Free Sad Peninsula by Mark Sampson

problem? You would think by now you’d ask me to go on a date with you.”
    My problem? My problem is you slept with Rob Cruise. My problem is I’m a fucking mess. “Jin, will you go on a date with me?”
    She lowers her head. “No. You’re not my type.” I feel as if I’ve fallen through the floor to land on the floor below. “That was a joke,” she says, looking up. I laugh weakly. “Look, tell me something,” she goes on. “Did Rob Cruise take you back to Itaewon since the night we met?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd did he take you to Hongdae yet?”
    â€œHe has.”
    â€œAnd let me guess — you guys always go for kalbi at that dumpy restaurant near your apartments and drink soju until you can’t stand up straight.”
    â€œWe were there last night.”
    â€œ Ugh . So predictable! You need to see the real Korea, Michael.” She takes out a pen and piece of paper from her purse and writes on it. “Meet me here, at Anguk Station. It’s near the top of the Orange Line on the subway. Tomorrow at two o’clock. Exit 3. Don’t be late.” She taps the paper before sliding it across the table at me. “And there’s my handphone number.”
    Then she hurries off before I can say anything else.
    S he was one of Rob’s conquests. She was. But she is not the same as the rest. She isn’t. She is … what?
    The next day I dress in my least frumpy clothes and concern myself with remembering what Jin had said: two o’clock at Exit 3, or three o’clock at Exit 2? I’m certain I know the answer, but to be safe I arrive at Anguk Station by two and bring a book along in case I’m wrong or she’s late.
    She is not late. She pushes her way through the turnstiles, a purse over her shoulder, and hustles over when she spots me leaning against the wall of the marble foyer with my book. Grabs me by the wrist without greeting. “Come here, Michael, I want to show you something,” she says.
    She pulls me back to the turnstiles and nods at a Korean couple who have come through and are now stopped to gawk at a shop window full of Korean bells and masks and other knickknackery. The man and woman are, alarmingly, dressed in identical clothes — baby blue golf shirts with bright yellow collars, beige pants, and spotless white sneakers — and they’re gaping at the objects in the window with a hand in each other’s back pocket.
    â€œHoneymooners.” Jin rolls her eyes. “So obnoxious. We have this silly tradition in Korea to dress in the same clothes as your spouse when you’re on your honeymoon. It’s supposed to be romantic but I think it looks ridiculous. Don’t you agree?”
    â€œThey do look a bit foolish.”
    â€œUgh. I’m embarrassed by how sentimental my country can be sometimes.” She looks at me with a flip of her hair. “What do Canadians do on their honeymoon?”
    â€œI have no idea,” I answer honestly.
    We ascend out of the subway stop and onto the sidewalk. We take a left onto a wide, long cobblestone street that’s been closed off to weekend traffic and turned into a massive marketplace for Korean artwork and crafts. “This is Insadong,” Jin tells me with relish as we stroll. “It’s the heart of cultural Seoul and my absolute favourite neighbourhood. This is the kind of place Rob Cruise and those guys would never take you.” I cringe at the sound of his name, but she’s right: there is an air of ancient artistry here that Rob would have little interest in. I notice the numerous alleys that stray off from the main drag of Insadong, alleys that look as though they suck you back to the Korea of five hundred years ago. We come across kiosks in the middle of the street selling jewellery and calligraphy brushes and rows of pottery. Jin speaks to each of the proprietors with clicks of Korean as she