The monk is as tall as me, and dressed in the simple grey garments that are typical of Buddhism in Korea. Surprisingly, he hasn’t shaved for several days and the black stubble is in stark relief to his gleaming pate. A pair of thick, coke-bottle glasses magnify his eyes and as he walks, he bobs his head left and right, and I can’t help but think of some huge, out-of-place heron, looking for a river to strut along. He heads off down the alley, clutching a book to his chest and as I’m headed in the same direction, I fall in a few paces behind.

A jeep swings into the alley and accelerates toward us. The monk pauses for a second and then calmly slips the book into his left hand and spins and pushes me gently in the chest with his right, forcing me up against the wall. Back against the decades old advertising posters, peeling and faded. The jeep passes in a rush of sticky air and candy wrappers, swirling up from the ground, and the driver nods almost imperceptibly as he passes. “Oknow. It’sok. Smallroad. Toosmallroad. Youareamerican. Areyou? Areyouamerican? Ok!”

And then he sweeps into a shop and is gone.

Posted in Travel on Wednesday May 10, 2006.

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