It’s not in any of the official government proclamations. And it feels very far removed from the internet talk about laws, discrimination and the body as a political entity.

These were working class people. Trying to run a business. Paying rent. Filing taxes. Supporting each other. Worrying about the cold. Part of a community. And just trying to get through life like anyone else. They weren't theoretical propositions or political talking points. They weren’t people to protest for or against. Before they were anything else, they were just people. People who smiled when they gave us beer and did what we did. Let people be themselves.

Every time the weather gets colder here in Seoul, and yesterday it dropped outrageously, I always think back to that night. I always remember the people and the actions behind the labels. The names. The kindness. And how, if the situation were reversed, I’d let them sit in my pub and give them some crisps too.

Many people in Seoul will never push open those doors or walk down those steps. They will never see or feel the kindness. Never receive a scarf. But it’s there. Waiting. And it remains a fond beer-soaked memory.