[Songdo Stories] Friendships and the expat life

Incheon Bridge, Korea's longest cable-stayed bridge, is seen at sunset. / Courtesy of Ted Vynorius

By Alison Hong Nguyen Lihalakha

"Annyeonghaseyo. Good morning and welcome." The teacher greeted us, then smiled and beckoned the newly arriving students to take the open seats around the tables in the small room.

It was Jan. 20, 2020, and I had just sat down to learn Korean at the International Free Economic Zone (IFEZ) Global Center classroom in Songdo's G-Tower. This was our first meeting. Across the table were two young ladies in their early 20s ― girls really. I exchanged greetings with them before we shifted our focus to the teacher and the first Korean characters we were tasked to practice sounding out.

Two days later, I came in after locking my bike. I took off my ivory winter coat, a recent purchase since we had moved to Korea from the desert, and I had not needed a heavy coat in six years.

I shook away the winter chill and smiled as I greeted my table mates, the same girls I had sat with on the first day of class.

I waited for a lull in their conversation before asking, "Do you work here in Songdo?"

"Yes, we both teach at one of the hagwons," the girl on the left replied. "What about you?"

"My husband works for the Green Climate Fund (GCF)," I answered.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "You have that look about you."

I was too taken aback to form a response. Before I could process what she said, our instructor started the morning's lesson. As I repeatedly sounded out the Hangeul characters during class, in my mind I pondered the meaning behind the girl's words. On the bike ride home, I thought to myself, "Apparently, to those hagwon teachers, I am a lady of leisure."

A ferry sails through Songdo Central Park, with the G-Tower in the distance. / Courtesy of Chae Hee-jun (@npointofview)

The following week, our class was postponed due to news of the coronavirus spreading. It was very early on and the pandemic had not yet been officially declared. Out of caution, we were advised to wait for infection cases to ease up before classes would resume. We ended up not returning to class again.

Over the next couple of weeks, I spent more time thinking about what the girl had said about me. Here was an example of how we see, make assumptions and judge people for the way they speak, what they wear and where they are from. It is an aspect of life that is amplified when living in a foreign country where language and cultural differences can serve to compress your social circle.

My expat life began in 2010 when my husband and I moved to Tunisia, a tiny country in northern Africa. In my naivete during that first month, I asked another trailing spouse (the term for those who follow their partner whose work takes them overseas), "What do you do all day?" As if, by virtue of not working outside the home, she had all the time in the world while her children were in school and her husband was at the office.

At the time, I had not had the chance to find out for myself that a simple trip to the grocery store would in Tunisia end up being a three-hour endeavor, or that paying the phone bill meant waiting in line for 45 minutes at the telecom office. These tasks, previously done with minimal thought or exertion, would consume my time and render me an errand runner. My identity had gone from legal professional in the San Francisco Bay Area to family gopher in Tunis.

While my husband worked, I tended to our son, kept the household in order and blogged about our life as expats. We were witnesses to the Arab Spring, and despite ongoing demonstrations and constant security threats, we made friends and explored Tunisia. Our three years in Tunisia were certainly interesting.

We had moved to Tunisia knowing very little about the country, and next we would do the same with our move to Saudi Arabia. Living the expat life sometimes makes you bold that way.

I was desperate to work again, so we asked about job opportunities for me. "Don't get your hopes up," the HR representative told us. "Jobs for women are scarce."

And yet, within months of arriving in the desert, I was offered the opportunity to work in my son's preschool, which led to a series of various positions at the elementary school, including my favorite, working in the library. By the time we moved to South Korea, I had managed to work for more than four of our six years there. In between working, I started writing again and had put together the rough manuscript for my first memoir.

Having reverted to non-working status, I was again a trailing spouse. The hagwon teachers in the Korean class looked at me and assumed I did nothing but coffee meetups and lunches with other ladies of leisure. Meanwhile I had been busy with my duties at work, plus as a mother, wife and writer until we came to South Korea.

They had been wrong about me, these hagwon teachers (yes, ironically, that is my default label for them because I cannot recall their names). They saw me in that new ivory winter coat and made assumptions about me and my life. I looked like a lady of leisure, but that label fails to account for all the personal and professional experience, education and knowledge I have that can be shared and celebrated with others.

It is regrettable that we so quickly and easily judge one another. I did not know it then, but Songdo consists of a wide variety of locals and foreigners, all here for a myriad of reasons, and labeling each other is commonplace. What is more is that oftentimes we end up only associating with those labeled similarly to us. This happens not just within Songdo, but everywhere that I have lived. Even in the early days of the pandemic, in the midst of lockdowns and social distancing, I could see how limiting the labels would be on my social circle in South Korea.

A bridge in Songdo's Central Park is lit up at night. / Courtesy of Chae Hee-jun (@npointofview)

Recently, I went to buy a cooking pot from another foreigner here in Songdo. The sale was posted on Facebook by a man, but when I went to pick up the item, I was greeted by a woman. She invited me in and introduced me to her husband, who was sitting in front of his laptop at the dining table.

"Oh, are you with the Green Climate Fund?" I asked him eagerly.

"No, he isn't," the woman said. "I am."

"I'm so sorry," I exclaimed. "I just assumed he was the working spouse since he's at his computer."

And in that moment, I found myself guilty of putting these two strangers into groups just the same as the two girls in the Korean class had done to me. Despite all these years of expat living, I am still as prone to labeling as I am to being labeled.

I drove home with my new cooking pot, humbled to be reminded that, just as I wish others would do with me, I should get to know people and allow them to define themselves instead of labeling them the instant I meet them.

Alison Lihalakha is the author of "Salted Plums," a memoir of culture and identity. She moved to Songdo in 2019 with her family and has been fortunate to form some great friendships over the years. Connect with her at alisonlihalakha.com. Visit songdostories.com to read more Songdo Stories.