Day 212: I Remember Those Robes

I'm taking part in a 30-day grief writing course. This is day 21. Write about something I remember. Pick one thing and go.

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September 28, 2014

 

I remember those robes. Those ridiculous robes. Not at all silk. More like Grandma's very outdated curtains. Highly flammable, I'm sure. We find them hanging on sturdy wooden hangers at the first ever motel we stay in together. We decide to take a trip to Gwangju, about a 1.5 hour drive from Hadong. We each have friends to visit, and an overnight trip away seems like fun. 

We meet your friend and two Korean friends of his. Women. (How did you know him? I can't recall. He was tall. Bald. Handsome face.) We have tacos and later tea at a tea house with them. Our tea comes in different cups accompanied by a little wooden animal on the saucer. We are not allowed to take them home.

Your tea is fruity, and the waitress explains it "makes man's pee powerful." Traditional story states that some very important man drank this same tea, and the next morning he broke his chamber pot with the sheer force of his urine stream. Whoa. I can't wait to hear the goings on of you using the bathroom the next morning. It proves...uneventful. Porcelain spared. Liars.

After tea we dance in the alley on the way back to the car, and later you write a poem about it. You ask the Korean women what one calls one's sweetheart, and we are delighted to learn the direct translation: "love person." We start calling each other "love person." This is in your poem. 

It is well into the evening when we reach our car, and we realize we haven't a clue where to stay for the night. One of the women offers to ride with us and take us to a place nearby- "Evergreen Motel." It is cheap, she says, about 45,000 won for the night.

A modest place along the river and close to downtown, Evergreen Motel is fairly typical of any inexpensive "love motel" sprouting up all over the country. Nothing feels too shady about checking in at the little window, but we do receive a plastic zippered kit with all the amenities: razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, hair bands, and 2 condoms. A welcome gift, if you will.

The room feels like a throwback to a 1960s movie set. Shiny wallpaper, heavy gold brocade bedspread, dark wood paneling. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale laundry. And those robes.

Mine is in the rose-family of colors. Yours is dusty blue. The performers in us are in those robes and taking ridiculous photographs before our bags hit the floor.

"Oooh! Mine has a sash! Does yours have a sash?" I yelp.

"Does mine have a sash? Look at this exquisite knot I've tied!"

"That is impressive! Did you learn that in boy scouts?"

"I learned THIS in boy scouts!" And you proceed to make a ridiculous pose- left foot on the bed, left elbow on your left knee, eyebrows raised, right hand on your hip.

"Oh! That's fantastic! I learned THIS from my GRANDMA!" And I make an equally ridiculous pose, meant to be so unsexily-sexy that our attraction parts would recoil. I can't quite recall the exact pose, but it involved a doorway.

"Oh! Let's take a portrait!" I suggest.

"YES. Great idea."

The camera is set up on the counter, just above the tiny fridge with the two cold cans of orange juice and the one large bottle of water. (provided) My robe makes hideous swishing sounds as I run from the camera to the bed where you are already sitting in a noble pose, leaning on your left thigh, right hand on your knee. I jump up and kneel at your side, placing my chin on your left shoulder.

"These robes are so SHINEEEEEEE!" I mumble through my camera-grin. Click. I run to the camera and hit the button again. Flip on the lights. Swish. Swish. Swish. Hop on the bed. Click. Perhaps the cheesiest faces we are able to make.

"Who has fun doing things like this?" you ask. 

"We do!" I grab your face with both hands and plant a big one on the side of your head.

"Let's do a standing pose. A really bad one," you suggest. 

"Oh! Let's!"

I hop off to set the camera up again and you swat me on my backside. "Hey, you!" I yell. I hit the button on the camera again and leap over to where you are. Like we had been practicing for days to be on the cover of an appalling romance novel, we slide instantly into place, your left hand behind my neck, right hand around my waist. I'm looking up for a kiss, but you're looking at the camera like, "Oh, yeah...I am a sexy man and this is what sexy men do!" Click.

This is the one that almost makes us pee our pants laughing. Who has fun like this? We do. You. Me. Those ridiculous robes. That smoky motel room. That harsh lighting.

I remember it. I remember all of it. I remember what it was to have incredible fun with you. To recognize the children in each other and not be afraid to play. To recognize the adult in one another and not be afraid to love deeply.

I remember this. I remember you.