seeing the light

This isn’t the first time a middle-aged foreigner has asked me to run away north with him. When I lived in Stanley, a little river town in the Idaho Sawtooths, a group of European men went rafting as part of their company convention based in Boise. On the trip, a certain Rudy from Norway became smitten with me, aided perhaps by the eleven B-52s he insisted on sharing with me, and asked me to join him in Montana as his “traveling partner.” While I declined, I like to think of myself as having a certain global appeal.

“So you will buy the two kebabs,” Rahim said. “To help the plan.” Or maybe not. But yesterday, Rahim inspired me to make a certain change in my life which had nothing to do with the Canucks. I’d taken off my glasses to polish them with my shirt, partly because they needed a wipe-down, and partly because it’s a habit and I do it at least fifteen times a day. If there’s ever a statue built of me, I’ll most likely be immortalized in the iconic glasses-polishing pose.

“Ah!” Rahim said, peeking out at me from behind a slab of lamb. “The no-glass face has more beauty!”
I considered myself in the reflection of his polished steel counter. “You think?”
“Yes, it is certain,” he confirmed. “I am the expert.”

It got me thinking. Due to an unfortunate childhood incident involving my older brother and his detached retina, I’ve had what you might unscientifically call an eye thing. It’s not that I don’t like eyes. Truthfully, I think they’re one of the most compelling features in another person. But after seeing what I saw when I was nine, I’ve just never been able to consider actually touching an eyeball—mine or anyone else’s. But there are lots of things I never did before Korea that I do now. Eat mushrooms, for example, or drink before noon. (Kidding, Mom.)

Feeling brave, I go to the optometrist today, conveniently located in the basement of the Lotte Mart. Two salesmen/doctors glance up at me and back down to their paperwork, pretending I’m not there, before an intrepid young man in a skinny tie approaches. “Ahnyeung haseo,” he says, and I reply in kind.

I’m not sure how to phrase my request, because I don’t want to insult him with caveman pigeon if he speaks proper medical English, but nor do I want to resort to charades before it becomes necessary. I decide to shoot for the moon. “I’m interested in contact lenses,” I say. “Can we talk about options and expenses?” He gives me a pleasantly blank look and shakes his head. I’m not sure if he’s denying my request or just confused, so I scale it down a bit and try again. “I want contact lenses,” I say, taking off the glasses.

“Lenses,” he says, pointing at the ones in my glasses frames.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Ne. Eyeglasses, aneeyo.” I make an X with my arms to emphasize that point. “Eye lenses.” To help, I hold my thumb and index finger about a centimeter apart and point at my iris.
“Yes, eyes,” he says.
“Eye lenses.”
“Okay.”

He nods, and gestures for my glasses, then goes behind the counter and into a back room with them. I hope I get them back. Sure enough, the young man comes back with them and sticks them in a little machine, and apparently that’s all it takes to get contacts, because then he directs me to a mirror and a stool. “Down,” he says, which I choose to take as “Please have a seat, miss.” I do, and he gets out a little contact kit with two dimples for the lenses and a bigger area into which he pours what I assume is saline solution, though there’s no way to know for sure. I’ve never had contacts before, so maybe there’s a step I don’t know about.

“You hand,” he says, so I extend my digits obediently. I feel a little like a Labrador. Down! Stay! Shake! With a tweezer, he places the clear, convex disk on my index finger. “In the eye,” he says. I take a deep breath, and he watches with amusement, completely unaware that I’m confronting a deep-seated aversion right now. I get my the lens about two inches from my eye and am stumped. How does it stick? I look at him again.
“How?” I say.
“In the eye.” Helpful.

I lift my arms in that W-shape, which I’m pretty sure is the universal sign for I feel like an idiot but I really don’t know what’s up right now. He laughs at me. “Make big the eyes.” He takes off his own glasses and shows me how to open my eye super wide, and then place the lens right on top of my very much exposed eyeball. I give it another shot, make big the eyes, and oh gross I’m touching it! And I can’t finish the job. The salesman laughs at me, rinses the contact, and gives it back. “Hana, duel, set,” he says. I’m supposed to hold it on my eye for three seconds. So I try again, but this time I blink reflexively and mess it up again. He sighs, less amused now, and rinses it again. And again, and then one more time. With each attempt, he varies the instruction as much as his vocabulary allows. “Look and see,” he says. And then, “Eyes up.” “See the eyes.” On the eighth try, I get it to stick. “Asah,” he breathes. "Okay." I wonder if he gets commission. I hope so. But I’m getting better: the left one takes only six tries, and then he makes me take them out, which I manage to do without any significant optical damage.

He’s putting together a little contact accessories kick, which is pink and sparkly, because this may be a doctor’s office, but it’s still Korea. I notice he’s only giving me one. “Are these disposable?” I ask.

Again, he shakes his head blankly. I draw a cylinder shape in the air a foot over the ground, pluck something invisible from my eye, and cast it into the imaginary garbage can. “Aneeyo,” he says, firmly. “Not the away.”

After another heroic round of Optical Charades, I am able to ascertain that I can wear these for three months, and—thanks to the miracle of health insurance—it only costs me 30,000 won. On top of this, I’ve put the eye thing behind me, and I’m already looking forward to getting home and getting behind the wheel of my old Volkwagon and not having to face the choice between clarity of vision with snow blindness, or not squinting into the sun, but taking road signs on faith. There’s something to be said for facing fears.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 26, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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