When I arrived in Korea in 2004, my basic training “battle buddy” Blanco and I would jump into Taxis and tell the driver to go.

“Odi ga?”

“Anywhere.  Just go.”

“Mo?”

“That way.”

Then the driver would issue a disapproving hiss through clenched teeth.  You can always tell when a Korean is cursing because they sound as though they’ve sprung a leak.

Blanco and I would ride until we didn’t know where we were anymore, until we were good and lost, then stop to explore the real Korea.  Outside of military bases around the world there is always a “ville”, an overpriced town crammed full of clubs, cheap goods, cheaper whores and sticky with liquor.  Many American soldiers stationed there would wallow in these shit-holes and then complain that there was nothing to do, that the country sucked.  They may have had a different experience had they hiked to the Buddhist shrines atop the near Mount Soyosan, practiced their best Korean in the college-saturated Sinchon area of Seoul, sampled some fresh gaegogi (dog meat) with their Korean counterparts, buried their toes in the volcanic-sand beaches on the island of Jejudo, or even visited the clean red-light district that challenges anything one might see in Amsterdam only one street over from the enormous Yongsan train station.  A train station, by the way, that’s so big it houses a mall and a small, free, and very active amphitheater.

I extended for a total of three years in Korea.  Blanco left after one.  We were battles and for much of that first year we were inseparable adventurers.  We’d been together since the first day of basic when he dropped a wall locker’s drawer breaking his toe and leaving me to carry his junk for the next couple of weeks.  We shared our inside joke referencing an instance when one drill sergeant found a surprise left by a private on the floor behind a wall locker.  “That’s poo, Battle!”  We went out nearly every weekend together.  There was the time we ended up in the country where Americans were cryptids, like the chupacabra or bigfoot, and the brother of the tiny bar’s owner bought us soju until we had at least quadruple vision.  The time when Blanco passed out drunk after telling the taxi driver to “balle balle” (hurry hurry) just before curfew, then battered me as his limp body bounced around in the back seat for 30 minutes during the terrifying race around the disturbingly narrow roads through the mountains’ blind corners and single lane rock catches.  The time Blanco introduced me to tequila and I passed out curled around the toilet hole in the train’s bathroom floor threatening Koreans who cursed me through the locked door then punching my battle for taking my seat in a nearly empty train car.

Were we alcoholics?  Technically.  But really we were just young men far from home for the first time.

Blanco missed out on the $400 monthly incentive pay that lured me in.  Ok, so I enjoyed Korea —I often hated the Army— but I liked Korea.  I got married there.  I had my first (rented) house there.  I studied taekwondo there.  I was promoted to sergeant there.  I got my ass kicked and went into debt there.  I lived in Korea.

Before spending the night off post or going anywhere farther south than Uijeongbu we were required to request a pass.  Blanco and I were instead fond of taking a “whether pass”, the only kind of pass we ever took, that was dependent on whether or not we got caught taking it.  One weekend we took a whether pass south to Itaewon, a district of Seoul frequented by foreigners for its nightlife.  We took the obligatory first rounds at Gecko’s American-style sports bar where I mistook a New Zealand school teacher for an Australian.  “Never confuse a Kiwi for an Aussie!” she rebuked.  We hopped our way down the street, past places with brilliant, happily flashing lights and others almost too seedy for description.  We jostled our way up the steep narrow steps of the dance club Helios.

I could feel pressure from the bass and the humidity from heavily breathing sweaty dancers.  The glossy wood everywhere reflected the wild lights which seemed somehow to darken the shadows shrouding most of the place.  In the middle of the floor, dancing alone, was a beautiful Japanese girl.  Too beautiful, I thought, to be dancing alone.  I watched for awhile waiting for her boyfriend to show up, but he never did.  There was no way the most beautiful girl in the place was without escort!  I was and have never been a dancer, but I’ve been known on very rare occasion to spastically wiggle in the presence of women and alcohol.  I had not yet partaken enough of the latter to overcome my awkwardness.  With a little prodding from Blanco, I plowed my way to the bar for a few shots.  In times of dancing desperation vertigo is as good as rhythm.  I approached the girl and began —the wiggle.  I wiggled to the left.  I wiggled to the right.  I wiggled in front until she noticed and laughed.  Then we wiggled together.

I discovered that I was in multiple ways an idiot.  That there were many types of Asians and that this one, who spoke no English whatsoever, was Thai.  That body language said much more than what her Korean friends translated for us and that it didn’t require much speaking to have a blast.  That the shadows were ideal for methods of kissing my naive tongue knew not.  We wiggled some more, and then it happened.  I wiggled my way right in front of a staff sergeant in my platoon.  Busted.  The sergeant said little, but what he said made my skin a few shades paler.  “Have fun.  I’ll see you Monday.”

Blanco and I decided to play as hard as possible for our remaining hours of freedom for we knew the gravity of our offense.  Hours and alcohol went by.  More wiggling.  Blanco and I got separated as his hunt continued.  Some shadow time.  Further wiggling.  Suddenly it was 0100 Saturday morning.

At that time the Second Infantry Division had a strictly enforced curfew for soldiers, midnight on weekdays and 0100 on weekends.  Gangs of military police, Korean police, and the “volun-told” courtesy patrol, sergeants and officers irritated by the intrusion into their own playtime, roamed areas frequented by soldiers for the wayward.  My new friend and I leaned hard on each other as we made the slow descent down those deadly stairs.  As we turned the corner, I was met with terror.  There, taking up most of the wide walkway, was a circle of MP, KP, and CP.  I nearly peed.  They were surrounding someone and focusing most of their attention on him.  I took a deep breath.  I pulled my cap low and canted, pressed my lips to the girl’s cheek, bent my knees slightly and tried to walk like an Asian.  I know, it’s racist, but it was my exact thought!  We strolled by brushing fate’s uniforms and snuck a peak through a gap in the circle.

Blanco!  He was being interrogated in the middle of the street after curfew!  He was waving his Mexican passport around and switching between dopily speaking broken English and anxiously spitting out his native Spanish.  He saw us passing and like a true showman and trusted battle buddy simultaneously turned up the volume and the confused stammering as the Thai girl’s friends pulled up just beyond the circle with the getaway car.  They had met Blanco and were desperately wanting to save him, but I knew he had made his decision by his silent glance.  After a few seconds of confusion and tangled limbs, we sped off.  Well played, Battle.

I never found out the girl’s name.  If I asked, I don’t remember.  It didn’t much matter to either of us.  I didn’t get her number and frustratingly we never hooked up though we ran into each other twice more.  Once was at the same club, Helios.  She drank so much that my then oh-so-masculine 135 pound frame had to carry her down those damned stairs!  I suspect this is where my penchant for petite women came from.  We went back to where she was staying with her friends, but she passed out early.  Strike two.

The Army kept a public list of places deemed off-limits for soldiers.  I took a copy and endeavored to visit as many of these fine establishments as possible.  The entire Hongdae area of western Seoul was off-limits and for good reason.  It was awesome!  Wikipedia describes Hongdae as “known for its indie spirit, urban street arts and underground band musicians.”  And clubs.  Lots of clubs.  We went there as often as we could, and that is where I was pleasantly shocked with my third encounter with the Thai girl.  Somehow I locked onto her through the mash of strobing faces.  That smile.  Things were going well until early morning when her friends literally dragged her away.  Strike three.  I never saw her again.

And what of the sergeant that spotted us at Helios?  He called us over to his tank that Monday and asked if we had a good time.  He let us sweat a bit, then quietly let us off with warning.  He knew the deal.  We were young, we were battles, and we had each other’s back.