Three

:

Three days.

Finally, things are starting to settle in. When it’s just another day, it’s hard to get motivated for something still in the future. But, when you start preparing for that future event, it begins to impress both your conscious and subconscious. You’re not going to be here this time next week. You’re not even going to be here this time Tuesday. You’ll be on a plane bound for the other side of the world.

Three days.

Finally, things are starting to settle in. When it’s just another day, it’s hard to get motivated for something still in the future. But, when you start preparing for that future event, it begins to impress both your conscious and subconscious. You’re not going to be here this time next week. You’re not even going to be here this time Tuesday. You’ll be on a plane bound for the other side of the world.

I had my first directly related to South Korea dream the other night. In it, I am in an apartment in one of those tower apartments that are so ubiquitous in Korean cities, somewhere high above. Looking out the window upon the city, I assume Busan, I see in the distance another tall apartment tower. A multi-colored Christmas tree is being reflected on it, a dramatic sign of Korean devotion to the Christmas holiday despite in reality Christmas not being widely celebrated in Korea beyond a federal holiday.

My friend Forrest is also in the apartment. Anyone who knows Forrest, the perennial Princeton graduate student and accomplished beer brewer, knows him to be one of the nicest people around, and not particular chatty until you prod him on a subject. But, here, he seems to be Mr. Man, talking about how he is going to be doing this and that tonight, Mr. Social Scene.

I am sitting on a couch or standing at the window, worried about the coming evening because I have no idea where I am going or what I am doing in South Korea. It’s like those dreams when you’re back in high school even though you haven’t been there in over 10 years. But, you’re the lead in the school play, or you have a major test to do, but you don’t know any of the lines, you don’t know the answers, because you’re actually asleep in your bed and it’s 2010. I keep waiting for Forrest to ask if I would like to tag along, if I could use a tour guide around Busan before he goes and “party’s it up” but he just goes on about how cool he is before leaving the apartment.

DwD., my oldest brother, is there. I ask him what he is doing. He rattles off a list of things he plans on doing at home, with some connection to video games, though he has hardly ever played them. I dismiss the activities, so quick am I to align myself with the “cool” person, even though they have already excused me from the conversation.

It’s around this time I notice Bill Clinton, lover, fighter, former president, in the apartment as well. Like Forrest, he is Mr. Man, but his character is more cartoonish, like a Family Guy representation of it, except he’s not animated. He talks about doing this, doing that, party this, party that, all this the night before I read an article that the 62-year-old just had stents put into his arteries.

As Bill Clinton heads out of the apartment, still talking about “macking it” or something, my other brother, Dan, shakes his head and says, “Man, I wish Bill Clinton was still president.”





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