Reading Hemingway’s piece, An Agent of Evil made me laugh out loud. I’m not sure why, now, because I’ve read it before and I didn’t laugh out loud then. It made the girl on the next table look up, and she had very red eyes, redder than I’ve ever seen outside of vampire B-movies. Her friend was very young and very beautiful and had the warm smile and cold eyes of many girls who are very young and very beautiful and know it. The wife of the bar’s owner was also very beautiful when I first met her a year ago, but it’s been a hard year for them, and it’s showing, as if the face of an older self is pushing through from beneath.
The walk home takes me along a road where new media firms rub shoulders with old, discreet brothels, although there was nothing discreet about the working girl squatting on the sidewalk as she chatted on her handphone, or about the pimp watching over her as I made my way past. Moments before, I’d been courteously greeted as I stopped to watch a temporary Buddhist pavilion being set up next to the road. In Thailand, I met young Westerners who were still hoping to find ‘authenticity’, but this is authenticity.
It looks like I might get a short contract freelancing in Korea between the end of my studies in Beijing and the start of the MBA; I hope so, because it would pay well, and I could use the money. Plus, from the very little time I’ve spent in Korea, I liked it and I would quite like to go back to see more. Well, fingers crossed.
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