Ethnography of a Subway Ride

11:30. Shoot! Running late, as usual. Not egregiously, mind you -  just a touch. Still, it’ll be enough to warrant a quick text message closer to the destination. The weather has cooled considerably these days, so the walk from the house to the subway station is a pleasant one. Just a few weeks ago, I’d have been fanning myself, wondering if the damp spot in the small of my back bled through my shirt, and blotting my face with those blue slips that become grotesquely transparent. During this late morning, however, a superficial appreciation of the balmy temps will have to suffice.

I conduct my quick survey of indie boutique eye-candy and then count one more Family Mart that has cropped up on our street. This will make giving directions to newcomers much more complicated.

Rounding the corner, it appears that the weekend has taken its toll. The galbi restaurants are all deserted and the cartons full of green soju bottles await pick-up. No one is on this side of the street, which is unusual even for this time of day.

Time to check the cell phone…it is 11:35. I turn now at the other Family Mart and then pick up the pace. The sidewalk cramps in, due to the pojang macha that align the side of the street, gearing up for lunch hour. I’d like to get on a train by 11:40, but this will require some skill and luck.

Exit 4. Hongik University Station. Line 2. This is like the Yamanote Sen of Tokyo – which makes a loop around the city. I tap along the handrail and descend quickly with caution. When I reach the station concourse, my hand searches automatically in my purse for my subway card. A train has just arrived and a flood of people rush towards me. I head straight into the bodies. Turnstiles clunk awkwardly out of rhythm. I see a small opening in space and time and deftly navigate in between the crowds of people – young and old, but mostly young.

My T Money card recently replenished, gives passage to another subterranean level. At the top of the stairs, the muted whirrs of a distant train can be heard, yet it is unclear whether the train is for my side or not. By now I know that left is bound for Sindorim and Seoul National; right is bound for City Hall and the Line 3 transfer. But WHY are those people walking up on the right side of the stairs now? Don’t they know that this is…like, gauche? Hello? Annyeong HASEYO?! I cross-cut my way down some 23 odd steps (not that I’m counting or anything) so that I end up on the left side of the platform.

The announcement confirms that the train is indeed approaching. And, fortunately, it is the one that will take me to my appointment in the next 25 minutes or so. I mark my space behind the yellow line and wonder, who will enter the train first, after the doors open? Will it be the girl in stilettos and baroquely femme dress, the non-descript teenage boy in his school uniform who must surely be playing hooky, the ajumma with her wrapped bundle of something that will make its identity known within the train, or the ethnomusicologist with her deceptively cavernous black purse and plastic zip-up briefcase from Morning Glory? (You thought I’d be number one, now didn’t you?)

The train winds down and after what seems to be an eternity and two full seconds, the doors slide open. Before people even disembark, the ajumma has already claimed the one empty seat on the train. The aroma of kimchi is an olfactory accoutrement. Just for the record, I take silver medal. I scan quickly for middle-schoolers seated, who might, just might give up their seat to an older person in the name of a Neo-Confucian societal order that remains extant in 21st century South Korea. Tough luck. People are fast “asleep” or watching comedy programs on their cell phone TVs.

I settle for my favorite standing nook in the train – which is right in front of the doors,  propped up against the side of the seats. There’s no need to grab onto any poles or handrings – which is good, considering the fear of swine flu that has gripped the nation recently. I might as well take my precautions. Up until Hapjeong, I can check my reflection in the train “mirror.” I do some minor bang adjusting and just before we reach Dangsan, the mirror gives way to a window illuminating the Han River. It’s the best sight on Line 2.

After spacing out for a few moments, I notice the familiar sounds of changjak kugak before the bilingual announcement of the next transfer point. “This stop is Sindorim. Sindorim. You may exit on the left. You may transfer to the dark blue line, Line Number 1. Please make sure you have all your belongings with you when you leave the train.” Five years ago, the transfer MUZAK was of Vivaldi or Boccherini. Nationalism is slowly encroaching upon the Seoul Metro System. Daehan Minguk MANSEI!!!

I see several people adjusting their bags. They’re getting ready to stand up. I set my target and move towards it. I can sit for at least 6 stops, which is better than nothing. After the Sindorim shuffle, the empty seats fill up within seconds. People continue to file in, as this is a major transfer point. By necessity, my downward gaze affixes onto the shoes directly in front of my own. Grungy Converse. I’m good for at least the next stop.

I open my purse and pull out my subway book. This week, it’s Fieldnotes: The Makings of Anthropology. I normally have lite fiction for subway reading, but lately I’ve taken comfort in rediscovering the nuts and bolts of ethnography and its toolkit. The essay entitled, “I Am a Fieldnote” proves vastly engrossing. I’d like to highlight a few passages, but at the moment that seems too nerdy even for me. Instead, I settle for a simulated dog-earring of pages. The process that has enveloped and overwhelmed me during fieldwork in recent weeks suddenly finds empathy and validation.

Despite my attention towards the text, my stubborn ears refuse to filter out the competing soundscapes. K-pop ringtones, girls affecting aegyo with their boyfriends on their cell phones, the subway announcements, the verbose peddler of long pieces of serrated plastic that clear the quagmire out of your sink in one expert swoop, and the recordings of hymnals that wax and wane with the blind beggar slowly progressing from one carriage to the next. I also hear two ajummas in conversation crescendo in proximity. Wait…Uh-oh.

I hold up my book higher so that they might be able to notice the complete absence of Hangul on the cover. Maybe that’s not obvious enough, though. Tilt the book ever so slightly so that they can see the actual text. Yeah, that’s it. This is not an “Introduction to English Grammar” workbook – but a bona fide academic text. In English. Used in American institutions of higher education. Written expressly for a small group of professionals that go by the name, Ethnographer. I desperately want to pull out the “Can’t you see that I’m really a foreigner?” index card inscribed with a black Sharpie that I keep in the inner sanctum of my purse. I consider suddenly falling into a deep sleep when I feel an “accidental” bump of a Ferragamo handbag on my knee. I’m being summoned.

11:57. Check of the cell phone accompanies a mental sigh of exasperation. I need to send that text message anyway. I promptly stand up. “No, no, agasshi, sit down…it’s okay.” I reply that I have to get off at the next stop anyway, and the stylishly coiffed ajumma responds, “Oh really? Well, thanks, then.”

I resume my standing position near the door, send the text message, and get off of Line 2 after three more stops.

12:07. Arrival at Seoul National University station. Not bad for the first appointment of the day.