Let’s be honest: Koreans are the SIDS of Asia.
There is a lifelessness here, a sudden infant death syndrome of the soul that seems to plague the male population. They have the spatial awareness of a brick wall and the manners of a drunk toddler. They step in front of you in line. They stop dead in the middle of high-traffic walkways. They look at you with a blank, glazed-over stare that suggests the lights are on, but the landlord moved out years ago.
And the hustle started the second I hit the curb.
I got taken by a taxi driver. Of course I did. It’s the “Welcome to the Orient” tax. A three-minute ride to the hotel turned into a fifteen-minute scenic route of the industrial district. I got scammed, and I was too tired to argue.
The Vietnam Airlines Gauntlet
Then came the airport.
I couldn’t log onto the cheap website to check in. Thank god for ChatGPT, my only friend, who helped me navigate the digital maze. But the victory was short-lived.
I needed to check another bag. The cost? $200.
But they don’t just take your card at the counter. No, that would be too efficient. They held my passport hostage and made me walk thirty minutes to a payment kiosk in another zip code, then take a shuttle back, just to reclaim my identity. It was a forced march of bureaucracy.
Then, the trek to the gate. Gate 100.
Gate 100 isn’t in the terminal; it’s halfway to North Korea. It is literally at the end of the world. My legs are stumps.
The Weigh-In Terror
And the fear wasn’t over. I’m standing in line to board, sweating, terrified they are going to weigh my carry-on. It’s heavy. It’s packed with the last remnants of my American life.
But the Gods of Travel demanded a sacrifice, and they chose the woman two spots ahead of me.
They pulled her aside. They weighed her bag. She got charged. The distraction was perfect. While they were shaking her down, I slipped past the gate agents like a ghost.
The Final Observation
I’m sitting here now, looking around. The whiteness of the skin here is aggressive. It’s a status symbol, a “colourness” they enjoy. But looking at the men… there is a uniformity that is unsettling. A constant, vacant look in the majority of them. It’s like being in a cloning facility where the quality control guy fell asleep at the switch.
I’m tired. I’m broke. My feet hurt.
But I’m past the gate.
Next stop: Da Nang.
