It’s been 20 years since I came through this place—this airport with its flickering fluorescent soul and overpriced coffee. I didn’t come back for the nostalgia. I came because it was the cheapest way I’m allowed to get to LAX. No fanfare. No upgrades. Just a seat and a window.
Mixed feelings? Sure. But I’m not here to unpack emotional baggage at the gate. I’m fine. At least, that’s the story I tell myself. The truth is, I’m scared to be soft. Scared to let the seams show.
The wheels hit the tarmac, and a song pops into my head—uninvited but welcome. Tae Seo. His music always carried weight. Soul stitched with edge. Maybe this one’s my anthem. Or maybe it’s just a mood. But either way, I own it.
This isn’t a homecoming. It’s not a farewell. It’s a layover in a life that never really stops moving. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this:
I don’t need the song to be mine. I just need the attitude.
It’s been twenty years. Two decades since I last passed through this place. Korea. A land that once wrapped around my memories like warm broth—comforting, imperfect, real. But now? It’s different. It has that glossy, duty-free sheen. I step off a flight from Japan and it hits me—this isn’t home. This isn’t even the memory of it. It’s just LAX with Hangul on the signs.
I chose this route because it was cheap. It’s the only way I’m allowed to get to LAX. But maybe, somewhere deep down, I thought I’d feel something walking these halls again. That I’d stumble into some lost fragment of the man I used to be. But instead? I forget the power outlets are different. I can’t plug in my laptop.
That’s OK. I won’t be here long.
Prices are up. 1,400 won to the dollar now. Seven thousand for a snack. I remember when 1,200 could buy you something good—something hot, something local. Back then, my paycheck from Pennsylvania barely covered meals here. But I was young, hungry, and the world was still something I could chew through.
I see a Japanese ramen shop nestled between a Krispy Kreme and a pizza joint. That didn’t used to be here. American chains have claimed this space, repackaged it. Only a few real Korean spots linger, like tired elders watching a parade of strangers take over the neighborhood. The old full-menu Korean restaurants are gone. This place used to feed souls. Now it just transfers bodies.
At the convenience store, I notice something else—eyes on me. The workers watch. Not to help. To guard. I thought maybe it was just a cultural form of customer service, but no. Theft prevention. They’re scanning for Chinese travelers. I wonder if they really steal that often… or if we’ve just all stopped trusting each other. Japan feels different. Gentler. More forgiving.
And here I am, standing in between worlds.
I think about coming back—next time with my wife, with Penny. I had thought maybe a month. But now? A week and a half will do. Hit the old BBQ joints. Walk the same worn alleys. And maybe, if the gods are kind, I’ll find GiaChu—my cousin. He’s still here. Somewhere. I’ll find him when I’m ready.
And if I do… I’ll tell him what happened. About the old man. About her. I’ll pour it all out like soju under moonlight. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just toast the silence and let him talk. I’m not here to break apart families, even if mine broke me once. Even if the scars still itch.
I think about 1999. Chris and I landed here with Dr. Park, not knowing what we were stepping into. It was chaos. Beautiful, disjointed chaos. We still laugh about it. I found Dr. Park’s address recently. Sent him a thank-you letter. Wrote it in Korean. I wanted him to read it easily. Sometimes, the only thing you can offer someone is gratitude.
Now I sit here, airport coffee cooling beside me, my 15-year-old dreaming about hiking mountains in China—places I’ll never go. Places I can’t go. If I step foot in that country, I disappear. A jail cell, a silence.
So I let him dream. Let him go where I can’t. That’s the point of it all, isn’t it? We live, so they can go further.
As I sit in this space-between, Tae Seo’s music drifts back into my mind. A song I didn’t choose, but one that somehow chose me. Maybe it’s my song. Maybe it isn’t.
But the feeling?
That’s mine. That ache. That edge. That quiet defiance.
That’s all me.
I ride out with Wax’s first band, Dog 1st. Chris picked up this CD while we hunted in 1999. It’s stuck with me. This song slaps.