Airports are the best place to people watch. Not that I’m creepy or anything—it’s not like I’m leering at people—I just like to see. I’m sitting in one of those chains of chairs that always fill terminal waiting areas. There’s a little girl and her mom across from me. The girl is about five, wearing a dress her mom probably forced her into to impress some family member at their destination. She’s giggling, climbing over and under the chairs with no thought for the Little Mermaid underwear her travels keep exposing. No one’s taught her to be modest yet. The mom glances at her disapprovingly but then ignores her and turns the next page in a cheap-looking novel.

No one can see me. I’m nondescript so I’m invisible.

I didn’t think about what I’d do once we landed. Because thinking about what I’d do is something I would do, and doing what I would do hasn’t really worked out. But I’m pretty sure most people would plan for this—not just me. Maybe I don’t have to go against ALL of my natural inclinations. Some make sense. Like, knowing where I’m going to sleep.

I watched a businessman wave at an expensive looking black car. It stopped and he climbed in without a word, which seemed rude. Then a family waved down an identical black car and I understood—these are what Korean taxis look like. They’re not like the hideous bright yellow black-checkered cars in America. For the first time in my life, I hailed what I hoped was a taxi. It stopped. So…that probably means I was right. I opened the door and swung my backpack into the black leather backseat before I climbed in next to it. The driver looked at me expectantly. And I wish I knew Korean.

“Hotel?” I say uncertainly. The driver looked at me expectantly. “Hotel? To sleep?” I pressed my hands together and put them next to my cheek. The driver looked at me expectantly. And with confusion. I sit back against the seat and motion for him to go. We pull out into the street. I’m on my way.

The buildings are boxy and beige in Jeju. And they seem over labeled. There are large, square Korean characters posted all over the buildings--banners, neon lights, signs—and they completely cover most of each beige building with bright colored characters.

It seems like the island is basically one big city. The buildings aren’t very tall—no skyscrapers. Just boxy and beige. The cars look like they’re all from the 80’s--they’re small and boxy, too.

People can see me now. I’m the white girl. Suddenly nondescript is unique.

Jeju smells like fish. It’s pretty bad. I mean, it is an island. And islands tend to be surrounded by sea…where fish live. So, it makes sense. It’s just, it makes the air so heavy. There’s a weight in the air in Jeju. I’m very aware of being enveloped in air. Humid, fishy, but somehow clean, heavy air. The instant I walk outside it absorbs me. My skin is instantly dewy. And I say dewy because it has a better connotation than moist does, but moist would work, too, I guess. It’s just, I don’t want it to seem like Jeju is unpleasant. It’s not. It’s just that the air is so unusual. The constant humidity clears up my skin and gives it a constant glow, which is weird. Because it smells like fish.

Sometimes I wish I could be like the girls here. They’re so good at being girls! They wear 50’s style dresses—full skirts with a fitted bodice. Lots of puffed sleeves, empire waists, flower-prints, and bright colors. And parasols? All the girls have parasols—delicately embroidered, femininely patterned parasols to protect them from the sun. And they have fans, too. They’re like Victorian girls with their parasols and fans. They took the most feminine aspects of the most feminine times—the 50’s and the Victorian age—and put them together! And they giggle so softly but they still cover their mouths with one hand. And they’re so small and delicate. They’re all skinny. Why can’t I be a girl?