The Strangeness of Kindness

We’d always talked about sticking a sign somewhere on the backs of our bikes.  Nothing fancy, maybe just some cardboard covered in packing tape, explaining who we are and what we’re up to in the native language.  Somehow we never quite got around to it the last time around (living in a tent and biking all day tends to eat up your free time).  This time, though, we were ready.  With the help of our Korean teacher, we made up a laminated sign designed to spark conversations with curious passersby and also reassure them that we are neither hobos nor circus performers, no matter how funny we look:

Translation: We are traveling the world by bicycle!  Let’s share together (conversation/stories, music, food...)!  We speak a little Korean!  Thank you!

By day two of the trip, we were in need of a little tender kindness.  We made it out of Seoul considerably later than we’d planned, and come nightfall we found ourselves with nowhere convenient for camping.  At last, in the middle of a crowded park, we discovered that there was a small, sheltered patch of grass behind a stage.  Not perfect, but we thought it’d do in a pinch.  Not ten minutes after we’d zipped ourselves into the tent, at 10:30 on Saturday night, who should wander by but a practicing saxophonist.  Pleasure at such gentle music to serenade us to sleep quickly shifted into horror as he went on to play “My Way,” no joke, seven or eight times consecutively.  Then, when he finally stopped and we relaxed once more, he began to play again, this time right next to our tent.  He could’ve been inside the tent, for all I know; I refused to open my eyes.  It was a rough night, is what I’m saying.

The next day, we hit the trail early, but four hours of sleep really took their toll.  By midday we were wilting under the hot July sun, and by three o’clock we had to stop for a nap by the roadside.  We were passed, as usual, by a parade of lycra-clad cyclists zipping down the path.  Some of them stopped to read our sign; many of them laughed, and a couple gave us candy to cheer us up.

Just as we were getting ready to saddle up again, a nice-looking middle-aged man pulled up, read our sign, and began to ask us questions about our trip.

“I was hoping to meet someone who could come give a talk about biking at my children’s school,” he told us, and in an instant, Jenn was fully awake.

“We’d love to!” she said.  “But we need a place to camp.  Could we camp at your school?”

“Oh, I’m not a teacher there, but you can camp at my house, no problem.”  He told us to call him Lee, and asked us to follow him to his house, about half an hour down the road.

Lee’s house is a little patch of heaven right next to the bike path, overlooking the sunset over the mountains and the river.  He asked us to set up in a patch of weeds, then suggested we shower before joining the family for dinner.  Reeling at this kindness, we did as he asked (covered in two days of sweat and road grit, the shower was more a courtesy for them than for us).

Between our showers, Lee showed us photos from his family's trip to Death Valley.  When we expressed surprise that someone would choose Death Valley as their vacation destination, he told us it was a Creationism-themed tour, and that Death Valley was a place of note in the Noah's Ark myth (and thus, evidence against the existence of evolution).  I politely asked no follow-up questions.

“My wife will be back from church around 8 o’clock, but until then, let’s start cooking,” he said, and put me to work grilling meat over the fire his kids had built.  We were supervised by the family dogs, who made sure we didn’t waste a single drop of grease.

"You're gonna get an immersive English lesson!" Lee told his kids.  They seemed unimpressed.

The dish I was asked to help cook is one of Korea's specialties, samgyeopsal, sometimes translated in English as "bacon steak."

Just when the meat was all finished, three people walked up to the house and were introduced to us as their priest, his wife, and Lee’s wife, Ji-young.  They explained that they had already eaten after church, and just watched as the rest of us went to town on a pile of meat.  Then, when the meat pile was reduced to rubble, the dinner turned to drinks and the priest and his wife excused themselves.

Over a glass of homemade makgeolli, Lee asked us, "Are you Christian?"  Bill and I stalled out, but Jenn charged in with "I mean, we're American, so..."  Ji-young laughed and slapped the table.  "Of course they're Christian," she chided her husband.  "They're American, everybody in America is Christian."

I kept my damn mouth shut.  If I were to pretend to be any religion, I'd prefer to be Fake Jewish to Fake Christian.  That said, questions like "Are you a Christian?" make me naturally nervous.  Six years living in rural Missouri has taught me that those most prone to asking questions like that are the ones who care pretty hard about what answer you give.

When asked, I wanted to say, "No, absolutely not, and it's downright offensive to say that there are no non-Christian Americans!"  But I didn't want to offend our hosts by starting a screaming match.  Especially when they had shown us such kindness and hospitality.  That is the side of Christianity that six years in Kirksville had not prepared me for: Christianity not as political position or a club with which to menace college students on the quad, but as a philosophy of kindness.  Even the same brand of Christianity that spends thousands on vacations that celebrate the non-existence of basic scientific principles, even this kind can be held by these kind, lovely people who would invite strangers into their home.

“Hey, didn’t you want us to speak at your school?” Jenn asked when the makgeolli had run out and a bottle of tequila opened.

“Oh, my teacher friend didn’t answer his phone,” Lee said.  “Just come back here when you’re coming back to Seoul from Busan.”  We promised we would.

After friending each other on Facebook, of course.