subway seat.

I had been reading the same book here for over a month. Nearly every day, Ayn Rands words were a part of my life. There were a lot of pages to read, which meant it took a lot of days, which effectively made it a part of my routine. When I finish a book like that, with an excessive number of pages, and speeches by characters that last seventy pages, I feel triumphant. And I also feel sad. I start to go for the book during the lull times of the day, wondering what new aspect will be revealed to me about one of my favorite characters. And then I catch my mistake, remind myself that it's over, and reach down for whatever book has taken its place.

My newest book is very short, and its contents reside in stark contrast to the writing of Rand. It's more abstract, less concrete, less tangible. Rand would probably have the main character thrown in jail. Or at least get in a fist fight with him. He is a cartographer and monk living in Venice, and receives visits from various travelers aching to tell him of their journeys and their finds; both of their tangible discoveries of the land, and also the experiences they went through while immersed in another culture, that are difficult to articulate and explain.

With each of the confusing and inadequate moments that pass me by, I believe more and more that there is a constant undercurrent running through the base of each of our days that consists of misunderstanding.

For obvious reasons, I have placed myself in perfect circumstances for this phenomenon to exert its presence. I am in a foreign country where my language is not the first, and my attempts to speak theirs are often childish and futile. On one of my first weekends here, we went to see movie, and I wanted to try the chirros, a donut like pastry rolled in cinnamon and sugar. I let the kind man behind the counter know that, and he proceeded to scoop some cheese into the empty pocket of the nacho container for my movie enjoyment. 

Riding the subway in Seoul last weekend, trying to get from somewhere to somewhere else, a random act of kindness helped illustrate this phenomenon in my head. An Ajuma, who is a mother, and typically older, who has earned her badge of respect, is usually nudging others out of their seat. It's the culture here, and it makes sense. But kindness is optional. They often don't even notice lines in the bathroom, meaning, they have reached the point in life where "lines" don't apply to them. These are all grave generalizations, as there are many Mary Poppins like Ajumas roaming the streets every day. They just get less notice. 

When I hopped on to the subway car on the orange line, there were no definable seats. There was an empty section, reserved for the elderly and disabled, and since I am neither, I stood. The Ajuma sitting in a seat next to me pointed to the section, letting me know she wanted me to take a seat there. I appreciated the gesture, but didn't want to break the rules. And before I knew it, she had moved out of her seat, across the isle into another, leaving me room to sit in her place, pointing at the emptiness with the tip of her umbrella. And then she just smiled at me, from below her visor, with the kindest sort of smile. And I was so moved. I genuinely couldn't believe the extent of her kindness.

It's not that people here are rude to me, but for the most part, I get more awkward stares from Ajumas than kind smiles. And the effort she took to help me simply be able to sit really got to me. I was sitting there in my seat, looking at my new Korean hero in her turquoise pants and flower print shirt, trying to find a way to express with words how her kindness made me feel. "Take a picture," I told myself. THAT will capture the moment. And then I began to feel this sinking, it will never be enough sort of feeling. 

I wanted so bad to capture the essence of what I had experienced, through memory, or words, or photography, and then I was reminded of the words I had just read in my book, "A Mapmaker's Dream", that went: 

"I realized at once that this was the form his silence had taken, and he had come to see me in the hope of sharing with me the very strangeness of his experience. To his disappointment, he had discovered that it was impossible to explain how he felt."

It happens in friendships, in marriages, between parent and child. Your mother is trying to tell you that she thinks you look pretty in that dress. You hear her say you don't usually look pretty in anything. A laugh that followed someone's words could be rooted in unacknowledged embarrassment, but interpreted as if you were making light of whatever was said. 

It's a language that's deeper than words, and it rests below the surface of easy explanation; it was written from personal experiences that were solely yours, solely felt by you. You can't google its meaning. This I am learning.

Though the reasoner in me wants to make sense of it, and make sense of everything, I think, maybe, some things just cannot be explained, packaged and neat. And sometimes, an attempt at explaining them negates whatever essence I am trying to capture. Sometimes, when dealing with strangers on the subway and people and life, I must simply be confused, hurt, moved, encouraged, bumfuzzled, thankful. And there is something in the raw acceptance of those feelings void of extreme explanation, and the knowledge that people will be there even when things can't be explained, that makes me feel more alive.