The smell of change

I arrived at Incheon and it was harsh and cold and there was a smell. My whole life has been defined by the smell of places and this one was not good. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was starchy and sour and seemed to consume my nostrils at every turn. I smelt it inside, outside, as people passed, as people spoke. It made me feel sick and tired and I didn’t care. I thought about turning back, and as quickly as the thought came, it was beaten down. I had done this before. In the end, I’m always glad I did. It can just take a while to get through the cotton wool days at the beginning of travelling alone.

On the bus I snoozed, I vaguely watched the bright signs and neon lights pass in a frantic rainbow of colour. My throat was so tight I couldn’t swallow. I didn’t care. I knew it would pass. But this smell. It was clinging to every molecule of air.

I was met off the bus by what seemed like a crazed man with the most amazing hair comb-over I have ever seen. He was shouting something that vaguely resembled my name so I assumed he was my new boss. He drove me literally 5 metres and then parked. He allowed me to carry my own 12 months worth of baggage to my 6 floor apartment. The hallway looked like a a student dorm. I was bracing myself to live in a cupboard if the closeness of the doors were anything to go by.

My new home was more like a large double room with kitchen. The smell seemed stronger than ever and the room was filled with black bags of what I could only imagine was garbage. My new boss explained that in Korea people don’t clean before they leave – it’s up to the new tenant. Great. And so I cleaned.

Two hours later and I was still scrubbing work tops and floors. I hadn’t even taken my shoes off. The dirt and smell was unbelievable. And then I opened the fridge. I physically fell backwards. It was that same smell – but much much worse. I snuk a look inside the pot and thought I’d found a year old casserole. It had to be removed and was placed outside my front door without a backward glance.

The following day, starting my new job I was overwhelmed with the same stench. The kids smelled of it, and the teachers too. Lunch time came and I noticed a very similar year old casserole type dish to the one I had disgarded the night before. A co-worker approached me with it and offered, smiling. He said “Kimchi?”

Kimchi. Pickled cabbage. Korea’s national dish – served for breakfast, lunch, dinner and the odd snack. The realisation came fast. The dish in my apartment had been left for my arrival. This was one smell I was going to have to learn to love!