Andrea in the Far East: Night One

Intense silence

As she walked in the room

Her black robes trailing

Sister of the moon

Stevie Nicks

Andrea got off the second leg of the flight to Seoul around 14:30 on Tuesday, military time. She had quasi-slept, faded somewhere into her subconscious, for an hour and a little. Andrea was not a heavy explorer of her subconscious, more like she knew it was there. On the flight, up there under an ocean of ozone, black window spiders jousted with a velvet gloved countess and bunches of green grapes for supremacy of the space. That was all fine, she was essentially sober, Mr. Brown had been rendered comatose by hour one, and as she rolled into customs she felt, if not exactly happy, at least ready. Ready for the industry conference and its banalities, ready for the Lotte Hotel downtown with its wall of kimchi options at breakfast, ready, even, for a puleun or two. Maybe. We’ll just have to see.

The conference “event” is set to kick off at 8 Wednesday morning, and Andrea had no intention of being on time. Events, by and large, are well planned and poorly designed. They are programmed to run and be completed, and the narrative arc conception is, well, bad. The Seoul event would be no different. “An event should be eventful,” someone once told here, and Andrea had held on to that guy like a tailsman. And, sometimes when the event lacks eventfulness, well, you gotta inject a little of that yourself. She giggled at the thought; the possibilities were many. She got game, our girl. Watch the f*** out boys.

Why don’t you ask him what’s going on?

Why don’t you ask him if he’s going away?

Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?

Lindsey Buckingham

Jump cut on account of a lazy writer. Sorry Andrea, you just lost several hours. That’s the breaks baby.

10:47 PM, Andrea is on the STREET. Can’t learn it in the office, gotta learn it on the STREET. Monsieur Puleun 1 is strolling with a feathered friend on the boulavard. Site of a protest from earlier in the day that Andrea missed. Another peanut tantrum? Korean scandels are unrivaled in their bizarre and byzantine nature. And, the assassin chick of the brother of the NK head dude wore an LOL shirt. So 2017. Check the video. Check the record/ check the guy’s track record. (Le) homo sapien sapiens, them’s bizarre. Puleun 1 sees Andrea; she sees him. Opportunity presents itself–Andrea, she needs a token, a takeaway, a reminder that she was here at all.  At the “event” site no doubt volunteers are cross-stressing before cross-dressing. Could not care less—that’s all paid for by the company. Event spaces are super permeable. So is the puleun. Andrea swings into action.

“My friend, do you know how to get to Sungnyemun?”

“Yes I do. Go with me?”

Andrea pondered. On the one hand, well, you know. Street guy? Seriously? And on the other, well, she is on vacation. A. B, she has her needs. Not what you are thinking brother. Andrea’s needs are a little more, well, esoteric. For lack of a better word.

“For a little while. Let’s walk.” Andrea slips her arm under his and feels him thrill to her touch. Hooking, hooking is easy. She’s a natural. It’s pretty clear.

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Andrea Flies to Seoul, South Korea

5C105D1B-5CAA-4FA7-B455-35E91B1ADB53She’s got the Eye of Fatima/ on the wall of her motel room.

Camper Van Beethoven

The plane eased into its docking point, 15 minutes late. Andrea wasn’t fretting; she’d been around a bit and knew that things sometimes worked. Other times, well they didn’t.

She was not on the run, not exactly anyway. Nonetheless, the 27 hour trip from Buenos Aries to Seoul via Atlanta would put half a world of distance between her and M. Azur. Welcome distance for Andrea, as the formerly desultory attentions of her blue friend had recently taken a turn for the more incessant. In short, he was calling her daily, one thin pretext after another. “Everything’s thin,” she mused, and M. Azur could thin paint. A classy guy who makes decisions and implements is what she needed, not some milquetoast beta-male in the medical tubing industry.  For Christ’s sake already. So Seoul beckoned, and the plane, the plane was late.

Andrea scratched her nose, adjusted her glasses. The turnaround crew would need 20, 25 minutes minimum to turn the plane over for the flight. A quick scan of her messages showed three new bleats from her would-be paramour. Pretext, text, contex—still a no. She could handle herself, could Andrea. “Many apologies, I have been so busy,” she texted. “Dinner meeting is not possible this week. Tubing sales are up—talk again.” M.Azur would be a blue mist in no time. Ground staff opened pre-boarding, and Andrea, zoned in section 4, made a lateral move into zone 3 to make sure her carry-on had the room it needed. “Who’s better than me?”

Andrea is settled into her seat, 14A, a window seat. Bottle of water, headphones and a sleeping mask. Structured correctly, a plane flight can be made to feel like an undersea journey. All it requires is a little imagination. Read more