Still Life

No. 1 — The Guest Who Drew Us

November 17th

It was November 17th. I know this because someone wrote it down — not me.

NOV 17 — Namcheonmaru, Jeonju. Small neat letters in the top corner of a sketchbook page, the kind of note you make when you're moving through a lot of cities and don't trust yourself to remember which day was which.

I don't remember how they came in. Two people, Spanish-speaking. They'd been traveling through Korea for a while, I think — they had the ease of people who had already figured out the basics. They sat down, they looked at the menu, they ordered bibimbap.

The bibimbap comes in a yugi bowl — traditional Korean bronzeware, warm from the kitchen, heavier than it looks. The sauce isn't gochujang. It's a soy-based sauce that's been fermenting for over a decade, darker and quieter than the red paste most people expect. These two couldn't quite get the mixing right, so I did it for them.

They ate, and at some point, without my noticing, one of them started drawing.

She showed it to me before they left. The entrance to the restaurant, seen straight on. The ordering kiosk off to the right, the little plant next to it that I keep meaning to repot. The tile rooftops of the village framed in the doorway on either side. And in the middle, holding a bowl with both hands, a figure in a flower-print apron and a hanbok top with a bow at the collar, checkered trousers, cloth shoes.

Smiling.

I looked at it for longer than felt normal. There's something strange about seeing yourself drawn by a stranger — not a photograph, which is over before you've registered it, but a drawing, which means someone was watching you for a while. Getting the apron right. Deciding where your hands were.

Below the drawing, in two languages. English first: We had our first proper 비빔밥 (bibimbap). Then Spanish: La dueña me ha dicho que se me da muy bien mezclar el bibimbap. ¡Estaba riquísimo!

She'd written that I told her she mixed it well. I did mix it — she just watched. But I suppose that counts.