Courtesy of Huy Phan

I stumbled into the pharmacy. The door made an uncomfortably loud sound and the sweat was already forming on my forehead. I had just dropped off my son at his golf lesson and now had to pick up my daughter from her K-pop class. I decided I'd get some hangover medicine from the doctor on the way. "Sukchwiga itgo hal iri manaseo yak pilyohamnida (I have a hangover and a lot of work so can you give me some medicine please)," I said to the woman in the white coat. To be fair, the doctor was familiar with both my Korean and my weekend consumption habits so she quickly prepared the drink, the tablets, and a space on the counter for me to down them while she scanned my card.

I moved swiftly, twisting the caps, ripping the packets, and then shoved it all down me, hoping to clear my head. As I turned with the vitamin drink in my hand, I saw three elderly grandmothers sat together on the bench. I had not seen them when I walked in but now here they were. Silent. Eyes wide open. Dressed in outrageous flower-print clothes and looking at me very intently.

I put the bottle down on the counter, smiled, and said politely, "oegugindeuldo sukchwiga itseumnida (foreigners get hangovers, too)." There was a pause. Almost a beat too long for a comedy routine. It was uncomfortable and I wasn't sure whether they had understood me or perhaps they were just somewhat perturbed by the sight of a somewhat reddish and tired-looking foreigner in their local pharmacy. And then it began.

Love and hate

They berated me loudly for about two minutes, each shouting over the other. It was noisy. There was screeching and those sharp guttural aspirated sounds that come from some Korean people when they are animated. "You shouldn't drink so much!" "You need some hangover soup, not medicine." "Right! Right! Listen to her!" "Don't drink like that!" "You must be too stressed, but don't drink when you are stressed." This was all coming at me in Korean at 100 miles per hour, but it was easily understood because it was semi-performative. Grandmothers have a duty to nag men when they drink too much. I also knew that this abuse was a form of affection. I smiled lightly, lowered my eyes, and then bowed at them. "Ne, algetseumnida. daeume josimhagetseumnida." (Yes, I understand. I'll be more careful next time).

Having done this, accepted my punishment from them, the atmosphere changed (as I knew it would). All of a sudden, the tirades against my drinking habits were replaced with compliments about my language and, weirdly enough, my eyebrows. We smiled. Laughed. I told them about my kids. The pharmacist watched it all play out, chuckling to herself. I said my goodbyes, bowed again, and started toward the k-pop dance class. My daughter is performing "Klaxon" by (G)I-dle and "HeYa" by IVE. As I drove away, I could see them all still rollicking inside. They would have some stories for the dinner table tonight: "Remember how we told that foreigner to stop drinking?" "Yes, he should definitely stop." "But he seemed like a nice boy." And so on.

They might not say the nice boy part, but I'm generally a positive person so let's pretend they did.

Not science

There's nothing scientific about what happened. No theories or correct language will make sense of it. It's behavioral. It's human. Real. There's a speed and a rhythm to life here that I've come to understand. Just as when jamming with other musicians, you eventually lock in and learn to anticipate and complement others' playing, here in Korea you get used to moving and interacting with people in a harmonious way. Sometimes, as in the case of the pharmacy, there's that missed beat. The grandmothers were perhaps unsure if what was happening was actually happening. But patience and trust from both sides meant that we made it through our song successfully.

I've come to learn that that's how one moves through the country. You have to be prepared to take an earful on occasion. You have to learn to apologize. To be laughed at. And then inside all of that, and amongst it all, there is love, curiosity and affection. Sometimes the nagging, the violence, and the anger is a form of love. People will call it "aejeung."

It would be easy to have felt taken aback by the grandmothers' stares. To have left without saying anything. To have felt discriminated against in some way. I'm sure many other people have experienced only the first part of that interaction. Their day shaped by the uncomfortable silence that comes from a lack of interaction and language. Perhaps even reinforced later by exaggerated social media posts or forum comments describing in detail how slighted they were or how "racist" Korean people are.

And that's where knowing the language and the people to some extent comes in handy. The language is difficult. God knows I still make hundreds of mistakes every day. But I study regularly, accept my limitations, and am happy to struggle through any conversation in the local language. But It's not just understanding the grammar and the vocabulary: it is knowing when and how to say things. I was raised to stand up straight, look people in the eye, and speak briskly and directly. While that certainly works for the public schools and rugby clubs of England, it's all a bit different here. You're meant to listen. To look down. To be slow. And once you get your nunchi sorted, everything else just kind of drops into place. It's like the whole of society changes and the cold stares suddenly become warm smiles. You begin to see the love that runs through Korean society. It's unlike a love that you might be used to, but it's there to be found. So are the K-pop dance clubs, the golf lessons, and, thankfully, the pharmacies selling those hangover packets.

David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.