About 9 a.m., International Taxi calls to say they couldn’t find a driver that would come to my neighborhood in the rain. “Did you make reservation 146288 last night?” I said yes. “It’s raining,” was the reply.
“So, you will be late?” I asked.
“No, it’s raining,” she said.
“You are not coming?” I asked.
“It’s raining,” she said.
“I made a reservation last night,” I reminded.
“It’s raining,” she said.
“Goodbye. Please enjoy the day,” she said.
I hung up the phone, dumbfounded. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Despite the language barrier, being miles from a subway stop and not having a car, I had appropriately arranged for transportation in advance.
I was pissed. Unreasonably mad, really. While I absorbed missing the event, I maturely emailed Kyle to complain about the taxi company and tell him how dumb living here is (in my defense, I had not eaten, which makes me more unreasonable).
I pressed send. It didn’t help.
30 minutes away was a room full of women. Women that speak English. Women that know how to match clothes. Women that could be my friends. Women that know where to get pedicures. Women that know where to get a haircut. Women that know English speaking housekeepers. Women that know where to get a turkey for Thanksgiving. Women that know how to find Fresca. Women. English. Pedicure. I was not missing this because of rain.
So I did something I almost never, ever, do.
I put on unfortunate shoes.
With my Coach sandals in my purse (you didn’t think I would keep the unfortunate shoes on, did you?) and my shuffle clipped to my sleeve, I left the house on foot in search of a taxi, and was prepared to pantomime the directions and address.
I recalled a conversation with a fellow ex-pat: Taxis were often available at the bottom of the hill. Three taxis, just for spite, passed me while I was still in my neighborhood. They honked when I hailed them.
I attempted to splash through a three way intersection. Whoops, won’t do that again. More honking. Maybe it’s my shoes.
I passed the bus waiting at the bus stop. If I could read Korean I could tell where this bus was going. If I could speak enough Korean, I could ask. I held my breath to avoid inhaling the exhaust and kept walking.
As taxi is dropping a passenger, I grab the door, stick my head in the cab and rattle off all the words I know relating to Seoul Club, “Seoul Club, Hotel Shilla, Ambassdor Hotel, Janchung-dong, Dong Kuk University Station, Namsan Tunnel.” He nods and says ok in English. I realize I am in a damn International Taxi…the company that cancelled on me for rain.
I triumphantly arrived and paid my membership to Cathy from Palo Alto, who provided me a little bow to show others that I was a newcomer. I bought raffle tickets, listened to treasurer’s report, subscribed to a magazine, and listened to the presentation by the guest speaker. I met a woman that lives in my neighborhood.
Turns out, the women of my neighborhood, separate from any of the women’s clubs, get together monthly for a neighborhood luncheon, and the luncheon was today. She invited me to the luncheon and also offered to take me home. She assured me it was ok to show up empty handed. How nice of her. Off we went!
I met more people than I can remember and had a good time. I am looking forward to a pedicure with Dorie and getting the name of her housekeeper. After the holiday, Brigette is showing me where to get dress shirts made for Kyle.
I am glad I didn’t stay in the house and accept defeat.
It’s the little victories. :)sbc
