MORNING CALM TALES Déjà vu and the 'Yakult ajumma'

The other day, I was walking back to my apartment when a familiar sight caught my eye. A woman was quietly gliding down the sidewalk in a small electric cart.

Without thinking, I smiled and motioned for her to stop.

As she came closer, my mind drifted back to the winter of 1991, when I was a young foreigner discovering Korea one small surprise at a time.

During my first few weeks in Seoul, I became convinced I kept seeing the same woman.

She was everywhere.

I saw her near my apartment in Jamsil. A day or two later, I spotted her several blocks away. Then there she was again outside the subway station.

At least, I thought it was her.

She always looked the same — a light beige winter jacket, a matching cap, her breath hanging in the cold morning air as she pushed a small cart from one apartment building to the next.

Was I seeing the same woman? Was it déjà vu? Everywhere I went, there she was. Or so I thought.

Back then, almost everything about Korea still seemed new to me. I could read Hangeul by then, even if I didn't always understand what I was reading, and I wandered through the city without much of a plan because I never knew what I might discover around the next corner.

The sounds, the smells, the crowded markets, the tiny neighborhood shops, the buses, the street vendors, the rhythm of the city — it was all unlike anything I had known before. That was part of the adventure.

But among all those unfamiliar things, certain sights slowly began to feel familiar.

The Yakult "ajummas" were one of them. Eventually, of course, I realized I wasn't seeing the same woman at all. There were Yakult ajummas everywhere.

By the time I arrived in Korea, they had already been part of everyday life for nearly 20 years.

Yakult itself has an interesting history. The small, sweet fermented milk drink had been developed in Japan in the 1930s. The name traveled with the drink to Korea. Korea Yakult Dairy was established in 1969 and entered into a joint venture agreement with Japan's Yakult company the following year. In August 1971, Yakult went on sale in Korea.

But just as distinctive as the little bottle was the way it was sold. That same year, women began carrying Yakult directly into Korean neighborhoods, selling it door to door from their carts. They became known simply as the "Yakult ajummas."

It caught on quickly. By 1977, daily sales of Yakult in Korea had passed 1 million bottles.

So by the time I wandered into Jamsil in the winter of 1991, there was nothing unusual about seeing a Yakult ajumma making her rounds.

To most Koreans, she hardly warranted a second glance. To me, she was fascinating.

One cold morning, curiosity finally got the better of me, and I stopped.

The ajumma stopped. I pointed toward her cart.

She smiled, lifted the lid and revealed neat rows of tiny plastic bottles. I bought one.

The bottle was so small I couldn't help but laugh. I had traveled halfway around the world only to discover that Koreans had somehow managed to put yogurt into a bottle about the size of my thumb.

I peeled back the foil lid and took one swallow. Gone.

I stared at the empty bottle, then I looked back at the ajumma.

I bought another one. She laughed, and I laughed.

After that, I found myself looking for the Yakult ajummas wherever I went.

They pushed their little carts through apartment complexes and narrow neighborhood streets, stopping to chat with customers who greeted them like old friends. Office workers stepped outside when they approached. Elderly residents paused to exchange a few words before buying a bottle or two. They weren't simply selling yogurt. They were part of the neighborhood.

Before long, I learned one of the most useful Korean phrases I knew at the time: “Yakult juseyo.” Yakult, please.

In a country where almost everything still felt unfamiliar, they became one of the first familiar sights I could count on. I didn't realize it then, but those small encounters were part of the gradual process by which Korea began to feel less foreign, a little more familiar, a little more like home.

More than 35 years have passed since those winter mornings in Jamsil.

And that's when I found myself standing on that warm summer sidewalk, with the woman waiting patiently beside her electric cart, and for a moment the years simply disappeared.

The carts have changed. The uniforms have changed. Even the name has changed. Today, they're officially known as "Fresh Managers." They ride electric carts and carry a much wider selection of yogurt and probiotic drinks than they did back then.

But whenever I see one gliding quietly through a Korean neighborhood, I don't think of the modern cart or everything it carries. I remember those sweet Yakult ajummas from the winter of 1991.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels. His latest is "The Tree at Panmunjom," about the 1976 Axe Murder Incident. Reach him at daejeonscribe@yahoo.com.