This is both.
Once, years ago, I was a trusting, freshly divorced, country-bred woman in my forties - just starting the kind of wild, wide-eyed adventure most people take in their twenties. I’d never lived in a city, let alone another country, apart from that of my birth, just a short trip across the ditch away.
But suddenly, there I was: blonde, naive, and in South Korea with a dodgy visa and a head full of curiosity.
Back then, I didn’t hesitate to go to a bar with two strangers I’d known for a month. I didn’t flinch at jumping into a blacked-out limo with self-locking doors. I accepted kindness from Norwegians, sandwiches from strangers, and danced through the world with the unearned confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned what it meant to be cautious.
But I know now. I’ve changed. The world has too.
Maybe that’s why this story surfaced again - not just to entertain, but to ask: when did we stop trusting each other?
Over twenty years ago, I lived in South Korea - a bold, slightly rebellious little blonde (emphasis on little, despite what my attitude might suggest), teaching English and unknowingly collecting the kind of stories that later make people blink twice and say, “Wait, what?”
I had two close friends at the time ... a warm-hearted Korean man who acted as our unofficial translator, guide, and cultural lifeline, and a charming Canadian gent who had long since kicked the bottle and now lived life exclusively on Coca-Cola, The Big Book and virtue. God Bless him. A dear friend. The three of us were inseparable - a sort of international odd trio navigating kimchi, classroom chaos, and occasional karaoke. In my case, minus the kimchi. The Three Muskateers we called ourselves.
One evening, we found ourselves in a bar .... as you do .... and after a few rounds of soju for my Korean friend and me (and several litres of Coke for our Canadian, who clearly didn't miss hangovers), he called it a night. That left just the two of us, buzzed and giggly, when a group of very well-dressed Korean men approached and invited us to a private club downtown.
Now, in hindsight, a blacked-out limo with self-locking doors sounds like a cautionary tale on wheels. But at the time, it just sounded… exclusive. Almost windswept and exotic. So off we went, the little Aussie teacher and her cheerful fixer, into the night like characters in a slightly off-brand Bond film.
The club was opulent. Dimly lit, whisky flowing, pole dancers performing with the grace of gymnasts and the style of Vogue models. I was mesmerised. These women were breathtaking .... ethereal, lithe, the kind that make you check your own posture.
And then came the whisper: "They're all ladyboys."
I nearly dropped my soju. “All of them?”
“All of them.”
It was like discovering unicorns were real ... and they wore heels better than I did.
By dawn, we emerged a little tipsy, slightly bewildered, but entirely unharmed. We walked beside the Han River, watching the first light rise over the city. My friend turned to me and said with a wry grin: “Well, you just spent the night with the Korean mafia.”
Of course I did. I just hadn't known it.
Not me - I never wore sunglasses at night. Damn, Life is a bitch.....
But fate wasn’t finished with me. Not long after, a small bureaucratic detail emerged: I didn’t technically have the right visa to be working in Korea. The government, not being the sentimental type, deported me ... swiftly and politely .... to Osaka, Japan, where I was to wait four days for the next flight home.
Here’s the kicker: I had no yen. Only a wallet full of Korean won, which, in Japan, might as well have been bottle caps. And so, I became a temporary baglady at Kansai Airport. My home? A discreet spot behind a generous potted plant. My meals? Creative. My look? Early '00s Borderline Criminal Chic. At first, it was an adventure. An unexpected hiccup that would end happily.
Each day, I scoured the departure boards, approaching passengers headed to Korea to quietly trade won for yen - my own little black-market bureau de change. It was humbling. It was absurd. But it was also, strangely… lovely.
Kindness found me.
By day two, I was downcast. Still mildly attractive and looking more forlorn than defeated. Two sunburned Norwegian backpackers offered me breakfast that morning .... silently assessing the situation and wordlessly deciding I looked like someone who hadn’t eaten anything solid since the Eureka Stockade. They didn’t ask questions. Just eggs, smiles, and the quiet camaraderie of the slightly lost.
Later, a sweet older British couple spotted me behind my ficus and, sensing either mild distress or theatrical collapse, brought sandwiches and sympathy. We talked. We laughed. They clucked and patted my hand like I was a wayward niece who had eloped with a Yugoslavian juggler. When their flight was called, they gave me their leftover yen and wished me “all the very best, dear.”
And through it all? No threats. No sleaze. No one stole my bag, my passport, or my dignity (though that last one was wobbling by Day 3).
Decidely wobby. In fact, the meals ran out and my meal ticket was over. I could smell myself. A bad sign.
To the people who sat beside me on that flight, I am so sorry. I was offended as well if that helps. Redhead ushered me to a bath on my arrival home and donned a hazmat suit. No hugs that night, I can assure you. Just a quick " Well, off to the bath for you and we'll hug later. "
Years later, it has made me wonder.
Would I have been treated the same way in London, or New York, or Sydney? Would strangers have offered me meals and money behind a ficus in Terminal 3 of Heathrow?
Maybe. Maybe not.
But back then, in that quiet, strange in-between world of airports, basement Bond Bars and accidental naivity, I was shown nothing but grace - from mafia men with velvet ropes to backpackers with big hearts.
I came home eventually. A little wiser. A little smellier. Grateful for legal visas, less so for Korean whisky, and the unexpected kindness of strangers who didn’t ask for backstories - just asked if I’d eaten.
It’s only now, with years and wisdom piled on like layers of old luggage, that I see the full story.
Back then, I was freshly divorced. A country girl who’d never lived in a city, suddenly loose in the world at an age when many have already done their backpacking, made their mistakes, and packed them neatly away. I was a late starter. Eager. Trusting. A little foolish. A little fearless.
Today, I wouldn’t do any of it. I wouldn’t take that job without checking the visa twice. I wouldn’t go to a bar with strangers I'd known a month. I wouldn’t step into a black limo with men in sharp suits. I wouldn’t even eat a sandwich offered by two kind Norwegians or a lovely old couple from Surrey.
Because the world has changed.... and so have I.
We lock our doors now. And more than that, we lock our hearts. And no wonder.
Perhaps I was safer in Asia because the people there lived by a different code - or perhaps those people, like me, have also changed with the world. Grown harder. Less open. More guarded.
And maybe that’s why these memories are pressing at me now. Because they come from a time when trust was still an option. When kindness wasn’t suspect. When adventure didn’t come with disclaimers.
In remembering who I was then, I’m reminded of what we’ve all lost .... not innocence, exactly, but something close: the ability to believe that most people mean well.
And what a thing that is to mourn.
I sometimes think I was safer with the Korean mafia and a bottle of imported whisky than I would be today with a group of rowdy footy lads outside a nightclub. At least the mafia locked the limo doors for me, and poured decent drinks.
